Tonight I bring two prime examples of Victorian and early 20th century popular fiction run amok. One is a deservedly forgotten tale by an even more obscure author, while the other is the first effort by a writer who became a legend:
Cardillac, by Robert Barr. This prolific, popular, and now utterly obscure author was born in Scotland, raised in Toronto, and first published in Detroit. A schoolteacher by trade, Barr began publishing short stories based on his personal experiences to The Detroit Free Press under the name "Luke Sharp." Although this pseudonym had originally belonged to the local undertaker, Barr's stories were anything but morbid; his combination of whimsy, insight, and lush prose were in such demand that he chucked the schoolroom for the press room in 1876 to take a full time position at the Free Press. Eventually he was named the paper's news editor, a position he held until he decided to "vamoose the ranch" and return to his natal island in 1881 to edit a weekly English version of the Free Press in London.
Being a generous, exuberant spirit, Barr quickly made friends in his new home, most of them fellow authors. He worked with Jerome K. Jerome to co-found The Idler, a monthly journal that published light fiction, commentary, reviews, and interviews by and with some of the leading authors of the late Victorian age. Writers as diverse as H.G. Wells, Aleister Crowley, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Lillian and Arthur Quiller-Couch, and Mark Twain were published in this eclectic journal, illustrated by artists such as Florence Fuller, Sidney Sime, and even Aubrey Beardsley.
Barr thrived in this environment, turning out over twenty novels between 1892 and his death in 1912. Although one, the coming of age story The Measure of the Rule, was favorably compared to Booth Tarkington and Mark Twain, and another, The O'Ruddy, A Romance, completed a partial manuscript by Stephen Crane, most of these books were enjoyable, forgettable romps.
Cardillac is one of the latter. Allegedly set in the early 17th century during the reign of Louis XIII, it tells the tale of adventurer and would-be courtier Victor de Cardillac, and his romance with the beauteous, strong-willed Therese de Montreuil. Secret documents, hair's breadth escapes, breathless declarations of love, a happy ending - every single cliche of romantic swashbuckling fiction is here, told in the sort of overwritten prose that is so appealing to bright, literary-minded teenagers and so hated of the teachers who have to all but beat it out of their work until they discover that no, real people just don't talk like this:
“You are romancing, Francois, and I have no doubt at all but that Cardillac is still within the walls of the convent.”
And that modern audiences giggle when confronted with passages like this:
Into the embrasure formed by one of the recessed doorways on the right-hand side Cardillac felt his way with noiseless care. Silently he tried the door itself, but found it barred or locked. He now placed his back against it, assured that if any treachery were intended, the door could not be opened suddenly without his shoulders giving him some hint of the unfastening within. Steathily he drew his sword from its scabbard, placing the latter under his left arm, holding the blade in a horizontal position ready for instant attack or defense.
Or that even the sturdiest garment would no longer be its owner's best after being treated like this:
The Duke de Montreuil entered, followed by his daughter, who wore the same gown that had aroused Cardillac’s admiration in Blois. Indeed, it was in this attire that she had for the second time left the chateau down the ladder of rope; for, that being an excursion on which no luggage was allowed, Therese had dressed in her best.
The entire book is like this, with the added fillip that the opening, wherein the young Cardillac is sent from the family estate to seek his fortune in Paris and must make his way by the sword, is uncomfortablly reminiscent of the first chapter The Three Musketeers, sans bright yellow horse. Throw in a cover that shows an allegedly 17th century maiden cleverly disguised as a Gibson Girl, complete with billowy teased hair and wasp-waisted "hygienic corset," and the resulting confection is as tasty, entertaining, and substantial as a dinner of maple cotton candy washed down by Coke Zero and followed by a chaser of Good 'n Plenty. Although first editions sell for $35 and up on Ebay, all one has to do is read a few pages to know why Cardillac is so obscure it doesn't even make it into Robert Barr's Wikipedia entry.
The Black Moth, by Georgette Heyer. A few months ago I wrote a diary on romance novels where I admitted that I don't read romances very often. I received an avalanche of recommendations, by authors well known and obscure, but the name that kept popping up again and again was Georgette Heyer. If any romance writer can claim to transcend her genre, I was told, it was Heyer, and I owed it to myself to give her a try.
And so I decided to start at the beginning and read Heyer's very first book, The Black Moth. Partly this is because it's fun to see where a popular novelist started, but I freely admit that the price ($1.99 for the e-book) was a big draw; I'm far from rich, and I was still recovering from the disaster of buying a supposedly fun and frothy Regency with a twist to be willing to spend a lot on a book in a genre that has never been my favorite.
At first I was pleasantly surprised; The Black Moth, written to amuse Heyer's hemophiliac brother Boris, was a bit breathless but enjoyable. Heyer had clearly read and been influenced by Baroness Orczy's Pimpernel books, but unlike the Baroness, English was her first language, and she had a deft hand with plot and dialogue. She was only seventeen when she wrote this, and it shows from time to time (the hero "makes his leg" so often that one is tempted to ask "made it of what?"), but overall The Black Moth is an entertaining romp.
And then comes the climax, and a piece of enjoyable fluff suddenly jumps the track, the shark, and over the moon.
