I'm becoming quite put out with Oppenheim. This story makes a promising start, having a deeply-flawed but sympathetic hero, and an attractive if unbelievably angelic heroine.
Goes downhill as the hero begins to make it a habit to blab about his crime at the drop of a hat, while showing a naive conviction in his own safety from the law. Not to worry, however, as he manages to bring out the mother instinct in all women, and they'll protect him. More than that, his enemy turns into a forgiving Christian gentleman for almost no reason at all.
Those of us who've read much of Len Deighton and John LeCarre, not to mention true narratives of espionage, can only gape at the extremely weak security procedures described in this novel. In addition, the mole (or a choice between two moles) is apparent early on, and narrows down well before the end.
Yes, the characters are decent and the setting pleasing, but realism is mighty sparse.
Oppenheim has, among other irritating quirks, a tendency to tease by offering the beginning of clues, only to withdraw or interrupt them as an artificial means of maintaining mystery. Despite that, chances are you'll identify the murderer before he confesses.
What's more, neither hero or heroine respopnd realistically to motivation.
Some interesting moments and characters but melodramatic, a plot too dependent upon coincidence, and loaded with propaganda in a defense of Britain in WW I. Un-needed propaganda one would think, for it was published in 1920.
It's rare that I find a story in need of more bloodshed and less Christian forgivingness but Jeanne of the Marshes is an exception, despite being entertaining and heart-warming.
Oppenheim loves the aristocracy despite not being one of them himself. Though his name couldn't be more Germanic, he chooses French ones for his main characters, making them all seem descended from Normans or Huguenots. He attempts to throw us a curve in this book, disguising the hero as a plain fisiherman, and introducing a secondary heroine as one of the people. Not to worry, though, for she comes from an old family who once owned a great swath of territory.
What a horrid piece of melodramatic bilge this book is!
I read at least one of Oppenheim's books years back—General Besserley's Puzzle Box, which had no merit to speak of. Recently, however, I picked up Jeanne of the Marshes, and despite a few quibbles, enjoyed it, so I set myself to read more.
Oppenheim has a few unfortunate eccentricities that show up in almost all his works. Very much middle-class himself, he is fascinated by the aristocracy, his characters all too often are Lady This, Sir That and Duke Whatsisname, while the ordinary folks are mere props, introduced only to bring in the "tea equipage" or help with the main character's "toilette" as he changes from morning to afternoon or evening wear.
The life portrayed is often vastly epicurean, nothing but wine and brandy are drunk, the women are all slim and beautiful, the men (no matter how often they faint) not only handsome and perfectly clothed but athletic.
Berenice is a pathetic example of his weaknesses, with a precious hero of unparalleled literary bent sacrificing himself in order to salvage the soul of a morally-imperfect heroine. Oy!
Of all the Rineharts I've read this might be the most memorable. It's an idealistic romance with an absorbing side-plot that'll require multiple handkerchiefs for those whose emotions are easily touched. Characters are well-drawn, and in the final analysis almost all of them prove to be heroes to a greater or lesser degree.
It's sad as well, almost tragic, involving untimely death, and a sacrifice by the near-perfect heroine.
I'm not through with reading MRR, but at this point I think romance is her strongest talent. Her humorous works are droll at best, and the mysteries I've read, except for Jenny Brice, haven't been much.
All of Wilkie Collin's novels are a bit old-fashioned and slow, not too surprising considering his era. After Dark, a collection of stories built around a somewhat artificial theme, might be the least enjoyable I've read.
Collins is something of a bug about "brain fever," a malady we would probably describe as deep depression, and he uses it here. Wish he'd never thought of it.
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2 x 4 = 8, while 3 x 3 = 9. Simple, eh?
Goes downhill as the hero begins to make it a habit to blab about his crime at the drop of a hat, while showing a naive conviction in his own safety from the law. Not to worry, however, as he manages to bring out the mother instinct in all women, and they'll protect him. More than that, his enemy turns into a forgiving Christian gentleman for almost no reason at all.
Yes, the characters are decent and the setting pleasing, but realism is mighty sparse.
What's more, neither hero or heroine respopnd realistically to motivation.
Oppenheim loves the aristocracy despite not being one of them himself. Though his name couldn't be more Germanic, he chooses French ones for his main characters, making them all seem descended from Normans or Huguenots. He attempts to throw us a curve in this book, disguising the hero as a plain fisiherman, and introducing a secondary heroine as one of the people. Not to worry, though, for she comes from an old family who once owned a great swath of territory.
Despite some flaws, Jeanne is well worth reading.
I read at least one of Oppenheim's books years back—General Besserley's Puzzle Box, which had no merit to speak of. Recently, however, I picked up Jeanne of the Marshes, and despite a few quibbles, enjoyed it, so I set myself to read more.
Oppenheim has a few unfortunate eccentricities that show up in almost all his works. Very much middle-class himself, he is fascinated by the aristocracy, his characters all too often are Lady This, Sir That and Duke Whatsisname, while the ordinary folks are mere props, introduced only to bring in the "tea equipage" or help with the main character's "toilette" as he changes from morning to afternoon or evening wear.
The life portrayed is often vastly epicurean, nothing but wine and brandy are drunk, the women are all slim and beautiful, the men (no matter how often they faint) not only handsome and perfectly clothed but athletic.
Berenice is a pathetic example of his weaknesses, with a precious hero of unparalleled literary bent sacrificing himself in order to salvage the soul of a morally-imperfect heroine. Oy!
It's sad as well, almost tragic, involving untimely death, and a sacrifice by the near-perfect heroine.
I'm not through with reading MRR, but at this point I think romance is her strongest talent. Her humorous works are droll at best, and the mysteries I've read, except for Jenny Brice, haven't been much.
Collins is something of a bug about "brain fever," a malady we would probably describe as deep depression, and he uses it here. Wish he'd never thought of it.