Marie Corelli - The Writer and the Woman

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Title: Marie Corelli - The Writer and the Woman
Author: Coates, T. F. G., Bell, R. S. Warren (Robert Stanley Warren)
Language: English
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*** Start of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Marie Corelli - The Writer and the Woman" ***

[Illustration: "MASON CROFT" MISS CORELLI’S PRESENT RESIDENCE

(A Corner Glimpse in Winter)]

MARIE CORELLI

The Writer and The Woman

By
T. F. G. COATES
Author of “The Life of Lord Rosebery”

and

R. S. WARREN BELL
Author of “Bachelorland,” etc.

[Illustration]

WITH 16 FULL PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS

PHILADELPHIA
GEORGE W. JACOBS & CO.
PUBLISHERS

Preface

Miss Marie Corelli’s unique personality has aroused interest and
curiosity among all classes of society, and we are aware that the
present work will be diligently searched for intimate information
regarding the subject of these pages. It behooves us, therefore, to
remind those who peruse this volume that the writing of contemporary
biography is a most delicate literary performance; so, while it has been
our aim to set before the public as many particulars as possible
concerning Marie Corelli the Woman--as distinct from Marie Corelli the
Writer--it will be apparent to the least intelligent of our patrons
that, in common courtesy to Miss Corelli, it is possible for us to
publish only a limited number of personal minutiæ concerning the
novelist during her lifetime.

In making a general survey of Miss Corelli’s various books, we have
endeavored, in each case, to quote such passages as may be read with
interest independently of the context, or such as tend to explain the
spirit animating the novelist whilst engaged upon the volume under
treatment.

It has been our endeavor to keep this biographical study free from
offense to any living person, or to the memory of any who have passed
away. In cases where we have found it necessary to refer in vigorous
terms to the words or conduct of certain individuals, we have been
actuated solely by a desire to have justice done to Miss Corelli. And in
this respect we prefer not to be regarded as her champions so much as
“counsel” briefed for the defense of a woman who has had, and still has,
to contend with a very great number of adversaries, not all of whom are
in the habit of conducting their warfare in the open.

In conclusion, we beg to offer Miss Corelli our grateful thanks for
permitting us to have access to letters, papers, and other documents
necessary to authenticate our facts, as without such permission we could
not have undertaken our task.

THOMAS F. G. COATES,
R. S. WARREN BELL.

_March, 1903._

Contents

CHAPTER I

THE HEROINE OF THE STORY

A Bentley Letter--The Effect of a Publisher’s Advice on a Writer’s
Career--The Success of “A Romance of Two Worlds” without help from the
Press--The Unfairness of appointing Novelists to Criticise Novels or act
as Publishers’ “Readers”--Marie Corelli’s Universality, and the Reason
for it--Her Endeavors to Promote Holy Living--Her Unequaled
Boldness--Which is her Best Book?--“Thelma” most Popular as a
Love-story--Her Short Works--The Difficulty of awarding her a Definite
Place in Letters 13

CHAPTER II

MARIE CORELLI’S CHILDHOOD, ETC.

Marie Corelli, Adopted as an Infant, by Dr. Charles Mackay--Description
of Mackay’s Career--The “Rosebud” and her Fancies--Absence of Child
Playmates--Marie Corelli at the Convent School--Her Musical Studies--Dr.
Mackay’s Illness, and her Return Home for Good--Miss Bertha
Vyver--George Eric Mackay: his Chequered Career--“Love-Letters of a
Violinist”: their Publication and Reception 26

CHAPTER III

“A ROMANCE OF TWO WORLDS”

Its Original Title--The MS. Accepted by Bentleys--Its Name Suggested by
Dr. Mackay--The Press and the “Romance”--Its Reception by the Public,
and its Effect on Readers--Marie Corelli and the Supernatural--Synopsis
of Plot--Heliobas and his “Electric Creed”--X-Rays and Wireless
Telegraphy foretold in this Book 48

CHAPTER IV

“VENDETTA” AND “THELMA”

Mr. Bentley’s Opinion of “Vendetta”--Practically a True Story of Naples
during the Cholera Epidemic of 1884--The Remarkable Ingenuity of its
Construction--The Novelist’s Habit of Creating a Pretty Picture only to
Destroy it, as Exemplified by the Opening Chapters of “Vendetta” and
After Events--The Appalling Ferocity of Count Fabio and the Culminating
Scene of his Vengeance.

Mr. Bentley’s Enthusiastic Comments on “Thelma”--The Story Compared with
“She,” to the Latter’s Disadvantage--A Romantic Setting--The Main Theme
of the Book--Thelma’s Bewilderment at the Hollowness of Society--Her
Husband’s Alleged Unfaithfulness--Her Flight to Norway and the
Sequel--Miss Corelli’s “Unsparing Brush”--The Weak Spot in the
Book--Thelma’s Winning Personality 64

CHAPTER V

“ARDATH”

Its Theme--Congratulations from Lord Tennyson--A suggested Corelli City
in Colorado--An Example of the Novelist’s Descriptive Powers--Theos
Alwyn, Agnostic--His Interview with Heliobas--The Dream and the
Poem--The Field of Ardath--The City of Al-Kyris--Sah-Lûma, the Poet
Laureate--The Religion of Al-Kyris--Lysia, High Priestess of the
God-Serpent--The Prophet Khosrûl and his Predictions--The Fall of
Al-Kyris--The Awakening of Alwyn and his Return to London--The Converted
Poet--“Ardath” a Book for all who Doubt--Six Tests for
Spiritualists 79

CHAPTER VI

“WORMWOOD” AND “THE SOUL OF LILITH”

Pauline de Charmilles: a Character Sketch--Her Engagement to Beauvais
and the Arrival of Silvion Guidèl--“First Impressions”--Pauline’s
Confession and Beauvais’ First Bout of Absinthe-drinking--The Exposure
on the Wedding-Day--More Absinthe, and the Murder of Guidèl--The Meeting
between Beauvais and Pauline, and the Suicide of the Latter--Pauline’s
Corpse at the Morgue--A Denunciation of Absinthe--A Suggestion to Marie
Corelli Concerning the Drink Question in this Country.