The book centers on heroic Jack Carstares, by right the Earl of Wyncham, who took the blame for his younger brother's card cheating and went into voluntary exile several years ago. He returns to Britain, sets himself up as a highwayman with the help of his faithful servant Jim and his wonderful horse, Jenny, and falls in love with the lovely Diana Beauleigh. Of course he can't marry Diana because he's a) in disgrace thanks to his guilt-ridden brother Richard and b) a highwayman, so there is much angst. Worse, Jack's nemesis and brother-in-law, the notorious Tracy Belmanoir, Duke of Andover, has also fallen in love with Diana. Since Tracy, called "The Black Moth" for his sartorial habits, is as amoral and spoiled as he is charming and handsome, Diana wants nothing to do with him, so he decides to abduct her and either seduce or rape her:
"Oh, you brute, you brute! Let me go!"
"When you have given me your answer, sweetheart."
"It is no!" she cried. "A thousand times no!"
"Think. . . ."
"I have thought! I would rather die than wed you!"
"Very possibly. But death will not be your lot, my pretty one," purred the sinister voice in her ear. "Think carefully before you answer; were it not better to marry me with all honour than to—"
"You devil!" she panted, and looked wildly round for some means of escape. The long window was open, she knew, for the curtain blew out into the room. But his Grace was between it and her.
"You begin to think better of it, child? Remember, to-morrow will be too late. This is your chance, now. In truth," he took a pinch of snuff, "in truth, it matters not to me whether you will be a bride or no."
With a sudden movement she wrenched herself free and darted to the window. In a flash he was up and had caught her as she reached it, swinging her round to face him.
"Not so fast, my dear. You do not escape me so."
His arm was about her waist, drawing her irresistibly towards him. Sick with fear, she struck madly at the face bent close to hers.
"Let me go! How dare you insult me so? Oh, for God's sake let me go!"
He was pressing her against him, one hand holding her wrists behind her in a grip of iron, his other arm about her shoulders.
"For my own sake I will keep you," he smiled, and looked gloatingly down at her beautiful, agonised countenance, with its wonderful eyes gazing imploringly at him, and the sensitive mouth a-quiver. For one instant he held her so, and then swiftly bent his head and pressed his lips to hers.
She could neither struggle nor cry out. A deadly faintness assailed her, and she could scarcely breathe.
"By God, it is too late!" he swore. "You had best give in, madam–nought can avail you now."
And then the unexpected happened. Even as in her last desperate effort to free herself she moaned the name of him whom she deemed hundreds of miles away across the sea, a crisp voice, vibrating with a species of cold fury, sounded directly behind them.
"You delude yourself, Belmanoir," it said with deadly quiet.
Of course the voice belongs to Jack, who has ridden his faithful Jenny so hard and so long it's a wonder she hasn't keeled over twitching feebly and begging for the glue factory. And this being a swashbuckling historical romance, Jack and Tracy draw their swords and fight, Tracy with "almost superhuman skill," Jack "as swift and light as a panther," while Diana watches "as one in a dream." And though Jack is angry, and determined, Tracy's attack is enough to reopen an old wound, and it looks as if Evil will, for once, overcome Virtue.
Just as all appears lost, Jack's brother Richard (married to Tracy's worthless sister Lavinia), his best friend Sir Miles O'Hara, and Tracy's brother Andrew show up and stop the fight. Jack faints, Diana learns that her beloved is actually an Earl, and all the plot threads are neatly wrapped up while the evil Black Moth watches with sardonic amusement.
And then, after Richard confesses that he was the card cheat, the Duke of Andover invites everyone to spend the night and orders his servant to lay a supper table for his guests. And in case you're thinking that the good characters will deliver a scathing put down and head off in search of the nearest Applebee's tavern, well, guess again:
On the whole, the supper-party passed off quite smoothly. His Grace was smilingly urbane, Andrew boisterous and amusing, and O'Hara bent on keeping the conversation up. Richard sat rather silent, but my lord, already deliriously happy, soon let fall his armour and joined in the talk, anxious to hear all the news of town for the last six years.
That's right. Mere minutes after nearly being raped (Diana) and killed (Jack), our hero and heroine sit down for a nice supper hosted by the erstwhile rapist/killer, and use the opportunity to catch up on all the latest news. Even better, Tracy offers them accommodations since it's so very late at night, and despite everything they accept!
The novel ends with a short epilogue that finds my lord the Duke of Andover in Venice, sulking at the news of Jack and Diana's marriage because, as he tells a friend:
"You see, Frank–I love her"
which makes it too, too painful for him to go back to London quite yet, even though he knows that someday he'll make his bow to the new Countess of Wyncham. And his friend says, in effect, "I told you so," after which the Duke makes a sarcastic comment and the book ends.
To say that this rings somewhat false is, perhaps, to understate the matter.
Heyer went on to write many more books, both romances and mysteries. She even wrote a semi-sequel to The Black Moth, These Old Shades, which changes the character's names and allows her to continue their story without the baggage of the previous book's events. These Old Shades led in turn to The Devil's Cub, which led to An Infamous Army, which was also a sequel to Regency Buck. It's as if Heyer, whose books are regarded as enough of an alternate universe among SF fandom that some conventions hold tea dances in her honor, knew that she could do better, and decided to prove it.
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And so, my friends, what Victorian melodrama do you hold dear despite a ridiculous plot, wooden characters, and purple prose? Do you have a stash of H. Rider Haggard or Marie Corelli in your closet? A complete set of Baroness Orczy's non-Pimpernel works in a cardboard box? A first edition of The Black Moth? Don't be shy.…
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