Linda K.

KADOTA

“The Rainbow” “Women in Love” D. H. Lawrence Ursula Brangwen

Lawrence

Lawrence

Ursula “The Rainbow” “Women in Love”

Lawrence
Lawrence

D. H. Lawrence’s tale of Ursula Brangwen, begun in The Rainbow and completed in Women in Love,
follows the natural romantic mode of literature. This paper first defines the archetypal hero then explains the
traditional romantic quest. Lawrence inverts this tradition by allowing one of his female characters to undertake
the hero’s spiritual odyssey. By looking at narrative and thematic features in these two books, this paper illustrates
how Lawrence’s concept of the “love ethic” is central, rather than secondary to the plot. Beginning in The Rainbow,
Ursula goes through transitions that encompass the processes of initiation, rites of passage, death and rebirth,
with her final consummation being achieved in Women in Love. A typical romantic quest was anathema to Lawrence,
who imagined a delicate equilibrium in which the selfhood and power of both the man and the woman were
undiminished. However, despite Lawrence’s progressive thinking for his time, he failed to imagine that this equilibrium
was completely attainable.
Key words: star equilibrium, love ethic, hero, heroine, quest, rites of passage, death, rebirth, consummation
 D. H. Lawrence’s controversial books The Rainbow (1915) and Women in Love (1920) explore
the nature of self-fulfillment in relationships between men and women. The Rainbow is an account of
the Brangwen family and their journey from an agrarian countryside free of shame and into the cities
with all the possibilities and problems that the modern world presented. Though Lawrence originally
conceived his tale as a much longer work titled The Sisters, he ultimately decided to split the work
into two, and followed The Rainbow with its sequel, Women in Love. The two books detail the life
of Ursula Brangwen, the principal character, and her quest for self-fulfillment as she travels the winding
road to womanhood. Lawrence gave his women characters more freedom of movement than the women
in most Victorian novels, and thus he enabled the representation of human experience to move forward
into the modern age.
For Lawrence, the unilateral emotional arrangement of the typical romantic quest was anathema,
and he professed to not believe in literary patterns. In his essay, “Why the Novel Matters” (1985), he
stated:

In the novel, the characters can do nothing but live. If they keep on being good, according
to pattern, or bad, according to pattern, or even volatile, according to pattern, they cease
to live, and the novel falls dead. A character in a novel has got to live, or it is nothing.
(p. 197)

However, this paper argues that in spite of his romantic, anti-conventional protestations, Lawrence followed
convention anyway. This paper first defines the archetypal hero, then explains the traditional romantic
quest, and shows how Lawrence inverted this tradition by allowing Ursula Brangwen to undertake the
hero’s spiritual odyssey. Although his character Rupert Birkin, who does not appear until Women in
Love, is the Lawrence-figure who wrestles with his own soul in his search for two perfect loves, one
with his wife Ursula and one with his friend Gerald Crich, it is Ursula who finally achieves the quest
for perfect love. By looking at the narrative and thematic features of the two novels, this paper also
illustrates how Lawrence’s concept of the “love ethic” was central, rather than secondary to the plot,
and yet despite Lawrence’s progressive thinking for his time, he failed to imagine that the equilibrium
he so wanted was completely attainable.
The hero in a narrative is often defined by a pattern of events or actions rather than by qualities
of authority such as sex, class, power, or position in society. In Symbols of Transformation (1967), Jung
called the hero:

. . . first and foremost a self-representation of the longing of the unconscious . . . for the
light of consciousness. But consciousness, continually in danger of being led astray by its
own light . . . longs for the healing power of nature, for the deep wells of being, and for
the unconscious communion with life in all its countless forms.” (p. 205)
Frye (1973) created a conceptual framework based upon the hero’s power of action that divided literature
into five “modes,” and identified each with a specific literary epoch: mythic, romantic, high mimetic,
low mimetic, and ironic (mimetic from the Greek mimesis: to imitate). As the essential element of plot
in romance was adventure, a romance was naturally a sequential and processional form. Frye argued:

The complete form of the romance is clearly the successful quest, and such a completed
form has three main stages; the stage of the perilous journey and the preliminary minor adventures;
the crucial struggle, usually some kind of battle in which either the hero or his foe, or both,
must die; and the exaltation of the hero. (p. 187)

