Delphi Collected Works of Ouida Read online

  The Collected Works of

  OUIDA

  (1839-1908)

  Contents

  The Novels

  Held in Bondage

  Under Two Flags

  Folle-Farine

  Pascarel

  Two Little Wooden Shoes

  Signa

  In a Winter City

  Ariadne

  Moths

  A Village Commune

  Wanda

  Princess Napraxine

  Othmar

  Toxin

  An Altruist

  The Waters of Edera

  Helianthus

  The Short Story Collections

  Cecil Castlemaine’s Gage and Other Stories

  Beatrice Boville and Other Stories

  A Dog of Flanders

  Bimbi: Stories for Children

  A Rainy June and Other Stories

  A House Party

  Street Dust

  The Short Stories

  List of Short Stories in Chronological Order

  List of Short Stories in Alphabetical Order

  The Non-Fiction

  The New Priesthood: A Protest Against Vivisection

  Dogs

  Critical Studies

  The Biography

  Brief Biography by Elizabeth Lee

  The Delphi Classics Catalogue

  © Delphi Classics 2017

  Version 1

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  The Collected Works of

  Maria Louise Ramé

  ‘OUIDA’

  By Delphi Classics, 2017

  with introductions by Gill Rossini

  www.gillrossini.com

  COPYRIGHT

  Collected Works of Ouida

  First published in the United Kingdom in 2017 by Delphi Classics.

  © Delphi Classics, 2017.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form other than that in which it is published.

  ISBN: 978 1 78656 096 4

  Delphi Classics

  is an imprint of

  Delphi Publishing Ltd

  Hastings, East Sussex

  United Kingdom

  Contact: [email protected]

  www.delphiclassics.com

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  The Novels

  Bury St. Edmunds, a market town in Suffolk, c. 1860 — Ouida’s birthplace. ‘Ouida’ was the pseudonym of the English novelist Maria Louise Ramé, derived from her own childish pronunciation of her given name ‘Louise’.

  Bury St. Edmunds today

  Held in Bondage

  OR, GRANVILLE DE VIGNE

  Ouida’s first novel was published in three volumes in 1863, though it had previously been released in serial form as Granville de Vigne in The New Monthly magazine from January 1861 to June 1863, as was the common practice at the time. The author was only twenty-four years old at the time, but was later to claim that this was not her first attempt at writing and that her 1867 novel Idalia was written when she was just sixteen. Held in Bondage contains some of the classic features of the sensationalist novels that were so popular in the 1860s - melodrama, high romance, alpha males and beautiful women in archetypal wealthy and exotic settings, seen by critics as offering middle class, aspirant readers a glimpse of an exalted lifestyle they could never afford. Ouida is not afraid to play with gender roles and her explorations of femininity in men and masculinity in women, were considered avant-garde at the time. Her melodramatic style and challenging of contemporary societal boundaries was not always well received; a few years later, a reviewer in the Pall Mall Gazette of 4 May 1866 complained about the derivative nature of her latest novel, demanding that Ouida be “held head downwards in a pailful of melted perfumed butter, which is to her as the malmsey was to Clarence”. Never one to be influenced by critics, the formula of dashing hero, beautiful women, military exploits, luxury and romantic intrigue was to be used again by Ouida in her most famous novel, Under Two Flags, to great effect.

  The narration of this novel is partly done through the author and partly by young dandy, Arthur Chevasney, whom we meet with his friends at the opening of the story. As a young schoolboy, Chevasney meets the eighteen year old Granville de Vigne and is smitten by the latter’s fine features and slim build. De Vigne is proud, haughty, spirited and like a gladiator who only needs his arena in order to excel, or a spirited race horse that wants to be let loose to run as fast as he can; he “never did anything by halves” and his moods can be polarised - sometimes moody, imperious, spoilt and demanding, but also sweet tempered when the mood takes him. An exotic amalgam of male and female, he is easy to fall in love with and Chevasney does just that, even though de Vigne’s affairs, albeit short lived, are all with women. De Vigne also has a fascination with war and his ambition is to fight heroically for his country.

  De Vigne’s best friend is not Chevasney, however; his closest male companion is fellow dandy, Vivian Sabretasche, a gifted artist but also a beautiful, androgynous dilettante that attracts men and women in equal measure, yet he too desires to go to war to demonstrate his masculinity. All the dandies in the story have a demeaning attitude towards women, seeing them as empty-headed beauties lacking in individuality and so their relationships with females tend to be short and exploitative. De Vigne divides women into two types – adventuresses, who pander to his baser instincts and virtuous women, whose preachings on morality only goad him to even greater sins; in the narrative, the first woman whose affections he toys with is singer Violet Molyneux. The men refer to women in a derogatory manner, as if they are models of cars – “The Molyneux”, “Little Tressilian” and so on. Alma Tresillian is the young artist whom de Vigne cares for with patriarchal condescension and a hidden desire, but regardless of Alma’s obvious devotion to him, he is aloof. Despite their arrogant attitude towards women and the lower classes in general, both men have a humiliating secret: they had both previously been lured into marriage with coarse and ambitious working-class girls. Naturally, they both bitterly regret their foolish actions, which apart from any other repercussions render them unable to marry an appropriate bride. How can the two men extricate themselves from their disastrous marriages to find love with a more suitable life partner?

