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When I first read Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice (1813) to the accompaniment of happy hardcore techno music the entire way through, I thought that I had discovered a match made in heaven. Actually, the story goes back much further than that. It just so happened that I was reading in eighteenth to nineteenth century literature at this point in my journey when I first matched these two seemingly dissonant genres. The pairing of the two—that is, the Austen with the happy-core—piqued my interest in two features of the “civilized” society which I simultaneously embraced on my birthday of that year. It’s not surprising, then, that these new hobbies of mine (both of which being activities that have persisted to capture my interest ever since) would be tea and flower arrangement. The latter in particular has a special resonance for me because it was one of the primary factors that helped me to discover Ouida. In brief, I came across a short but engaging article about the publication history of her break-out novel, Under Two Flags (1867). When I did a little background research to discover more information about the author (something I do before deciding whether or not to give a new author the chance of a read), I learned about her love of flowers and was, thusly, enticed to read her work. I learned about her lavish spending on flowers for her Langham residence, and I thought, "This person really fascinates me." Reading her biographical summary online and in print literature encyclopedias compelled me to pick up one of her novels and give it a try. In the summer of 2013, I selected Under Two Flags as my introduction to Ouida’s novels, and I have been immersed in her dazzling world ever since I made that unknowingly momentous selection. About a year and a half and twenty-two novels later, I decided that my twenty-third novel in the series would be Ouida’s first. It’s almost as if I have been moving in a backward direction in the way that I have jumped around from novel to novel in a stream-of-consciousness style of succession. Moreover, I also reasoned that if Pride and Prejudice read so well to the beat of happy-core music, then Ouida’s first novel, Granville de Vigne, or Held in Bondage (1863) would certainly also benefit from such a pairing, their styles sharing a certain je ne sais quoi at the furthest peripherals. Thus, I found myself reading this entire novel to the pulsating rhythms and titillating auto-tune melodies of happy hardcore and night-core techno. I must declare that it was one of the most entertaining reading experiences I have ever enjoyed; simply put, a perfect union. Of course, for a devoted Ouidaite like me, a full-length novel from this literary lioness never fails to deliver when it comes to entertaining. I might have mentioned it before, but it appears to me that Ouida’s first set of novels, that is, from Granville to Under Two Flags, is comprised of the works that are the most sensationalist in tendency. In their brush with the salacious, this particular quality of genre makes them simultaneously more objectionable and more intriguing. Ouida’s first novel fits right in with this grouping. It kicks off her life-long writing career with an exclamation that resists the current state of obscurity to which her legacy has sadly been reduced. The novel is Ouida, the eternal warrior, with all her youth, vitality, and imagination in the rawest form. The story, for the most part, can be summed up by its simple but controversial mantra, “A young man married is a man that is marred.” It’s an approximately six hundred page exposition on the absurdity of young marriages born out of lust. The book centers on the romantic misadventures of a group of dandy dashers. This particular band of gentlemen soldiers could easily rival any of today’s boy bands when it comes to their looks, their charm, and overall allure. First, we meet the cool and level-headed Arthur Chevasney who, despite being himself somewhat of a Casanova, narrates the tale in a light that depicts him as quietly staying above the fray through it all. Next, we encounter brave and impetuous Granville De Vigne who leads the pack with his absolute and often hasty resolve. Then there’s the young and attractive sideman Curly, a dazzling and vain heartbreaker with a deep-rooted sensitive side. And last but definitely not least, there is the gorgeous and mysterious Vivian Sabretasche. This man is a cynical and perspicacious genius at the pinnacle of worldly fashion. However, in accordance with the age-old trope, he is also a man who has a hidden past that threatens to blemish the stainless quality of a more superficial veneer upon which his popularity rests. De Vigne’s surname graces the novel’s original title, and yet Sabretasche can easily be considered