George Chetwynd Griffith-Jones was a British writer. He was active mainly in the science fiction genre—or as it was known at the time, scientific romance—in par...
Olga Romanoff or The Syren of the Skies (1894) by George Griffith
Hi I'm Rez. I like mind control. I like weird old stories. Sometimes in my travels I encounter things that encompass both. Here's my little attempt to preserve some forgotten history.
“Alas, poor Serge!” she said, as the door closed behind him; “you are not the first man who has lost the empire of the world for a woman’s kiss. Before, I saw that you were my equal and helpmate, now you and all other men—yes, not even excepting he who seems so far above me now—shall be my slaves and do my bidding, so blindly that they shall not even know they are doing it.
“Yes, the weapons of war are worth much, but what are they in comparison with the souls of the men who will have to use them!”
There are few things I love more than an evil woman. A ruthless mad chemist lady using mind control to get her revenge– revenge which involves becoming the unquestioned dictator of Earth? Be still my beating heart!
Unfortunately, here, this comes with some... caveats...
Listen, the days of science fiction before H.G. Wells were dark times. For a short period, before Wells and his sensitive, witty commentary on human nature, the most popular author of the scientific romance was one George Griffith. And he… was certainly a product of his time.
Just look at this fuckin guy
Olga Romanoff is the villain protagonist of this tale; the last of the Russian dynasty, her family disgraced by the conquering of Earth by the Aerians– a nation that developed airships and promptly used their newfound power to cow the world into its get-along shirt (they’re the good guys, you see)(yes the name is super yikes also).
When Olga’s father dies, she inherits the recipe for a mind control elixir, a “will-poison” which, as any enterprising villainess ought, she promptly brews and uses on two Aerian men and her simpering loyal-dog cousin-fiancé to turn them into her obedient slaves (yes it is all but explicit that she fucks them).
Mocking voices spoke to her out of the night, and told her of the unholy love that such a woman would, in the plenitude of her unnatural power, have for such a man; how she would subdue him, and make him not only her lover but her slave; how she would humble his splendid manhood, and play with him until her evil fancy was sated, and then cast him aside—as she had done—like a toy of which she had tired.
The scene where Olga uses the potion on her fiancé is unabashedly awesome, so I will put the whole thing here for your reading pleasure.
From Olga Romanoff, Chapter VII. The Spell of Circe
Just before midnight, Olga proposed that, in accordance with the ancient custom of Russia, they should drink a glass of punch, brewed in the Russian style; and as she volunteered to brew it herself, it is needless to say that the invitation was at once accepted.
The apparatus stood upon a little table in one corner of the room. For a single minute her back was turned to the three sitting at the table in the centre; her share in the conversation was not interrupted for an instant, and no one saw a couple of drops of sparkling, blue liquid fall into each of three of the glasses from the little flask that she held concealed in the palm of her hand, and when she turned round with the little silver tray on which the glasses stood, the flask was resting at the bottom of her dress-pocket.
She handed a glass to each of them, and then took her own up from the side-table where she had left it. She went to her place, and, holding her glass up, said simply—
“Here’s to that which each of us has nearest at heart!” and drank.
All followed suit, and as the clock chimed twelve a few minutes later, the two Aerians took their leave, and left Olga and Serge alone.
“You said you would begin your share of the work to-night,” said he, as soon as they were alone. “Have you done so?”
“If you do your work to-morrow as successfully as I have done mine to-night,” replied Olga, looking steadily into his eyes as she spoke, “the Empire of the Air will no longer be theirs.”
Serge returned her glance in silence. He wanted to speak, but some superior power seemed to have laid a spell upon his will, and as long as Olga’s burning eyes were fixed on his, his tongue was paralysed, nay, more than this, his mind even refused to shape the sentences that he would have liked to speak. Olga held him mute before her for several minutes, and then she said quietly, still keeping her eyes fixed on his—
“Now speak, and tell me what you would do if I told you that I preferred Alan as a lover to you, and that I would rather a thousand times be his slave and plaything than your wife.”
“I should say that you are the mistress of my destiny, that I have no law but your will, and that it is for you to give me joy or pain, as seems good to you.”
Serge spoke the unnatural words in a calm, passionless tone, rather as though he were speaking in a sort of hypnotic trance than in full command of his senses. A strange, subtle influence had been stealing through his veins and over his nerves ever since he had drunk the liquor which Olga had prepared.
He seemed perfectly incapable of resisting any suggestion that might have been made to him. His will was paralysed, but even the consciousness of this fact was fading from his mind. All his passions were absolutely in abeyance. Even his love for Olga failed to inspire him with any jealous resentment of words which half an hour before would have goaded him to frenzy. He heard them as though they concerned someone else.
The ruin of his life’s hopes, which they implied so distinctly, had no meaning for him; so far as his volition was concerned he was an automaton, ready to obey without question the dictates of her imperious will.
“That will do,” said Olga, in the tone of a mistress addressing a servant. “Now go to bed and sleep well, and remember the work that lies before you to-morrow.”
“I will,” said Serge, and without another word, without attempting to take his customary good-night kiss, he walked out of the room, leaving her to the enjoyment of her victory and the contemplation of triumphs that now seemed almost certain to her.