  This novel relies very heavily on characterisation rather than plot to build a narrative and there are certainly some bold choices by Ouida in her presentation of male and female and in her criticisms of wealthy society and their lifestyle. Many modern literary and queer historians have identified a homosexual subtext in Ouida’s early novels and in the characterisation of the leading male characters in this novel, it is easy to see why; but with hindsight it must be remembered that the Victorian dandy, especially in the 1860’s, long before the 1895 trials of Oscar Wilde finally cemented aestheticism and homosexuality together in
the public’s mind, was not exclusively about sexuality; it was equally about sensitivity, artistic endeavour and beauty of all kinds. Ouida’s “heroes” do not really live up to the ideal, however, in their pettiness and misogyny and in that sense, the label of dandy does not sit easily on them. As a postscript, it is interesting to note that on a visit to London in 1886, Ouida did meet Oscar Wilde and indeed published four articles in his magazine Woman’s World between 1888 and 1889; her experience of knowing Wilde, who described her as “the last romantic”, did influence her later works, however superficially.

  The first edition’s title page

  CONTENTS

  VOLUME I.

  CHAPTER I.

  CHAPTER II.

  CHAPTER III.

  CHAPTER IV.

  CHAPTER V.

  CHAPTER VI.

  CHAPTER VII.

  CHAPTER VIII.

  CHAPTER IX,

  CHAPTER X.

  CHAPTER XI.

  CHAPTER XII.

  CHAPTER XIII.

  CHAPTER XIV.

  CHAPTER XV.

  CHAPTER XVI.

  CHAPTER XVII.

  CHAPTER XVIII.

  CHAPTER XIX.

  CHAPTER XX.

  VOLUME II.

  CHAPTER I.

  CHAPTER II.

  CHAPTER III.

  CHAPTER IV.

  CHAPTER V.

  CHAPTER VI.

  CHAPTER VII.

  CHAPTER VIII.

  CHAPTER IX.

  CHAPTER X.

  CHAPTER XI.

  CHAPTER XII.

  CHAPTER XIII.

  CHAPTER XIV.

  CHAPTER XV.

  CHAPTER XVI.

  CHAPTER XVII.

  CHAPTER XVIII.

  CHAPTER XIX.

  CHAPTER XX.

  CHAPTER XXI.

  Oscar Wilde, c. 1882

  VOLUME I.

  CHAPTER I.

  The Senior Pupil of the Chancery.

  IT was pleasant down there in Berkshire, when the water rushed beneath the keel; our oars feathered neatly on the ringing rowlocks; the river foamed and flew as we gripped it; and the alders and willows tossed in the sunshine, while we — private pupils, as our tutor called us — men, as we called ourselves — used to pull up the Kennet, as though we were some of an University Eight, and lunch at the Ferry Inn off raw chops and half-and-half, making love to its big-boned, red-haired Hebe, and happy as kings in those summer days, in the dead years long past and gone. What a royal time it was! — (who amongst us does not say sol) — when our hearts owned no heavier cares than a vulgus, and a theorem; and no skeleton in the closet spoiled our trolling and long bowling; when old Horace and Euripides were the only bores we knew; and Galatæa at the pastry-cook’s seemed fairer than do ever titled Helens now; when gallops on hired shying hacks were doubly dear, by prohibition; and filthy bird’s-eye, smoked in clays, sweeter to our senses then, than purest Havannahs smoked to-day, on the steps of Pratt’s, or the U.S.! I often think of those days when, with a handsome tip, from the dear old governor; and a parting injunction respecting the unspeakable blessings and advantages of flannel, from my mother; I was sent off to be a private pupil, under the Rev. Josiah Primrose, D.D., F.R.S., F.R.G.S., and all the letters of the alphabet beside, I dare say, if I could but remember them.

  Our modern Gamaliel was an immaculate and insignificant little man; who, on the strength of a Double First, good connexions, and M.B. waistcoats, offered to train up the sons of noblemen and gentlemen, in the way they should go, drill Greek, and instil religious principles into them, for the trifling consideration of 300l per annum. He lived in a quiet little borough in the south of Berkshire, at a long, low, ivy-clad house, called the Chancery, which had stupendous pretensions to the picturesque and the mediæval; and, what was of much more consequence to us, a capital little trout stream at the bottom of its grounds. Here he dwelt with a fat old housekeeper, a very good cook, a quasijuvenile niece (who went in for the kitten line, and did it very badly, too,) and four, or, when times were good, six, hot-brained young dogs, worse to keep in order than a team of unbroke thorough-breds. No authority, however, did our Doctor, in familiar parlance, “Old Joey,” attempt to exercise. We had prayers at eight, which he read in a style of intoning peculiar to himself, more soporific in its effects than a scientific lecture, or an Exeter Hall meeting, and dinner at six; a very good dinner, too; over which the fair Arabella presided: and between those hours we amused ourselves as we chose, with cricket, and smoking, jack and trout, boating and swimming, rides on hacks, such as job-masters let out to young fellows with long purses; and desperate flirtations with all the shop girls in Frestonhills. We did do an amount of Greek and Logic, of course, as otherwise the 300l might have been jeopardised; but the Doctor was generally dreaming over his possible chance of the Bampton Lectureship, or his next report for the Geological Society, and was as glad to give us our congé as we were to take it.