While no two narratives are identical, the recurring pattern of events describes the whole cycle
of a hero’s life from birth to death. This pattern also suggests similarities between the work we are
reading and what we have read before that enable us to anticipate a hero’s destiny before she/he does,
to sense the danger in her/his pride or obsession, and to anticipate the crisis approaching before it happens.
Jung (1964), Rank (2004), Campbell (2008), and Neumann (1973) all described patterns in the evolution
of the hero that reflect stages in the development of the human personality. While there were some
differences in their accounts, it is essential to recognize that, for them, the hero was a perpetually recurring
figure who was (literally) male and was the victim of his parents or of his fate. He was frequently the
child of a distinguished, yet absent or hostile parent. Due to strained relations between the hero and
parent, the hero had to undertake a journey and endure a series of trials or tests of physical and/or
psychological strength, culminating in an encounter with death and a return from the underworld. If the
hero was successful, his return was marked by a capacity to harmonize his reborn self with a newly
altered social order. Neumann further explained that the hero of myth was recognized as:

. . . the archetypal forerunner of mankind in general. His fate is the pattern in accordance
with which the masses of humanity must live, and always have lived, however haltingly
and distantly; and however short of the ideal man they have fallen, the stages of the hero
myth have become constituent elements in the personal development of every individual.
(p. 131)

From narratives as diverse as the medieval romance Sir Orfeo to D. H. Lawrence’s short story
“The Horse-Dealer’s Daughter” we can extract a common narrative pattern. Thus, according to the characteristic
structure of romance, the active (male) hero descends into a lower region associated with death (in the
former, a Celtic otherworld, in the latter, the dead, black water of a pond) from which he rescues a
passive object, the female heroine, with whom he is later united or reunited in love. Such narratives
share significant characteristics, including some aura of mystery or the occult, mature characters, and
diametrically opposed forces the real world vs. fairyland, the bestial horse-dealer’s life vs. that of the
more spiritual daughter. However, while events can happen by “magic” in Sir Orfeo, Lawrence must
rely on metaphor for his mysterious tone, for he writes under the constraints of the natural mode within
the traditional narrative pattern of romance. According to Frye, “we have distinguished myth from romance
by the hero’s power of action: in the myth proper he is divine, in the romance proper he is human”
(p. 188).
It is perhaps important to stress that the roll of the hero is not interchangeable with the heroine.
The hero is a primary, active character; the heroine is secondary and usually passive. As L. R. Edwards
(1979) stated,

. . . the hero is central to self, creator, and society; the heroine is subordinate to all these
entities and, most particularly, to the hero. Although the hero can exist in a narrative without
a heroine, the reverse is not the case . . . . Possessing vision, daring, and power to charm
the imagination, the hero must act as the heroine cannot to break with the past, journey
into the unknown, endure hardship and privation. The hero is a self; the heroine is an appendage.
(p. 36)

While there is a long list of female heroes throughout history, from the goddesses of ancient
Greece, to modern day’s Katniss Everdeen in The Hunger Games, Jung, Rank, Campbell and Neumann
all failed to consider women in their definition of a hero. According to Eisenstein (1974), D. H. Lawrence
felt the heroes he most admired were required to undertake a spiritual odyssey, and his deliberate displacement
of the hero pattern in his novels The Rainbow and Women in Love raises questions about the meaning
of the narrative and the author’s motive. Rather than writing a traditional quest narrative for his hero,
Rupert Birkin, Lawrence gave the quest to his female character, Ursula Brangwen, and allowed her to
undertake a spiritual odyssey, encompassing all the stages of a quest: initiation, rites of passage, ritual
death, rebirth, and final consummation. Her quest begins in The Rainbow with her search for the vital
self: “a oneness with the infinite” (p. 441). She finally completes her quest at the end his next novel,
Women in Love.
Lawrence believed the ideal, almost mystical, union between a man and a woman should involve
no domination of one partner by the other. Rather, he imagined a delicate equilibrium in which the
selfhood and power of both were undiminished. In the novel Women in Love, Birkin described it as
a “pure balance of two single beings: as the stars balance each other” (Women in Love, p. 139),
an idea that is in opposition to Ursula’s initial belief that love surpasses the individual. Spilka (1955)
called this criterion for emotional parity Lawrence’s “love ethic,” his