“The Soul of Lilith” an Attempt to Prove the Apparently Unprovable--A
Reason for Marie Corelli’s Immense Popularity--El-Râmi and the Dead
Egyptian Girl--His Experiment--Heliobas again--“The Two Governing Forces
of the Universe”--“Poets are often the Best Scientists”--“The Why, Why,
Why of Everything”--A Solution of Life’s Problems 112

CHAPTER VII

MR. BENTLEY’S ENCOURAGEMENT

The Thorny Path of the Literary Pilgrim--Old Publishers and New--Mr.
George Bentley an Honorable Example of the Former Type--The Happy
Relations that existed between Miss Corelli and her Publisher--A List of
the Novelist’s Works Published by Bentleys--Mr. Bentley’s Appreciation
of “Ardath”--His Refusal to make Overtures to the Press--A Reference to
Miss Rhoda Broughton and the Treatment dealt out to her by Critics--Mr.
Gladstone’s Visit--Concerning “Wormwood”--Maarten Maartens and his
Opinion of “Ardath”--Press Attacks on “The Soul of Lilith”--The Late
Queen Victoria and Marie Corelli’s Books--A Comment on the Chivalry of
the Press--A Carlyle Anecdote--Mr. Bentley as Author--His Book: “After
Business”--The Inestimable Value of Mr. Bentley’s Advice to the Young
Novelist 134

CHAPTER VIII

“BARABBAS”

Charles Kingsley and “Women’s Writings”--Marie Corelli’s Idea in Penning
“Barabbas”--The Character of “Judith”--St. Peter’s Definition of a
Lie--The Character of Jesus of Nazareth--Melchior’s Speeches--The
Treacherous Caiaphas--The Magdalen--The Scene of The Resurrection--The
Tragedy of Love and Genius 152

CHAPTER IX

“THE SORROWS OF SATAN”

As a Book--How the Critics Missed the Allegorical Idea of the Story--The
Opinion of Father Ignatius: “Tens of Thousands will Bless the
Author”--A Plea for more Womanliness among modern Women--Geoffrey
Tempest--£5,000,000 from Satan--Prince Lucio Rimânez and his
Associations with Tempest--Lady Sibyl Elton--The Effect of Perfect
Beauty on a Man--The Modern Gambling Mania--Viscount Lynton’s Last
Wager--The Character of Mavis Clare,--Lady Sibyl’s Bitter Description of
Herself--Her Marriage with Tempest, and the Disillusionment--Her Passion
for Prince Rimânez and Subsequent Suicide--The Conception of Satan, and
an Explanation of his Position: “Satan becomes on Terms of Intimacy with
Man only if Man shows that he wishes to Travel an Evil Course”--The
Yachting Cruise and Tempest’s return to Christian Ways--Opinion of the
Late Rev. H. R. Haweis.

“The Sorrows of Satan” as a Play--How Miss Corelli has Suffered from the
Defective Law of Literary Copyright--The Play Written, and Read at the
Shaftesbury Theatre--Miss Corelli’s Opinion of it--Miss Evelyn Millard’s
Attitude with Regard to the part of “Lady Sibyl”--“The Grosvenor
Syndicate”--The Play Produced--Other Versions--How the Dramatic Rights
of Novels have to be Protected 164

CHAPTER X

“THE MIGHTY ATOM” AND “BOY”

Novels with a Purpose--The Criminally Mistaken Up-bringing of
Children--Lionel Valliscourt an Eleven-year-old Atheist--The Cramming
Process and its Effect on him--His Breakdown and Holiday--His Return to
find that Little Jessamine is Dead--His Grief and Pathetic End--The
Power of a Book like “The Mighty Atom” to _Teach_.

“Boy”--A somewhat Similar Work--The Responsibilities of Parents--“Boy’s”
Childhood--His Neglected Condition--Miss Letty and the Major--“Boy” goes
to School--The Change Wrought in him--His Entirely _blasé_ Demeanor at
sixteen--“Boy” Guilty of Drunkenness and Fraud--His Final Reformation
and Death 192

CHAPTER XI

“THE MURDER OF DELICIA” AND “ZISKA”

Modern Husbands--The Money Marriage--The Average Man and his Attitude in
this Respect--Delicia Vaughan, Novelist and Beauty--Her foolish
Infatuation for Lord Carlyon and Consequent Misery--“The Rare and
Beautiful Blindness of Perfect Love”--The Penalty Paid by Delicia.

“Ziska”: A Cairean Romance--Ziska the Flesh-clad Ghost of a Long-ago
Dancer--“The Mighty Araxes,” her Former Lover, Presented in Modern Shape
as Armand Gervase, a French Painter--The Renewal of his Passion for
Ziska--His Rival--“The Attraction we Call Love” a Preordained
Destiny--Dr. Dean, _savant_, and his Interesting Theories--Beneath the
Great Pyramid--Ziska’s Terrible Revenge 207

CHAPTER XII

“THE MASTER CHRISTIAN”

How it was Commenced and Interrupted--The Novelist’s Severe
Illness--Death of George Eric Mackay--The Literary Dinner and the
Critic--Sir Francis Burnand Describes “Boy” as “a Work of Genius”--Mr.
Stead and “The Master-Christian”--The Novelist’s Views on Roman
Catholicism--Miss Corelli’s Open Letter to Cardinal Vaughan--The Story
of the “Master-Christian”--Cardinal Bonpré at Rouen--Paulism--The
Discovery of the Boy Manuel--The Miraculous Healing of the Lame
Fabien--The Cardinal and Manuel at Paris--Angela Sovrani--The Abbé
Vergniaud, Atheist--A Flower Legend--Manuel and Angela 222