Olga Romanoff is not a good book. Olga is not a complex character. But she lights up the little atavistic (to use a favored problematic term of the era) center of my brain, like, yessss evil mad scientist girl with a callous disregard for other people’s autonomy! Yessss she makes bubbling concoctions to make men her slaves and toys!! Yesss she’s an evil dictator who rules a ship called the Revenge with an iron fist and kills anyone who stands in her way!!! Bisexual femdom queen!
into an empire such as she longed to rule over,—an empire in which men should be her slaves and women her handmaidens.
But sad to say, dear reader, unless you also happen to have a fetish for airship battles, the bulk of this book will not appeal to you. I’ll confess my great sin now: I did not read Olga in its entirety. Sorry! It’s mostly really boring! I don’t give a fuck about the future-war!
And yet– I think about Olga a lot.
“Yes, yes,” she replied. “I know that; but I did not weary of this man, this king among men, for whose love I would have sold my soul. I only wearied of my own attempts to win it…
“You know that when he seemed my lover he was only my slave—that I could not compel the man to love me, but only the passive machine that I had made of him, and you know, too, that the moment I had let him regain his freedom of will he would have loathed and cursed me, as no doubt he is doing now.
Olga is in love with Alan Arnold, the Aerian man she had held in thrall. He and his companion escape, and she spends the rest of the novel, between her war-maneuvering, pining after him, bitterly rebuking him, trying to fill the gaping hole in her heart with an alliance by a Muslim Sultan (which is about as tasteful as one would expect).
But even more bitter than this was the thought of meeting, not only as a freeman, but as the commander of the Aerian navy, the man who but a few days ago had been her docile, unresisting slave, robbed of the highest attribute of his manhood by the Circe-spell that she had cast over him, and which she now knew was broken for ever.
Olga grows more miserable the more powerful she becomes; despite her ruthless streak, she is plagued by insecurity and madness. Even though he is deeply loyal and in love with her, Olga uses the mind control potion on her new, not-Alan husband at the dawn of the final air-ship battle.
Pitiless and without scruple to the end, Olga, while she was recovering from her wound under the shelter of the Sultan’s roof, had managed, with the aid of her waiting-woman Anna, not only to poison the Grand Vizier Musa and Hakem the astronomer, but also to bring Khalid himself into the same state of moral slavery in which she had so long held Alan and Alexis.
It was she who had brought this fleet from Alexandria to Aeria. Once under the fatal spell of her will-poison, she had commanded Khalid to revoke the orders that he had given for peace, and he had obeyed. A fleet of more than five hundred air-ships had been collected, and, taking Khalid with her on board the Revenge, so that there should be no chance of his recovering his volition, she had come to fulfil the prophecy which Paul Romanoff uttered when in the last hour of his life he had declared that one day the Eagle of Russia should fly over the battlements of Aeria.
But there is a great comet coming, foretold in prophecy. Olga and the Sultan flee to Olga’s Antarctic stronghold (which she has– awesome) and the story ends with the remaining Aerians finding her there, consumed by madness shuttered with the corpse of the Sultan, convinced that Alan is dead and haunting her.
Olga Romanoff had survived the doom of the world, but the hand of a just vengeance had fallen heavily upon her. Her once splendid form was shrunken as though three score years had passed over her in as many hours. Her left side was half paralysed and her shaking limbs hung loosely as she tottered along.Olga Romanoff had survived the doom of the world, but the hand of a just vengeance had fallen heavily upon her. Her once splendid form was shrunken as though three score years had passed over her in as many hours. Her left side was half paralysed and her shaking limbs hung loosely as she tottered along.
The world of Olga Romanoff is a distressingly, suffocatingly proto-fascist one; a genteel fantasy about the Big Strong Superiors so very kindly spreading their superior and prosperous society… but also bro, they’re sooo strong, they will totally fuck you up.
And then there’s Olga. Olga is an aberration. Olga is powerful, but not through her might or her stature. Olga Romanoff is clever and pretty. Olga is here to use her feminine wiles to get what she wants (world domination). The system is not one that can handle deviance; it swiftly falls to pieces.
The Masters of the World were supreme no longer, for a new power had arisen which, within the limits of the seas, had proved itself stronger than they were. Communication between continent and continent had almost ceased, save where the Aerian air-ships were employed. In six short years the peace of the world had been destroyed and the stability of society shaken.
Among the nations of Anglo-Saxondom the change had manifested itself by a swift decadence into the worst forms of unbridled democracy. Men’s minds were unhinged, and the most extravagant opinions found acceptance.
Of course Olga is punished for this; of course we are supposed to hate her, and at most pity her in the end. This is a deeply moralizing novel, but Olga still shines as something right and true, a legitimate anger that can take down the most indestructible of foes. Most people will not forgive her for the mind control rape, but I will; I think she should do more of it.
I think Olga should have her empire built on the backs of brutal disregard for human autonomy, her slaves and her handmaidens, and she should suffocate in her loneliness at the top of the world because I think that shit’s hot!
“And you, my splendid Alan, before to-morrow night you shall be at my feet! Two drops of this, and that proud, strong soul of yours shall melt away like a snowflake under warm rain, and you shall be my slave and do my bidding, and never know that you are not as free as you are now."
If you want more context on the novel, its predecessor the Angel of the Revolution, and George Griffth himself, check out the Apocalist Book Club episode on this book.
Olga Romanoff can be found on Project Gutenberg & Librivox
George Chetwynd Griffith-Jones was a British writer. He was active mainly in the science fiction genre—or as it was known at the time, scientific romance—in par...