. . . radical commitment to spontaneous life, and to ‘phallic marriage’ as the fount of life
itself:

From it all things human spring, children and beauty and well-made things; all the true creations
of humanity. (p. 7)
He further explained that Lawrence desired a balance of specific elements such as “will, sympathy, spirit,
flesh, and intellect” (p. 9). He goes on to state that Lawrence called for:

. . . a balance of all these elements, a kind of achieved harmony which would enable men
and women to live spontaneously, out of the fullness of their powers; and he deplored an
imbalance of these elements, since it led towards emotional atrophy and predatory behavior.
(p. 10)

For Lawrence, the concept of the quest for equilibrium, his “love ethic,” was central rather than
secondary to the plot. The tragic affair between Gerald Crich and Gudrun Brangwen seems to provide
symbolic contrast with Birkin’s search for “star-equilibrium.” Since neither Gerald nor Gudrun is seeking
a balance, neither develops a sense of his/her own authentic self. Thus their malignant relationship is
a cautionary tale of escalating power and abuse. It is impossible for either of them to find self-fulfillment
or love since the greatest desire of each is to dominate the other. Neither can be satisfied unless the
other bends to his/her will. The other must be made to do it, and the more he/she hurts the other, the
better he/she feels. According to Spilka, Lawrence depicted Crich as “the perfect instrument of industrial
power” (p. 134). Emotionally underdeveloped, he is unable to feel empathy for others and he lacks
genuine compassion. At first Gudrun’s attraction to him seems based upon his social power. In the end,
however, she is far too proud and intelligent to accept his world, and eventually she resents everything
about him. In his final effort to force her love, Gerald nearly murders Gudren. Shocked by his own
actions, he then wanders off into the mountains where he meets a solitary and icy death. Gudren has
finally gained absolute power in the relationship by driving him to suicide.
Ursula, on the other hand, never seeks the power to dominate Birkin. According to Spilka, she
inherited, or acquired, the strongest qualities of both her parents. “In her, the ‘otherness’ and refinement
of the Lensky strain is finally fused, by blood, with the sensual warmth and the deep religiosity of the
Brangwens” (p. 106). Her childhood is filled with images of the innocence of her youth combined with
images of a pastoral world. At first she does not know what she is looking for as she begins her search
for her vital self. She simply asks her grandmother:

. . . when I am grown up, will somebody love me?

Yes, some man will love you, child, because it’s your nature. And I hope it will be somebody
who will love you for what you are, and not for what he wants of you. But we have a
right to what we want. (The Rainbow, p. 257)

Her grandmother’s answer allows her to glimpse the “tiny importance of the individual, within
the great past” (The Rainbow, p. 258) as she begins to formulate her quest for self-fulfillment and love.
 In his essay “The Quest Hero” (1961), Auden described what constituted a quest:

To look for a lost collar button is not a true quest: to go in quest means to look for something
of which one has, as yet, no experience; one can imagine what it will be like but whether
one’s picture is true or false will be known only when one has found it. (p. 40)

Auden goes on to explain there are six essential elements in a typical Quest story:

1) A precious Object and/or Person to be found and possessed or married.

2) A long journey to find it, for its whereabouts are not originally known to the seekers.
3) A hero. The precious Object cannot be found by anybody, but only by the one person
who possesses the right qualities of breeding or character.
4) A Test or series of Tests by which the unworthy are screened out, and the hero revealed.
5) The Guardians of the Object who must be overcome before it can be won. They may
be simply a further test of the hero’s arete, or they may be malignant in themselves.
6) The Helpers who with their knowledge and magical powers assist the hero and but for
whom he would never succeed. They may appear in human or animal form. (p. 44)