CHAPTER XIII

“THE MASTER CHRISTIAN” (_continued_)

The Abbé Vergniaud’s Sermon and the Attempt on his Life--He Confesses
that his Assailant is his Son--The Cardinal’s Leniency towards the Abbé
and his Persecution by the Vatican--Monsignor Moretti--Manuel and the
Cardinal at Rome--Manuel’s Extraordinary Address to the Pope--“Come and
Preach Christ as He Lived and Died”--The Effect of the Boy’s Exhortation
on the Pope--Other Characters--Angela’s Picture--A Poem by Dr. Charles
Mackay--The Death of Cardinal Bonpré 246

CHAPTER XIV

“TEMPORAL POWER”

An Unprecedented Sale--A Note on its Title--Reviewed by Three Hundred
and Fifty Journals, although not sent out to the Press--Criticisms from
_Lloyd’s Weekly Newspaper_ and the _Review of Reviews_--A Reply to Mr.
Stead’s Suggestion that Certain Royal and other Characters in the Book
have Living Counterparts--The Novelist’s Emphatic Denial in this
Respect--“Carl Perousse, Secretary of State”--The European Statesman
Miss Corelli had in her Mind when Drawing this Character--The “King” of
“Temporal Power”--Morganatic Marriages: the Novelist’s
Denunciation--Attempts on the Part of Book Trade Journals to Quash the
Success of the Novel, and their Retractations--The Rejection of the
King’s Love by Lotys, Woman of the People: a Quotation 265

CHAPTER XV

SPEECHES AND LECTURES

The Novelist’s First Public Speech: an Appeal for a Warwickshire
Church--An Address Delivered to Stratford Working-men on “The Secret of
Happiness”--Hard Work the Best Tonic in the World--The Novelist at the
Edinburgh Philosophical Institution--“The Vanishing Gift”: an Address on
the Decay of the Imagination--Art in the “Old World” Period and Art
now--Imagination an Artist’s First Necessary--Modern Wonders Imagined
when the World was Young--The Novelist at Glasgow--An Address on “Signs
of the Times” Delivered before a Huge Audience--An Allusion to the
Prince of Wales and his Famous Speech at the Mansion House--“The Old
Country must Wake up”--“The Advancing and Resistless Tide of Truth”--A
Notable Peroration 281

CHAPTER XVI

MARIE CORELLI’S VIEWS ON MARRIAGE

The Novelist’s Definition of Marriage--The Modern “Market”--“One Woman,
One Man”--Marie Corelli’s Exhortation to Women--“God will not be
Mocked”--The Religious Instruction of Children--The Abolition of
Religious Education in French Schools and its Unhappy Effect on the
Country--Lionel Valliscourt: a Pathetic Example of “Cram”--And “Boy”: of
Parental Neglect 298

CHAPTER XVII

SOME PERSONAL ITEMS

The Helen Faucit Memorial--Marie Corelli’s Successful Campaign in Behalf
of Shakespeare’s Burial Place--Portraits of the Novelist--Marie Corelli
Declines to Review “The Eternal City”--An Introduction to Mr.
Labouchere--Use made of a “Private and Confidential”
Letter--“Self-advertisement”: Some Comments on Accusations of this
Character brought against Marie Corelli by certain Sections of the
Press--The Invitation to the Abbey on the Occasion of the King’s
Coronation--An Invitation to open a Nonconformist Bazaar at Brighton,
and why it was Declined--Letters from Dr. Parker and the Rev. Hugh Price
Hughes--“The Ethics of Criticism”: a letter by E. Rentoul Esler--“To the
Quarterly”: Some Verses by Marie Corelli 311

CHAPTER XVIII

AT STRATFORD-ON-AVON

The “Local Color” in Marie Corelli’s Books--“I _Imagine_ it must be so,
and I find it generally _is_ so”--Why the Novelist went to live at
Stratford--“Hall’s Croft,” “Avon Croft,” and “Mason Croft”: her
Successive Residences--Her Affection for Stratford and her Regret that
the Memorial Theatre is so little used--Her Benefactions--Instances of
Kind-heartedness in Other Writers--Marie Corelli’s “Life-Programme”--Her
Personality “Striking in its Simplicity and in its Power”--The Novelist
as a Shakespeare Enthusiast--Her Desire to see Stratford become the
“Bayreuth of Literature”--The Novelist’s “Public”: the Vastness of her
Constituency--Her Friends--A Character Sketch of Marie Corelli by Mr. J.
Cuming Walters--Mr. Gladstone’s Parting Benediction 332

_Of the above Chapters, II, V, VIII, IX, XII, XIII, XVI, and XVII are by
Thomas F. G. Coates; and Chapters I, III, IV, VI, VII, X, XI, XIV, XV
and XVIII by R. S. Warren Bell._

Illustrations

“Mason Croft,” Miss Corelli’s Present Residence _Frontispiece_

A Boating Place on the Avon _Facing page_ 80

A Favorite Reach on the Avon " " 80

What Becomes of the Press Cuttings " " 146

Marie Corelli’s Pet Yorkshire Terrier “Czar” " " 146

“Killiecrankie Cottage” where “Ziska” was Finished " " 212

“Avon Croft” where “The Master Christian” was Finished " " 212

“Hall’s Croft” where Marie Corelli Wrote Half
of “The Master Christian” " " 228

Winter at “Mason Croft” " " 320

The Elizabethan Watch Tower, “Mason
Croft” " " 336

Miss Corelli’s Boatman and Punt " " 346

MARIE CORELLI

The Writer and the Woman

CHAPTER I

THE HEROINE OF THE STORY

“Keep a brave heart. You are steadily rising. People recognize that you
are an artist working with love, not a machine producing novels against
bank-notes, with no interest in its work. But keep a good heart, little
lady. It is the way with people of imagination and keen sensibility to
have their moments of depression.... I believe you will emerge out of
all this with your brave little spirit, and I shall rejoice to see you
successful, because I believe you will not be spoilt by success.”