the star of the show. Each of these characters, however, comes to life on the page in their own way. It was really bizarre, for instance, how endearing I found Curly to be even though I knew throughout that he was a conceited flirt, completely spoiled from the inheritance of an exploited wealth. The story, for the most part, can be summed up by its simple but controversial mantra, “A young man married is a man that is marred.” The main story arc is built around the dual tragedies of De Vigne and Sabretasche. We find that both of these young men had succumbed to the ill-conceived schemes of two different women, Lucy Davis and Sylvia da Castrone. These are Ouida’s first full-blown sketches of the "adventuress" character type so prominent throughout her fiction. In this version, the men both marry these beautiful women in their youth and quickly come to despise them after discovering that they essentially got more than they bargained for. In De Vigne’s case, the woman he marries, Constance Trefusis (a.k.a. Lucy Davis), ends up being the same working class girl that vowed revenge on him after he toyed around with her heart in one of his thoughtless teenage flings. As for Sabretasche, he soon learns that his wife Sylvia is unfaithful, disrespectful, and conniving. Both Sabretasche and De Vigne completely withdraw from their wives and attempt to move on with their lives without them. The problem is that neither of these gentlemen have the proof necessary to move forward with a divorce case. There are legally bound and, thus, contractually obligated to the very women that are most repulsive to them. The problem becomes further complicated by the unfortunate circumstance of their both falling in love with a pair of much younger, brighter, and intrinsically more noble women who are, too conveniently perhaps, just coming of age. In this sense, the novel reads like the original “divorce in midlife crisis” story where the confident and successful philanderer-husband finds himself in love with someone fifteen or twenty years younger than his wife. At any rate, the overarching narrative takes us through a thrilling adventure that encompasses a gender spectrum that is truly marvelous. It’s one that has you jumping from brutal, gory Crimean War battle scenes to some of the most quintessentially romantic love scenes depicted in the written word.
Ouida’s first novel, although prototypical and unpolished in terms of characterization, scene description, and her trademark use of similes, doesn’t lack in its ability to stimulate philosophical introspection. Its themes question contemporaneous notions surrounding masculinity, patriarchy, and the coercive power of institutional conventions such as marriage. It provokes questions as to what role marriage effectually serves. Additionally, as Schroeder and Holt (2008) point out in Ouida the Phenomenon, the various character sketches introduced to us in this novel likely reflect Ouida’s personal tension with the rise of commodification and consumer culture in Victorian society (pp. 36-37). They further note the importance of the novel’s women characters, and how they help Ouida in her attempt to dissect and exercise this tension in the production and commodification of her own art (i.e. writing). This character/author relationship is most evident, I think, in the character of Violet Molyneux. Violet plays the twin role of one of Ouida’s first versions of the "angel woman" character type. Accordingly, she is an artist who, in her attempt to protect both her fidelity and sense of selfhood, perpetually rejects all marriage offers in clear defiance of her family’s wishes. Fortunately, the philosophical depth of the novel, being saturated in the themes and peppered throughout the dialogue, is just light enough to leave the pace of the story unencumbered. This novel was so much fun to read! Again, I’ll stress that the happy hardcore soundtrack truly enhanced my reading experience. I highly recommend the combination. On the whole, this book would probably (just barely) make it into my top ten favorite Ouida novels. Much like with Chandos and Strathmore, I don’t think it wise that a reader new to Ouida should start with this one. It is in the category of “better appreciated with a better acquaintance with the author’s corpus.” However, if you're the type of reader who's a stickler for chronological order, or if you’re a brave soul with a penchant for the sensational, then, by all means, put it first on the list. Sources Phillips, Celia. “Under Two Flags: The Publishing History of a Best Seller 1867–1967.” Publishing History 3 (1978): 67–9. Print Schroeder, Natalie, and Shari H. Holt. Ouida the Phenomenon: Evolving Social, Political, and Gender Concerns in Her Fiction . Newark: University of Delaware Press, 2008. Print.
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