Of course, the novels that we remember from 1920 probably aren’t the ones that most people were reading. Fitzgerald, Woolf and Mansfield’s stories, Wharton – all had their audience in their day, but they weren’t the bestsellers. That’s why I’m really pleased that Con read Ethel M. Dell and that’s why I decided to read The Master Man by Ruby M. Ayres.
Ayres is one of those names I came across a lot while researching popular fiction of the interwar period, but I hadn’t read any first hand (and had that in common with plenty of cultural commentators of the period). In a lovely little bookshop in St David’s, I picked up The Master Man – and it only took me a couple of hours to read.
From the off, let me say perhaps my favourite thing about this particular edition of the book. And that’s that the quote on the cover never happens. In case you can’t read it, it says ”You hate me? quite likely! it does not surprise me. Brute force? I confess it: but still – you were Kissed.” Besides a lamentable approach to capital letters, this quote also betrays the period’s fondness for sexual assault in literature, and brutes who are convinced to be more considerate by the sheer power of the woman’s English virtue. This was, after all, only a year after E. M. Hull’s tremendously successful novel The Sheik. But in The Master Man? Nothing even vaguely approaching this scene occurs. A section of the readership would certainly be disappointed.
The main character of The Master Man is Patricia – a spoilt, rich, unpleasant woman who has lived to the age of twenty-one with everything that money could buy. Except family and friendship. Her benefactor is Peter Rolf, the man who adopted her when she was seven, but has never shown her much affection. In the first of many rather unbelievable moments, Patricia can’t remember much at all from the first seven years of her life, including the family she came from.
As the novel opens, she is lounging about on the houseboat of Bernard Chesney, a man she thinks little of but might also marry, because he is rich and connected. Chesney’s servant is on to her, and gives her a few sharp words, at which she is very indignant. But she hasn’t got much time to be indignant, because, as the opening lines say…
When Peter Rolf died[,] Patricia was away from home staying with some people in a houseboat on the Thames.
It had been ideal weather for the river, hot and breathless, with wonderful starry nights, and it was an ideal evening when the telegram came summoning her home because Peter Rolf had inconsiderately died while she was away and spoilt a holiday which she had been thoroughly enjoying.
Patricia isn’t too bothered about the death of the only parent she’s ever known (because, again, she doesn’t remember anything about the first seven years of my life, though this is never directly acknowledged) – she’s just annoyed that her holiday is over. And even more annoyed when she realises… she’s been cut off without a penny. Peter Rolf has left all his money to the son that none of them have ever seen. And in a twist that would be quite clever if it hadn’t come so early in the novel… the son is Chesney’s servant! For no reason! This coincidence is never referred to again, but it was a fun surprise.
Having been brusque and masterly and rude when he first met her, Michael – for that is his name – immediately cares deeply about Patricia’s future. She continues to be petulant and unpleasant and refuses to take any of his money, insisting that she will support herself and/or stay with friends, neither of which prove to be true. And so they’re in a cat and mouse situation of him trying to help her and Patricia refusing to be helped from… pride? I guess?
It’s really unclear why Michael cares about her, because she is horrible, and it’s equally unclear why she won’t accept that help, having been very happy to live off other people for her whole life. There are one or two other twists that look a little like Ayres only thought of them as she was writing, and the ending is entirely predictable. The title has very little to do with the novel, which would have been more interesting if Michael had continued to treat Patricia a little rudely – as she deserves – rather than bending over backwards for her. He certainly wouldn’t dream of kissing her against her will, as per the cover.
So, yes, this novel was completely stupid and littered with stereotypical writing. Nobody ever laughs without ‘laughing mirthlessly’, for instance. But, you know what, I had a ball reading it. I imagine half of its 1920 audience took it deathly seriously, and the other half recognised it was total nonsense but easy to race through, and satisfyingly predictable in its ending. Ayres knew what she was doing, and did what was needed well – i.e. wrote something interesting enough to keep reading at break-neck speed, without ever letting logic, common sense, or human nature get in the way of a rattling story.
This does sound fun! A satisfyingly predictable ending is very comforting at times. .
Definitely, even if I wanted to know their heads together!
Ruby M Ayres does sound very like Ethel M Dell, whom I have read, and who was also an excellent storyteller with the same shortcomings.
What is sad is that for a best selling novelist there appears to be no complete bibliography of Ayres books online, in spite of the fact that most second hand copies of her books are expensive, so somebody must still be reading her. The cheaper ones seem to be ‘revised’ editions from the 1970s, which always annoy me, as I constantly wonder what’s been changed.
Yes, bizarre that she sold so many books and they’ve all disappeared – I guess fell apart or thrown away. And I’m with you – don’t want to read an abridged or altered version.
How did you do it? You make n excellent review of a book and a writer of whom I have never heard and will now never choose to read! Great stuff and an insight into popular fiction in 1920. The stuff of circulating or subscription libraries I guess. Thank you.
Caroline
Aw thanks very much Caroline!! Yes, I imagine this sort of book would have been passed between friends until it fell apart.
I am delighted that you read something this trashy for the 1920 club! And I am even more delighted by the thought of the publishers coming up with this cover design, presumably deciding that they could not sell the book on its own merits so needed to make up something to entice the appropriate sort of reader. Marketing genius at work.
Yes, well done them! I can’t believe they got away with this sort of thing.
Thank you for giving me a good laugh first thing in the morning! I used to write for the soaps and this sounds like one of our plots – it always used to amaze us that so many people followed the preposterous stories so avidly, and cared so deeply about the willfully silly people. Doesn’t surprise me that she was a best seller.
Oo Tess I am very intrigued! I am definitely one of those soap-loving masses – though mainly Neighbours, and half the joy for me is talking with other people online about how silly it is.
What fun! And how bizarre that the cover bears no relation to the inside! It sounds totally light and entertaining, which might well be a good idea for the moment!
I kept waiting and waiting for anything even similar to appear!
Well done for tracking this one down, certainly not an author I have heard of. It does sound appealing though, despite that quote on the cover.
It’s definitely good fun though total rubbish!
I don’t see the cover in your post. I’m glad that nothing like the scene on the cover occurs, because I hate that kind of thing. It used to be so popular in romance novels after they first wanted to put sex in them, because the heroine couldn’t be seen to be anything but pure, so they had the hero rape her! Then they ended up happy every after. Gag me with a spoon.
Oh I know – horrendous. And Fifty Shades might suggest we haven’t travelled worlds from this (though I’m taking this on hearsay rather than first-hand experience, so I’m no better than the likes of QD Leavis!)
Oh, that’s funny. The cover shows up in the email that alerts me to your post, but not on the actual web page. Something must be off on my end, I’m guessing.
Curious!
There is something strangely indulgent and adictive about these kind of novels, they were still being written as recently as the last decade, and they are a guilty pleasure of mine. All these stories about posh, spoiled, well to do women in glamorous occupations. Utter nonsense of course, but brilliant escapism, and probably just right for pandemic reading.
Hm… so bad it was actually good, sort of thing then?