Thus wrote George Bentley, the publisher, to Marie Corelli on November
15th, 1888. At that time only three of her books had appeared--“A
Romance of Two Worlds,” “Vendetta,” and “Thelma”--and she was engaged
upon the latter portion of “Ardath.” She was in the spring of her
career, probing the Unknown and the Unseen, the Long Ago and the Future,
with daring flights of fancy that had already set the world wondering.

Meanwhile, Mr. Bentley watched over his _protégée_ with a care that was
almost parental. A number of extracts from his wise and helpful letters
will be given in the course of this work; and the reader will not fail
to observe that there was very much more in Mr. Bentley’s attitude than
a mere desire to coin pretty expressions for the benefit of a charming
young woman possessed of undeniable genius. He could be very candid in
his criticisms, when occasion demanded, but his tact was unfailing, and
his sympathy boundless. He was one of an old school of which but few
examples now remain. He was a personal friend as well as a publisher,
one who could regard an author as something more than a creature with a
money-producing imagination. He was of the school that produced
Blackwood, Murray, Smith--the famous scions of those houses--and others
whose names have ever been uttered with affection by those men and women
of the pen who had dealings with them. One has only to peruse the
correspondence which passed between John Blackwood, on the one side, and
G. H. Lewes and George Eliot, on the other, to appreciate in full the
power of encouragement and the influence a publisher possesses in his
negotiations with a writer of promise.

Of a truth, Marie Corelli had need of such a friend, for her early
career, as everybody knows, was thorny and troublous. A publisher greedy
for a golden harvest might have prevailed upon her to write quickly,
and, as a natural consequence, not at her best, for the certain gains
which such work would produce in abundance. Mr. Bentley deprecated undue
hurry. “You are now a person,” he says in one of his characteristic
letters, “of sufficient importance not to have to depend on appearance
or non-appearance. You have shown not only talent, but versatility, and
that you are not a mere mannerist with one idea repeating itself in each
book; consequently, when you next come, there will be expectation.”

In advising one possessed of so seemingly inexhaustible a fund of mental
riches, Mr. Bentley was undertaking no light task. Moreover, he was
offering counsel to a writer, who, to many people, was an absolute
enigma.

For when Marie Corelli appeared as a novelist she was altogether new.
She was something entirely fresh, and, to a certain extent,
incomprehensible; as a result, she was reviled, she was told that she
was impossible, she was treated as a pretending upstart: the critics
would have none of her.

But her success with her first book, “A Romance of Two Worlds,” was due
to itself, and not to either the praise or the censure of the press.
Only four reviews of this romance appeared, each about ten lines long,
and none of the four would have helped to sell a single copy. But the
public got hold of it. People began to talk about it and discuss it.
Then it was judged worth attacking, and the more continuous its sale the
more it was jeered at by the critical fault-finders.

Marie Corelli did not invite adverse criticism. She was quite a girl,
untried and inexperienced, and had, apparently, from her letters to her
friends, a most touching faith in the chivalry of the press. “I hope,”
she wrote to Mr. Bentley, “the clever men on the Press will be kind to
me, as it is a first book [the ‘Romance’]; because if they are I shall
be able to do so much better another time.”

But, much to her surprise, the clever men of the press bullied her as
though she had been a practiced hand at literature, and abused her with
quite unnecessary violence. She did not retort upon them, however.
“Vendetta,” “Thelma,” “Ardath,” and other works were produced patiently
in rotation, and still the abuse continued--and so did her success. It
was only with the publication of “Barabbas” and the distinctly unfair
comments that book received, that she at last threw down the gauntlet,
and forbade her publishers to send out any more of her books for review.

This action practically put an end to the discussion of her works in the
literary journals by critics with warped ideas of fair play. For they
failed to remember that, though his draftsmanship may here and there
display a flaw, an artist should be judged by the conception of his
design--by his coloring--by the intention of his work as a whole.

Five years have elapsed since the one-sided truce was called; those
critics, wandering by the bookshops, see people issuing therefrom
bearing in their hands the hated volumes--the brain-children of the
woman who had met them in unequal combat. They read in the papers of the
gigantic sales of these works; they lift their hands in horror, and sigh
for the gone days of authors who appealed but to the cultured few. So
waggeth the world of letters; so arriveth that person to be trampled
on--offend he or she the critics by ever so little--the New Writer.

It is manifestly unfair that a novelist should criticise novels; yet
this is frequently done. It goes without saying that the novelist who
devotes valuable time to reading and criticising the works of his
brethren in art cannot be in very great demand, as fiction is paid for
at a much higher rate than reviewing. That Miss Corelli’s earlier works
were submitted for valuation to those engaged--if we may use a
commercial phrase--in the same line of business, may account for the
bitterness that characterized many of the notices. Let the critic
criticise, and the novelist write novels; then, each attending to his
trade, the new writer will receive fairer play.

The rough-and-tumble journey through the now defunct house of Bentley
which “A Romance of Two Worlds” experienced, prompts us to question the
advisability of appointing novelists to act as publishers’ “readers.”
Quantities of manuscript pass through the hands of a publisher’s
literary adviser, and in six weeks he may imbibe--he cannot help
imbibing--enough ideas to set him up for six years. A novelist who
spends a considerable portion of his lifetime weighing and sorting the
raw material of other novelists, must find it a matter of great
difficulty to reconcile his conscience with the performance of such
duties.

