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dangermousieI don't know how many of you are familiar with Elinor Glyn - she has fallen into obscurity now but in the 1910s and 1920s, she was a hugely popular author of torrid romantic novels - shocking readers at the time with its sexy (for the time) passages and discussion of topics like adultery.
Glyn also knew how to sell herself - she became a celebrity in her own right, moved to Hollywood for a bit and wrote screenplays, hobnobbed with the rich and famous of two continents, and coined the term "It" to describe sex appeal.
Well, the reason I am remembering her is because I found on gutenberg one of the only two novels of hers I've read: the utterly and ridiculously hiarious His Hour.
I remember myself and![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
fire_snake reading bits of HH to each other in college and laughing like maniacs. The book does not get better with age.
The novel involves a prim and young English widow named Tamara who goes on a trip to Imperial Russia circa 1910. Of course, as any English Rose would, she meets and enchants the sexy and wild Prince Milaslávski who, like all Russian men, hangs out with gypsies, hunts bears, and makes love to ladies in a wild-man fashion.
This was the era of the sheik novels - books full of dangerously 'other' men doing deliciously forbidden things to prim Anglo heroines that no proper English or American man was expected to do. Still, as someone who grew up in Russia, dated Russian guys and has plenty of them in the family, it is absolutely hilarious to see Russians as sexy exotic lady-killer 'other.'
Anyway, there isn't much of a plot but it has one notably ridiculous scene - so notably that I believe Heyer satirized it in Devil's Cub.
The scene - our virtuous heroine Tamara has been kidnapped by the Prince and taken to some remote hut. Or as Elinor Glyn put it: "Now, now, you shall belong to me," he cried. "You are mine at last, and you shall pay for the hours of pain you have made me suffer!" and he rained mad kisses on her trembling lips.
Indeed.
Tamara decides that even though she loves him, there will be no sexing under these circumstances. Clearly she is a believer of 'put a ring on it.' And what do you know - lucky girl - somehow she got her hands on a gun.
Does she threaten to shoot him? Does she shoot him and hopes she hits him in a non-vital spot? Oh no. No. She puts the gun to her head and tells him if he moves a step closer she will kill herself.
I laughed so hard I felt sick.
Not being an utter moron, whatever his other issues, the Prince sits down on a sofa and points out that he will just wait until she gets tired and drops the gun. He may be a jerk but I know which one of them has more brainpower than a flea.
Of course she eventually faints.
Now, shockingly for a 1910s novel featuring a wild and exotic hero, there is no rape. There is some kissing of feet (I approve) and tearing of her shirt to check for her pulse.
And so next morning, Tamara comes to all by herself. Let's stop here for a second - you know what ladies wore in 1910? This is a good representation:
There were long dresses/skirts, layers of undergarments, etc. Tamara wakes up and none of her skirts or undergarments are off - kissing of feet and tearing of blouse to check for heartbeat do not involve underpants. Tamara is no blushing virgin as she has been married before. Thus, she's familiar with birds-and-bees basics. So, she wakes up with all her underclothes/skirt in place and no other 'evidence' of you-know-what.
Her conclusion? "OMG I HAVE BEEN RAPED." Of course, as any good 1910s English girl, she decides the one solution to this disgrace is to marry her rapist. At which I go - whaaaaaaaat?
OK, fine, the hero didn't rape her. Congrats on achieving that incredibly low standard for a human being but an impossibly high one for a 1910s romance novel hero. But heroine thinks he did. And she wants to marry him? Whaaaaat?
Of course, she is also the type of woman who's think kissing is horrible so who knows what goes on in her head. She--a lady!--a proud English lady! She covered her face with her hands. What had her anguish of mind been before, when compared with this! She had suffered hurt to her pride the day after he had kissed her, but now that seemed as nothing balanced with such hideous disgrace.
Anyway, the hero agrees to marry her with alacrity and lets her go on believing she was raped. Charming. He only tells her the truth after they get married. Awwwww. Not before she tells him she doesn't want to know because it's all forgiven. Double awwwwww.
Excuse me while I barf.
I conclude on this delicious bit of purple prose: I love you better than heaven or earth--and you are mine now till death do us part. Yeah, said death will probably involve Bolsheviks shooting you both in a few years. Enjoy, you guys, enjoy.