  It was a mild September evening, I remember, when I first went to the Chancery. I had been a little down in the mouth at leaving home, just in the best of the shooting season; and at saying good-by to my genial-hearted governor, and my own highly-prized bay, “Ballet-girl:” but a brisk coach drive and a good inn dinner never yet failed to raise a boy’s spirits, and by the time I reached Frestonhills I was ready to face a much more imposing individual than “Old Joey.” The Doctor received me in his library, with a suspicious appearance of having just tumbled out of a nap; called me his “dear young friend;” on my first introduction treated me to a text or two, ingeniously dovetailed with classic quotations; took me to the drawing-room for presentation to his niece, who smiled graciously on me for the sake of the pines, and melons, and game my mother had sent as a propitiatory offering with her darling;’ and, finally, consigned me to the tender mercies of the senior pupil.

  The senior pupil was standing with his back to the fire and his elbows on the mantel-piece, smoking a short pipe, in the common study. He was but just eighteen; but even then he had more of the “grand air” about him than anyone else I had ever seen. His figure, from its developed muscle, broad chest, and splendidly-modelled arm, might have passed him for much older; but in his face were all the spirit, the eagerness, the fire of early youth; the glow of ardour that has never been chilled, the longing of the young gladiator for the untried arena.

  His features were clear-cut, proud, and firm; the lines of the lips delicate and haughty; his eyes were long, dark, and keen as a falcon’s; his brow was wide, high, and powerful; his head grandly set upon his throat: he looked altogether, as I told him some time afterwards, very like a thorough-bred racer, who was longing to do the distance, and who would never allow punishing by curb, or whip, or snaffle. Such was the senior pupil, Granville de Vigne. He was alone, and took his pipe out of his lips without altering his position.

  “Well, sir, what’s your name?”

  “Chevasney.”

  “Not a bad one. A Chevasney of Longholme?”

  “Yes. John Chevasney’s son.”

  “So you are coming to be fleeced by Old Joey? Deuced pity! Are you good for anything?”

  “Only for grilling a devil, and riding cross country.” He threw back his head, and laughed, a clear ringing laugh; and gave me his hand, cordially and frankly, for all his hauteur and his seniority.

  “You’ll do. Sit down, innocent I am Granville de Vigne. You know us, of course. Your father rode with our hounds last January. Very game old gentleman, he seemed; I should have thought him too sensible to have sent you down here! You’d have been much better at Eton, or Rugby; there’s nothing like a public school for taking the nonsense out of people.. I liked Eton, at least; but if you know how to hold your own and have your own way, you can make yourself comfortable anywhere. The other fellows are out, gone to a flower show, I think; I never go to such places myself, they’re too slow. There is only one of the boys worth cultivating, and he’s a very little chap, only thirteen, but he’
s a jolly little monkey; we call him ‘Curly,’ from his dandy gold locks. His father’s a peer” — and De Vigne laughed again— “one of the fresh creation; may Heaven preserve us from it! This Frestonhills is a detestable place; you’ll be glad enough to get out of it. If it weren’t for sport, I should have cut it long ago, but with a hunter and rod a man can never be dull. Are you a good shot, seat, and oar, young one?”

  Those were De Vigne’s first words to me, and I was honoured and delighted with his notice, for I had heard how, at seven years old, he had ridden unnoticed to the finish with Assheton Smith’s hounds; how, three years later, he had mounted a mare none of the grooms dare touch, and, breaking his shoulder-bone in the attempt to tame her, had shut his teeth like a little Spartan, that he might not cry out during its setting; how, when he had seen his Newfoundland drowning from cramp in the mere, he had plunged in after his dog, and only been rescued as both were sinking, the boy’s arms round the animal’s neck: — with many other such tales current in the county of the young heir to 20,000l a year.

  I did know his family — the royal-sounding “Us.” They had been the lords of the manor at Vigne ever since tradition could tell; their legends were among the country lore, and their names in the old cradle songs of rough chivalry, and vague romance, handed down among the peasantry from generation to generation. Many coronets had lain at their feet, but they had courteously declined them; to say the truth, they held the strawberry-leaves in supreme contempt, and looked down not unjustly on many of the roturiers of the peerage.

  De Vigne’s father, a Colonel of Dragoons, had fallen fighting in India when his son was six years old; and how this high-spirited representative of a haughty House came to be living down in the dull seclusion of Frestonhills was owing to a circumstance very characteristic of De Vigne. At twelve his mother had sent him to Eton, a match in pluck, and muscle, and talent, for boys five years his senior. There he helped to fight the Lord’s men; pounded bargees with a skill worthy of the P.R.; made himself captain of the boats; enjoyed mingled popularity and detestation; and from thence, when he was seventeen, got himself expelled.