It must often have occurred to the men who have so harshly criticised
Miss Corelli’s works to demand of themselves a logical reason for her
boundless popularity--a popularity that extends to every corner of the
earth. “The Mighty Atom” has been published under the auspices of the
Holy Synod in Russia, and “Barabbas” has been translated into Persian,
Greek, and Hindustani. And these are but two instances of her
universality. Why is Marie Corelli read the world over, while the
authors upon whom many responsible judges of literature shower encomiums
can claim but an Anglo-Saxon public, and not a tremendous one then?

It is because, primarily, her chief mission is to exploit, with
knowledge, with conviction, and with limitless zeal, the most vital
question of this or any age--man’s religion. Since the world was created
this has been the chief motive of humanity’s actions. The Israelites,
for taking to themselves false gods, were sold into bondage; thousands
of years later, because the tomb of Christ was threatened, Christian
Europe, putting aside international differences, arose in pious wrath
and sent forth its men of the Red Cross to do battle with the infidels.
In misguided zeal, and prompted by a morbid fanaticism, “bloody” Mary
destroyed the peace of our own fair land, and earned for her memory
undying execration by burning at the stake the unfortunates who
differed from her in their religious views. The impiety of its rulers
was the root of the evil which plunged France into the throes of a
ghastly Revolution. Even on every coin of the realm at the present
day,--on every sovereign that changes hands at race meetings, on every
penny that the street arabs play pitch and toss with, we are reminded
that the reigning monarch is the Defender of our “Faith.”

A simple belief in God pervades everything that Marie Corelli has
written, and from this devout standpoint she views all those other
things which constitute mundane existence--Love, Marriage, buying and
selling, social intercourse, art, science, and education.

Her books abound in passages which bewail the fact that--to extract a
phrase from the “Master-Christian”--“the world is not with Christ
to-day.” Her sole weapons pen and paper, the author of that remarkable
book is making a strenuous effort to dispel the torpor to which
Christianity is gradually succumbing. The keynote of her work is sounded
by Cardinal Bonpré, when he deplores the decay of holy living. “For
myself, I think there is not much time left us! I feel a premonition of
Divine wrath threatening the world, and when I study the aspect of the
times and see the pride, licentiousness, and wealth-worship of man, I
cannot but think the days are drawing near when our Master will demand
of us account of our service. It is just the same as in the case of the
individual wrong-doer; when it seems as if punishment were again and
again retarded, and mercy shown,--yet if all benefits, blessings, and
warnings are unheeded, then at last the bolt falls suddenly and with
terrific effect. So with nations--so with churches--so with the world!”

Marie Corelli is bold; perhaps she is the boldest writer that has ever
lived. What she believes she says, with a brilliant fearlessness that
sweeps aside petty argument in its giant’s stride towards the goal for
which she aims. She will have no half-measures. Her works, gathered
together under one vast cover, might fitly be printed and published as
an amplified edition of the Decalogue.

It is small wonder, then, that she has not earned the approbation of
those critics who are unable to grasp the stupendous nature of her
programme; they, having always held by certain canons, and finding those
canons brusquely disregarded, retort with wholesale condemnation of
matters that they deem literary heterodoxy, but whose sterling
simplicity is in reality altogether beyond their ken. Fortunately, their
words have failed to frighten off the public, which, ever loyal to one
fighting for the right, has supported and befriended Marie Corelli in
her dauntless crusade against vice and unbelief.

Other writers have doubtless written in a somewhat similar strain, and
it has not been their fault that the woman who forms the subject of this
biography has eclipsed all the worthy makers of such books who have
preceded her. Power has been given her, and she has not proved false to
her trust. Genius is Heaven-sent, to be used or abused according to the
will of its possessor; let those so gifted beware lest they cast the
pearls of their brain before swine, for of a surety there will come a
day of reckoning when every genius, as well as every other man, shall be
called upon to give an account of his stewardship.

Unlike the majority of her contemporaries, Marie Corelli does not
subsist on a single “big hit.” She is a twelve-book rather than a
one-book woman. It is a fortunate circumstance for a writer when people
disagree in regard to his or her _chef-d’œuvre_. There are those--and
their name is legion--who regard “Thelma” as Miss Corelli’s best book,
while others--and their name, too, is legion--account “The Sorrows of
Satan” the worthiest of her productions. The overwhelming success of the
“Master-Christian” served somewhat to bedim the lustre of her former
writings, but in many hearts the moving history of the sweet and
unsophisticated Norwegian maid will always cause “Thelma” to hold chief
sway.

“Barabbas,” at once the most scriptural and devotional of its author’s
long list of publications, has won almost as great a popularity as “The
Sorrows of Satan,” being now in its thirty-seventh edition. “The Mighty
Atom,” of which nearly a hundred thousand copies have been sold, is
regarded by the public with singular affection, many children, as Mr.
Arthur Lawrence has told us in _The Strand Magazine_, sending Miss
Corelli “all sorts of loving and kindly greetings” as a token of their
sympathy with little Lionel and Jessamine. The turbulent and stormy
progress of “A Romance of Two Worlds” through the sea of criticism has
made this book more familiar to the ear than some of its successors,
though its sale has not equaled that of half a dozen of its
fellow-works.

Miss Corelli’s average book is about as long as two novels of the
ordinary six-shilling size put together; but she has published some
comparatively short stories--notably “Boy,” “Ziska,” and “The Mighty
Atom,” as well as some brochures; to wit, “Jane,” a society sketch;
“Cameos;” and her tribute to the virtues of “Victoria the Good.” “Boy,”
though published about the time that the “Master-Christian” appeared,
was accorded the heartiest of welcomes, being now in its forty-sixth
thousand.

In days to come the “Master-Christian” and “The Sorrows of Satan” will,
we venture to predict, be sufficient alone to preserve their author’s
fame; and, for those who delight in a love-story, “Thelma” will
constitute a perpetual monument to its creator’s memory.