Glyn also knew how to sell herself - she became a celebrity in her own right, moved to Hollywood for a bit and wrote screenplays, hobnobbed with the rich and famous of two continents, and coined the term "It" to describe sex appeal.
Well, the reason I am remembering her is because I found on gutenberg one of the only two novels of hers I've read: the utterly and ridiculously hiarious His Hour.
I remember myself and
fire_snake reading bits of HH to each other in college and laughing like maniacs. The book does not get better with age. The novel involves a prim and young English widow named Tamara who goes on a trip to Imperial Russia circa 1910. Of course, as any English Rose would, she meets and enchants the sexy and wild Prince Milaslávski who, like all Russian men, hangs out with gypsies, hunts bears, and makes love to ladies in a wild-man fashion.
This was the era of the sheik novels - books full of dangerously 'other' men doing deliciously forbidden things to prim Anglo heroines that no proper English or American man was expected to do. Still, as someone who grew up in Russia, dated Russian guys and has plenty of them in the family, it is absolutely hilarious to see Russians as sexy exotic lady-killer 'other.'
Anyway, there isn't much of a plot but it has one notably ridiculous scene - so notably that I believe Heyer satirized it in Devil's Cub.
The scene - our virtuous heroine Tamara has been kidnapped by the Prince and taken to some remote hut. Or as Elinor Glyn put it: "Now, now, you shall belong to me," he cried. "You are mine at last, and you shall pay for the hours of pain you have made me suffer!" and he rained mad kisses on her trembling lips.
Indeed.
Tamara decides that even though she loves him, there will be no sexing under these circumstances. Clearly she is a believer of 'put a ring on it.' And what do you know - lucky girl - somehow she got her hands on a gun.
Does she threaten to shoot him? Does she shoot him and hopes she hits him in a non-vital spot? Oh no. No. She puts the gun to her head and tells him if he moves a step closer she will kill herself.
I laughed so hard I felt sick.
Not being an utter moron, whatever his other issues, the Prince sits down on a sofa and points out that he will just wait until she gets tired and drops the gun. He may be a jerk but I know which one of them has more brainpower than a flea.
Of course she eventually faints.
Now, shockingly for a 1910s novel featuring a wild and exotic hero, there is no rape. There is some kissing of feet (I approve) and tearing of her shirt to check for her pulse.
And so next morning, Tamara comes to all by herself. Let's stop here for a second - you know what ladies wore in 1910? This is a good representation:
There were long dresses/skirts, layers of undergarments, etc. Tamara wakes up and none of her skirts or undergarments are off - kissing of feet and tearing of blouse to check for heartbeat do not involve underpants. Tamara is no blushing virgin as she has been married before. Thus, she's familiar with birds-and-bees basics. So, she wakes up with all her underclothes/skirt in place and no other 'evidence' of you-know-what.
Her conclusion? "OMG I HAVE BEEN RAPED." Of course, as any good 1910s English girl, she decides the one solution to this disgrace is to marry her rapist. At which I go - whaaaaaaaat?
OK, fine, the hero didn't rape her. Congrats on achieving that incredibly low standard for a human being but an impossibly high one for a 1910s romance novel hero. But heroine thinks he did. And she wants to marry him? Whaaaaat?
Of course, she is also the type of woman who's think kissing is horrible so who knows what goes on in her head. She--a lady!--a proud English lady! She covered her face with her hands. What had her anguish of mind been before, when compared with this! She had suffered hurt to her pride the day after he had kissed her, but now that seemed as nothing balanced with such hideous disgrace.
Anyway, the hero agrees to marry her with alacrity and lets her go on believing she was raped. Charming. He only tells her the truth after they get married. Awwwww. Not before she tells him she doesn't want to know because it's all forgiven. Double awwwwww.
Excuse me while I barf.
I conclude on this delicious bit of purple prose: I love you better than heaven or earth--and you are mine now till death do us part. Yeah, said death will probably involve Bolsheviks shooting you both in a few years. Enjoy, you guys, enjoy.
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Date: 2010-04-03 02:00 pm (UTC)mousie I'd read that if you did commentary for it on every page haha it's so ridic
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Date: 2010-04-03 06:41 pm (UTC)