Ursula’s quest begins in the relationship with her father, Will Brangwen. Later she encounters
some preliminary minor adventures while looking “for men who will lead her outward, toward creative
life, just as her mother saw her father as a door to the outside world” (The Rainbow, p. 106). At the
end of The Rainbow Ursula faces her crucial struggles, culminating in her breaking off her affair with
Anton Skrebensky, who is unable to lead her to a fuller existence. She finally rejects the conventional
life of wife and mother that she could attain with Skrebensky, and becomes a “ lost girl” (Spilka, p.
107). We do not see the final exaltation of Ursula as the quest hero until the end of Women in Love,
when she finds herself and reaches a star equilibrium through her marriage with Rupert Birkin.
The (traditionally male) quester-hero had to separate from the primordial mother, and a successful
outcome of this struggle proves the hero is truly heroic and able to face the harsh conditions of life’s
demands. Ursula as a child was “against her mother, passionately against her mother, she craved for
some spirituality and stateliness” (The Rainbow, p. 263). However, the female Ursula’s true struggle
must be against the primordial father rather than the mother with whom she can identify. It is her father
who is the stronger, more central connection in her life.
From the beginning, a very special relationship exists between Ursula and Will Brangwen, due
in part to a deep, not fully conscious disharmony between her parents. It is in this strained, overcharged
atmosphere that her initiation takes place. Will’s love for the eldest of his six children is a narrow and,
therefore, constricting love. He wants to possess Ursula, and not allow her to develop her own identity.
“He waited for the child to become his . . . . It was his own (The Rainbow, p. 209) . . . . So that
the father had the elder baby (The Rainbow, p. 210) . . . . She was a piece of light that really belonged
to him, that played within his darkness” (The Rainbow, p. 214).
 Like her mother Anna, Ursula has a rainbow in her childhood that symbolizes a different kind
of absolute, but Ursula does not find the same peace and security that her mother found. Anna relinquished
her quest in exchange for motherhood; Ursula must pick up the quest by “asserting her own detachment”
(The Rainbow, p. 215) and rid herself of the ties that bind her to ordinary life. Miko (1971) explained
that while both Anna and Ursula find their most intense bond with their fathers, Ursula’s father forces
her into a too sharpened awareness and shatters the relaxed rhythm of her childhood:

Her father was the dawn wherein her consciousness woke up. But for him, she might have
gone on like the other children, Gudrun and Theresa and Catherine, one with the flowers
and insects and playthings, having no existence apart from the concrete object of her attention.
But her father came too near to her. The clasp of his breasts woke her up almost in pain
from the transient unconsciousness of childhood. Wide-eyed, unseeing, she was awake before
she knew how to see. She was awakened too soon . . . . From her the response had struggled
dimly, vaguely into being. (The Rainbow, p. 218)

As Ursula grows older, the relationship with her father becomes even more strained. Her desire
to break his hold on her consciousness takes her quest through its rites of passage, but her vision is
not clear. During her school days she first meets Anton Skrebensky and begins a relationship with him.
However, they must separate when he is called off to war in South Africa, and she quickly forgets
him.

She received a post-card from him, and she put it in her bosom. It did not mean much to
her, really. The second day, she lost it, and never even remembered she had had it, till
some days afterwards. (The Rainbow, p. 331)

Ursula soon begins a lesbian affair with one of her teachers, Winifred Inger, but in his description
of their relationship, Lawrence turns away from the literary tradition of romantic female friendship that
was the norm of his day. According to J. D. Edwards (2000), friendships between women were intense,
loving, and openly avowed. They usually began during adolescence, and often lasted until the death
of one of the partners. Lawrence, however, adopts a pedophilic model of homosexuality. The mature
teacher, Winifred, takes on the child, Ursula, as her young protégé. The asymmetrical power structure
of the relationship with Winifred finally disgusts Ursula, and she ends it. She next takes a grim job,
teaching children in a coalmining community, but the job only becomes another form of prison for
her. The school “was a prison where her wild, chaotic soul became hard independent” (The Rainbow,
p. 385). Even though she develops her independence, she becomes hard and cynical, and has as much
need to escape this prison as she had need to escape her father. It is shortly after this point that Skrebensky
once again becomes a central character in her life.
At the beginning of their resumed affair, Ursula thinks she has found her escape in Skrebensky.
Her grandmother’s wisdom in old age is lost on the young Ursula, who cannot imagine that a man
may seek in a mate, not a distinct and different person as generous and needy as himself, but only
what will compensate him, somehow, for his sense of loss. Ursula focuses her yearnings on an idealized
Skrebensky and refuses to admit he has weaknesses. According to Kinkead-Weeks (1971) there was
no passionate resolution between them, but an increasingly unsatisfactory escape into sex from their individual
problems. While studying at college, and away from Skrebensky, Ursula suddenly begins to understand
the purpose of life. As she looks at “plant-animals” she wonders about the meanings of soul, will, and
self:

It intended to be itself. But what self? Suddenly in her mind the world gleamed strangely,
with an intense light, like the nucleus of the creature under the microscope. Suddenly she
had passed away into an intensely-gleaming light of knowledge. She could not understand
what it all was. She only knew it was not limited mechanical energy, nor mere purpose
of self-preservation and self-assertion. It was a consummation, a being infinite. Self was a
oneness with the infinite. To be oneself was a supreme gleaming triumph of infinity.
(The Rainbow, p. 441)

When Ursula challenges Skrebensky to satisfy her under a full, dazzling moon and he fails, she
comes to the realization that she will never find a oneness with the universe through him. Instead she
takes her consummation from the moon, and the more she takes on the moon’s qualities, the more she
leaves Skrebensky behind:

He felt as if the ordeal of proof was upon him, for life or death. He led her to a dark
hollow.
‘No, here,’ she said, going out to the slope full under the moonshine. She lay motionless,
with wide-open eyes looking at the moon. He came direct to her, without preliminaries.
She held him pinned down at the chest, awful. The fight, the struggle for consummation
was terrible. It lasted till it was agony to his soul, till he succumbed, till he gave way as
if dead and lay with his face buried, partly in her hair, partly in the sand, motionless, as
if he would be motionless now forever, hidden away in the dark, buried, only buried, he
only wanted to be buried in the goodly darkness, only that, and no more.
(The Rainbow, p. 479)

It is clear that this experience brings him neither peace nor wholeness. Instead Ursula’s growing power
with the moon serves only to destroy the lesser male.
Finding herself pregnant after she and Skrebensky have rejected each other, she is tempted to
accept her mother’s maternal way of life. She thinks motherhood and marriage should be the final end
to her quest and, unaware that he has already married, she writes Skrebensky a letter asking him to
take her back. However, before he can send a reply, she is brought back to reality by a herd of horses
that nearly runs her over on a rain-drenched October afternoon. According to Spilka, Ursula’s fear of
the horses could be traced back to “her basic fear of powerful male sensuality” (p. 120). In Fantasia
of the Unconscious, Lawrence described a similar scene:
 For example, a man has a persistent passionate fear-dream about horses. He suddenly finds
himself among great, physical horses which may suddenly go wild. Their great bodies surge
madly around him, they rear above him, threatening to destroy him. At any minute he may
be trampled down. (Fantasia, p. 251)

Lawrence’s example chronicled a man who was battling his fear of “the great sensual male activity”
in himself, but Ursula finds herself in a similar battle with her own sensual activity. She escapes death
only by climbing a tree to get out of the horses’ path. As they possess the “triumphant, flaming power”
of the “intrinsic male” (The Rainbow, p. 321) that Skrebensky lacks, the horses are able to help purge
her of her false quest by causing her symbolic death.
The result of this encounter with the horses is that Ursula cannot escape the extinction of her
ego. Her fall from the oak tree breaks all her connections with her old life. The horses have forced
her into a new existence. She becomes deathly ill and loses the child she is carrying. When she finally
wakes it seems to her “as if a new day had come on the earth. How long, how long had she fought
through the dust and obscurity, for this new dawn?” (The Rainbow, p. 492). As she recovers, she begins
to feel as if she were a kernel germinating into a new life:

. . . free and naked and striving to take new root, to create a new knowledge of Eternity
in the flux of Time. And the kernel was the only reality; the rest was cast off into oblivion.
(The Rainbow, p. 492)

The experience enables her to glimpse the rainbow once again. This time it is a rainbow of promise
that her final consummation is attainable, a sign that she is ready for fulfillment.

And the rainbow stood on the earth. She knew that the sordid people who crept hard-
scaled and separate on the face of the world’s corruption were living still, that the rainbow
was arched in their blood and would quiver to life in their spirit, that they would cast off
their horny covering of disintegration, that new, clean, naked bodies would issue to a new
germination, to a new growth, rising to the light and the wind and the clean rain of heaven.
She saw in the rainbow the earth’s new architecture, the old, brittle corruption of houses
and factories swept away, the world built up in a living fabric of Truth, fitting to the over-
arching heaven. (The Rainbow, p. 495)