Owing to the unique and unclassifiable nature of her productions, it is
impossible to award Miss Corelli a definite place in the world of
letters. It is under any circumstances a thankless task to arrange
writers as one would arrange boys in a class--according to merit. There
are the poets, the historians, the novelists, the humorists, and--the
critics. Marie Corelli occupies a peculiarly isolated position. A
novelist she is, in the main, and yet hardly a novelist according to
cut-and-dried formulas; she is, unquestionably, a poet, for there is
many a song in her books not a whit less sweet because it is not set in
measured verse and line. So we may safely leave her place in the Temple
of Fame to be chosen by the votes of posterity, for there is one critic
who is ever just, who goeth on his “everlasting journey” with gentle
but continuous step; who condemns most books, with their writers, to
oblivion, but who saves a certain few.

And his name is TIME.

CHAPTER II

MARIE CORELLI’S CHILDHOOD--EARLY INFLUENCES--LITERARY BEGINNINGS--THE
MACKAYS--FATHER AND SON

In explanation of an unannounced and unexpected afternoon visit in 1890,
Mr. W. E. Gladstone said: “I came because I was curious to see for
myself the personality of a young woman who could write so courageously
and well, and in whose work I recognize a power working for good, and
eminently calculated to sway the thoughts of the people.”

Such were the veteran statesman’s words--well remembered by a friend of
the novelist’s who was present at that eventful meeting.

This young woman was Marie Corelli, the novelist, whom so many lesser
men have abused, because, unlike Gladstone, they have not studied her
work, or have done so only with the determination to find fault.

The baby girl for whom so distinguished a career was destined, was
adopted, when but three months old, by Dr. Charles Mackay, that
excellent journalist, poet, song writer, and author. The love between
Dr. Mackay and his adopted daughter was one of the closest and most
sweet of domestic experiences. When reverses and suffering came to the
man of letters, his joy and consolation was in the careful training of
the much-loved little girl; and in his closing years he had the
satisfaction of knowing that she had fulfilled his hopes and achieved
success.

To the high character of Dr. Charles Mackay must be attributed the chief
influence in the formation of the child’s ideas; a glance, therefore, at
the career of that gentleman cannot fail to be of interest. A native of
Perth, Charles Mackay was born March 27th, 1814. His father, George
Mackay, was the second son of Captain Hugh Mackay, of the Strathnavar
branch of the Mackay clan of which Lord Reay is the chief. Charles
Mackay received his earlier education in London, and, subsequently
proceeding to a school at Brussels, made a special study of European
languages. He early commenced writing for Belgian newspapers, and, also
whilst a youngster, sent poems to English newspapers, which readily
published them. A volume of “Songs and Poems” followed; and then,
returning to England, Mr. Mackay became a contributor to _The Sun_,
assistant sub-editor of _The Morning Chronicle_, and editor of _The
Glasgow Argus_. He was married in 1831, and by his first wife had three
sons--Charles, Robert, and George Eric, and also a daughter, who died
when she was twenty-two years of age. Of the sons, Charles is still
living, being resident in America with his wife and family. Robert is
dead, but is survived by a son and a daughter. Of George Eric Mackay,
the second of the three sons, more will be told anon.

During Charles Dickens’s brief editorship of the London _Daily News_, a
number of verses by Mackay were published in that newspaper, and
attracted much notice and praise. They were subsequently republished in
a volume as “Voices from the Crowd.” A selection of these verses was set
to music, and quickly caught the ear of the people, “The Good Time
Coming” reaching a circulation of well-nigh half a million.

In 1848 Mr. Mackay became a member of the staff of _The Illustrated
London News_, and in 1852 was appointed editor of that journal. Here,
through the enterprise of Mr. Ingram, the song-writing capacities of Mr.
Mackay were put to good use, and a number of musical supplements of _The
Illustrated London News_ were produced. “Songs for Music” afterwards
appeared as a volume in 1856. The pieces included such prime favorites
as “Cheer, Boys, Cheer!” “To the West! To the West!” “Tubal Cain,”
“There’s a Land, a dear Land,” and “England over All.” Set to the taking
melodies of Henry Russell and others, these songs, it may truly be said,
have been sung the world over, wherever the English language is spoken.

Mackay severed his connection with _The Illustrated London News_ in
1859, and in the following year started _The London Review_, which did
not succeed. Failure was the fate, too, of another periodical, _Robin
Goodfellow_, founded by him in 1861. During the American Civil War,
Mackay was the special correspondent of the New York _Times_. Dr.
Mackay’s efforts in prose were as numerous and as interesting as his
verses. His “Forty Years’ Recollections of Life, Literature, and Public
Affairs from 1830 to 1870,” is a classic and a literary treat to every
one who reads it; for herein is set forth a graphic picture of the life
and times of that most interesting period, not only in England, but in
the United States. His relations with Greeley and with President Lincoln
were of altogether exceptional interest. Few men had experiences so
varied and interesting as those of Charles Mackay--his degree, by the
way, was that of LL. D. of Glasgow University--and few men were so
capable as was he of vividly describing what he did, and saw, and
heard.

In addition to writing many volumes of songs and ballads himself, it
should be mentioned that Mackay compiled the well-known “A Thousand and
One Gems of English Poetry.”

From the year 1870 he engaged in little regular work, though he
undertook interesting and valuable researches into Celtic philology. His
closing years were--through ill-health and age--a period of financial
reverses, but the gloom was brightened by the presence of the pet child
of his adoption. He worked on till the last, being engaged during the
very week of his death in writing two articles, one for _Blackwood’s
Magazine_, the other for _The Nineteenth Century_.

When his adopted daughter’s somewhat brief school-days were over, she
returned home well fitted to assist Dr. Mackay in his literary work. She
was already on familiar terms with his study and his books. A good many
of the baby days were spent in the Doctor’s study, and as an infant
there were evidences that the mind of the little one was of a thoughtful
and inquiring bent. She was considered almost too inquiring by those
governesses who guided her earliest lessons, religious subjects always
having a peculiar attraction for her. “Little girls must be good and try
to please God,” one governess impressed upon her; and the child’s
wondering reply was: “Why of course; everybody and everything must try
to please God, else where would be the use of living at all?”

Babies--when they are good--always seem somewhat akin to angels, and the
“Rosebud”--as Mackay called his adopted girl--always had a perfect
belief not only in their existence, but in their near presence. The poet
especially encouraged her faith in them. The “Rosebud” always believed
angels were in her bedroom at night, and on her once saying that she
could not see the angel (whom she fully expected) in her room, the
Doctor answered: “Never mind, dearie! It is there, you may be sure; and
if you will behave just as if you saw it, you will certainly see it some
day.”

Passed chiefly in the country and abroad, the first ten years of Marie
Corelli’s life went by pleasantly enough. Some hours daily were devoted
to lessons; others to play, and most of these amongst the flowers that
she has always loved. And as much time was spent, not over lesson books,
but over those works of a nature to be understood by a child which she
found in the Doctor’s library, and listening to stories, witty and wise,
of Dr. Mackay’s former friends and literary associates. Many, indeed,
had been these friends--Dickens and Thackeray, Sir Edwin Landseer and
Douglas Jerrold, to name but a few. He had known many men of light and
leading in his day, and to the little girl who played in his study he
delighted to recount reminiscences of them. Through him she learned to
love some of his old friends as if she had known them personally.

Those were days that had much to do with the moulding of the character
of the future novelist. There were no child playmates for little Marie,
and the naturally studious bent of her mind was greatly affected by her
environment. It gave her thought and wisdom beyond her years. This
absence of child companions may or may not be advantageous; it all
depends upon the circumstances. Victoria, who became Queen of England,
had no child companions, and often in later years dwelt upon the fact
with regret. Yet who would say they would have had any alteration in the
character and doings of our late sovereign? The loss to a child of that
child-companionship which most enjoy may be very great; but there are
compensations.

Those who have studied the productions of Marie Corelli with
understanding of the spirit which has animated her work would not, we
think, wish that anything should have been different. As to the reading
of her early years, it was quite exceptional, as reading with children
goes. She not only heard of the sayings and doings of Dickens,
Thackeray, Jerrold, and such, but had read many of their works before
she was ten; had not only read, but understood a great deal of them,
having a loving tutor to make matters easy for her. She took great
interest in histories of times and peoples, and learned to sympathize
with the workers. Dr. Mackay’s poems were all familiar to her. So were
the works of Shakespeare and Scott and Keats. Poetry was one of her
chief delights, while instrumental music appealed to her as did the
rhythm of song. The Bible, and especially the New Testament, was always
her greatest friend in the world of books. And so, when it was deemed
well to send her away for more systematic educational training than that
of the sweet home-life, it was a little maiden of unusual knowledge who
went to a convent in France to receive further tuition.

Peculiarly did the convent school-life commend itself to the studious
mind of the child. The quietude and peacefulness of this holy retreat
appealed very greatly to her contemplative and imaginative mind. The
Doctor had instilled into her a strict regard for truth and sincerity, a
reverence for sacred things, and a desire to follow in spirit and in
truth the teachings of Christ. Meditating on New Testament matters, she
at one time had a curious idea of founding some new kind of religious
order of Christian workers, but this never subsequently took definite
shape.

A great happiness which the convent provided was a grand organ in the
chapel. At this, when schoolfellows were indulging in croquet, tennis,
and other games, the young girl would sit, sometimes for hours at a
time, playing religious songs and improvising harmonies. In several of
the novels that were written in after years there are references to the
organ and its soothing influences. Miss Corelli possesses remarkable
musical talents, this power of improvisation amongst them, and her
intimate friends to-day often have the pleasure of listening to her
performances. Dr. Mackay had recognized that her musical ability was of
exceptional order, and, as his financial losses had been such that he
was aware he would not be able to provide for his adopted daughter, he
determined that she should endeavor to win her way in the musical
profession.

With this object in view the convent training was specially devoted to
the development of her music, and with such thorough care were her
studies conducted, that she still retains the skill then acquired upon
organ, piano, and mandolin, and her voice is both sweet and powerful.

Both as instrumentalist and vocalist Miss Corelli could have been sure
of a large measure of success. Principally she loves the old English and
Scotch ballads; listening to her as she sings such songs to her own
accompaniment in her dainty drawing-room at Mason Croft, it is pleasant
to observe how very feminine she is, how paramount is the Woman in her
nature.

That the young girl was ambitious goes without saying. During her
holidays from school, she wrote the score of an opera, which was called
_Ginevra Da Siena_. About the same time she produced numerous verses and
short poems which brought high praise from that competent judge, Dr.
Mackay. Moreover, she wrote in her very young days three sonnets on
Shakespearean plays, these being approved, praised, and published by Mr.
Clement Scott in _The Theatre_.

It soon appeared, however, that the little convent maid had done too
much for her strength. Athletic exercises would have been better in
those early days than the excess of brain-work to which she set herself,
absolutely from inclination and of her own free will. Under the great
strain her health broke down, and she was compelled to return from
school for a spell of rest, carrying with her, however, impressions of
the convent life which had a great effect upon her subsequent thoughts
and aims.

Her health being restored, and Dr. Mackay growing more feeble, he was
glad to keep her at home with him. Musical studies were persistently
pursued. Half the day she would spend with the Doctor, reading, playing,
or singing to him, conversing with him, and cheering him in the illness
that was upon him. The other half of the day was passed at her desk, and
literature finally claimed all her working hours. The first story she
wrote was returned to her. It seemed she was to traverse no path of
roses to fame and fortune. Though occupied with minor literary matters
she was turning over in her mind the outlines of a singular story
suggested by the thoughts or fancies or dreams of that period when her
health broke down, and during which, whilst health was being restored,
there was little to do save keep quiet and meditate. The result was the
formation of the plot of “A Romance of Two Worlds.” These early years,
by the way, up to 1885, were spent in a country cottage; then Dr. Mackay
removed to London, and took a house in Kensington. “A Romance of Two
Worlds” was published in 1886.