Lawrence developed the final phase of Ursula’s quest in his next novel, Women in Love, where
she meets Rupert Birkin and forms a bond with him. Because Birkin is continually changing his definition
of love, Ursula does not fully comprehend their bond until nearly the end of the novel. His first definition
of love is developed in relation to horses:

. . . horses haven’t got a complete will like human beings. A horse has no one will. Every
horse, strictly, has two wills. With one will it wants to put itself in the human power
completely and with the other, it wants to be free, wild. (Women in Love, p. 132)
He adds that the impulse for the horse to put itself in human power is “perhaps the highest love-impulse:
resign your will to the higher being . . . . and woman is the same as horses.” (Women in Love, p.
132)
Ursula, perhaps because of her previous experience with horses at the end of The Rainbow, flatly
rejects this idea of submissive love and causes Birkin to redefine his meaning. He next proposes a “strange
conjunction” with Ursula, not a “meeting and mingling . . . but an equilibrium, a pure balance of two
single beings: as the stars balance each other” (Women in Love, p. 139). But Ursula is outraged at
Birkin’s desire to pull her into his orbit and turn her into a female satellite:

“Yes yes ” cried Ursula, pointing her finger at him. “There you are a star in its
orbit! A satellite a satellite of Mars that’s what she is to be! There there you’ve given
yourself away! You want a satellite, Mars and his satellite! You’ve said it you’ve said it
you’ve dished yourself! (p. 141)

Birkin must again change his definition to include love as:

. . . the way of freedom. There was the paradisal entry into pure, single being, the individual
soul taking precedence over love and desire for union, stronger than any pangs of emotion,
a lovely state of free and proud singleness, which accepted the obligation of the permanent
connection with others, and with the other, submits to the yoke and leash of love, but never
forfeits its own proud individual singleness, even while it loves and yields.
(Women in Love, p. 247)

Finally, Birkin persuades her to rid herself of the romantic idea she had of love because it is merely
egotistical. Yet he, too, must admit a willed approach to love is not the right way to reach his impersonal
goals.
After she removes all ideas of domination and submission from Birkin’s thought, Ursula is ready
to give herself to him. But it is not until she breaks the final bond with her father “I shall never
see him again ” (Women in Love, p. 360) that she is able to reach an equilibrium with Birkin. Finally,
when they leave the snow valley where Gerald has met his tragic death, they have nothing but their
love. They must, somehow, generate a new world from their nucleus of relatedness, out of the intact
single being each possesses.
By the end of Women in Love, Ursula completes the quest Lawrence has given her and has entered
into a new kind of love relationship with Birkin, but he is still unsatisfied and feeling off-center. He
wants a perfect relationship with Ursula, but he equally wants an ultimate relationship with Gerald.
According to Spilka, the primary function of male friendship in Lawrence’s world was “the step beyond
marriage which makes marriage possible” (p.153). Lawrence made the point in Fantasia of the Unconscious,
that male relations involve the upper, spiritual poles of consciousness, instead of the lower sexual poles:
 Is this the new polarity, this new circuit of passion between comrades and co-workers, is
this also sexual? It is a vivid circuit of polarized passion. Is it hence sex?
It is not. Because what are the poles of positive connection? the upper, busy poles.
What is the dynamic contact? a unison in spirit in understanding, and a pure commingling
in one great work. A mingling of the individual passion into one great purpose . . . . Knowing
what sex is, can we call this other also sex? We cannot . . . . It is a great motion in the
opposite direction. (p. 151)

After Gerald’s death, Ursula demands to know if she is enough for Birkin, and he answers: “you
are enough for me, as far as a woman is concerned. You are all woman to me. But I wanted a man
friend, as eternal as you and I are eternal” (Women in Love, p. 472). Lawrence did not feel a same-
sex relationship between women was necessary, or even desirable, but he felt it was essential for men.
Ursula, on the other hand, feels that one cannot have two kinds of love. She believes she has found
all she will ever need in Birkin and calls his desire “an obstinancy, a theory, a perversity” (Women
in Love, p. 473). She cannot understand why she isn’t enough for him. She has found the center within
herself that will sustain her through life’s demands upon her. She is balanced and has achieved Lawrence’s
star equilibrium. Thus, even though Lawrence leaves us to believe Ursula’s quest is complete, Birkin
is still incomplete and subordinate to her. She is left hanging in space, a complete star with only half
a star to balance her.

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