Miss Corelli’s sole companion after her convent school-life, with the
exception of Dr. Charles Mackay, was her devoted friend, Miss Bertha
Vyver, daughter of the Countess Vyver, a not unimportant personage at
the court of Napoleon III. The friendship between Miss Vyver and Miss
Corelli has always been of the closest description. Since Dr. Charles
Mackay welcomed Miss Vyver as his “second daughter,” they have never
been separated. In all her daily life, not least the nursing of Dr.
Mackay through his long illness, Miss Vyver has been by her side,
helping her in home difficulties and trials as help can only be given by
one with whom there is perfect sympathy. Miss Vyver has seen every
detail of all the work the novelist has done, and to-day the friendship
between the two is closer and dearer than ever for the years that have
passed, and the sorrows and joys that have been borne in company.

George Eric Mackay, Dr. Mackay’s second son, had been a wanderer on the
Continent for many years. Born in London in 1835, and educated chiefly
at the Academy of Inverness, he had first been put into a business
house. Trade was, however, entirely opposed to his tastes and
temperament, and consequently he left the commercial establishment and
began to think of another career. With such a father there was naturally
a desire that the son should enter the field of literature. George
Eric, however, did not seem, at first, disposed to do this. He preferred
the stage, and made efforts to secure a footing on it. He was tried by
Charles Kean, and there were evidences of talent. Eric did, indeed,
possess very considerable powers of portraying character. The stage,
however, was in those days, as it probably will be for all time, a
thankless profession for the embryo actor, and Eric found the work too
severe. The plodding labors of the beginner by no means suited one who
was not fitted by nature for drudgery or slow progress.

He had a good voice, and the next profession to which he turned his
attention was operatic singing. For this again he had a not unpromising
equipment, and his father determined to send him to Italy for the
purpose of studying music there under good masters. No progress,
however, was made with the musical studies, though the people and the
conditions of existence in Italy appealed strongly to him, and he made
Italy his home for many years.

During the first portion of his sojourn abroad he received a liberal
allowance from his father, and was at other times indebted to him for
considerable financial help. He was, like the Doctor, a master of
European languages, and this knowledge enabled him to earn a precarious
livelihood as a teacher of French and English. The income thus derived
was added to by correspondence for newspapers.

Dr. Mackay gave his son many valuable introductions, and he thus became
acquainted with Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton (to whom he subsequently
dedicated a book of poems); Sir Richard Burton; and Sir William Perry,
the British Consul at Venice. All three became interested in him, and
were frequently of assistance to him.

He found it impossible, however, to settle down. He stayed nowhere very
long. Rome and Venice saw more of him than other cities. He wrote
verses, and some were, under the title of “Songs of Love and Death,”
collected in a volume and published by Messrs. Chapman & Hall in 1864.
This was the volume which was dedicated to Sir E. Bulwer Lytton. He was
not encouraged by the financial results of his work. Poetry, in fact,
does not pay, and the public at the time gave his verses but a chilly
greeting. His poetic ardor somewhat damped by this treatment, he left
the lyrical muse alone for a time and commenced the publication in Rome
of _The Roman Times_. This journal, unfortunately, like most newspaper
enterprises that do not “go,” was a costly failure. _Il Poliglotta_,
another journalistic venture, was published in Venice. It was a
disastrous undertaking, absorbing all the money which its editor had
been able to raise, and leaving a heavy deficit.

The failure was the more serious because of other debts--personal, and
in connection with two volumes which he had published. One, a collection
of his newspaper articles, was called “Days and Nights in Italy”; the
other, “Lord Byron at the Armenian Convent,” this being practically a
handy guide-book to Venice. Nothing paid. The result was that he left
Italy, after living there for twenty years, poorer than he went, which
literally meant that he came back penniless. Broken financially, and in
spirit, he returned to his father.

To the young girl Marie, whose life had hitherto been so exceptionally
quiet, there was almost a romantic interest in this sudden arrival of
the middle-aged man who, she was informed, was her stepbrother, and she
made much of him. Moreover, Dr. Mackay was seriously disappointed at the
failure of his son to make a career, and at his position--without income
or apparent hope of earning one; and it was evident to Marie that it
would afford her stepfather the keenest pleasure if George Eric should,
after all, achieve success.

The circumstances of her untiring efforts to bring him into notice are
known only to a few, though misunderstood by many.

In the first place, her principal aim was to relieve her stepfather from
the burden of his son’s maintenance. In the second, she sought to rouse
and inspire that son to obtain for himself a high position in
literature. She spared no pains to attain these two objects, and all her
first small earnings went in assisting him. She was at this time still
continuing her musical studies, and very often went to hear Sarasate.
The large sums of money earned by this eminent artist first suggested an
idea to George Eric of learning the violin, and, though late in life to
begin, he resolved to study the instrument. His musical training in
Italy must have been very ineffectual, as he had to learn his notes. He
wished, however, for a good instrument, and his stepsister secured a
“Guarnerius” model from Chappell, which she paid for by instalments and
presented to him. It may be added that he never made anything of it, but
it was useful in providing the title of his best-known work.

He had produced a volume, “Pygmalion in Cyprus,” published at the
expense of friends, but the result was again disheartening. Some plays
that he wrote were rejected by the managers to whom they were sent.
About the same time Miss Corelli had returned to her the first story she
had written. The editor of the magazine to whom it had been submitted
was of opinion that the writing of novels was not her _forte_. She took
the opinion seriously, and decided to write no more, but to complete her
musical training and look to the concert platform as the means of
livelihood. She had already composed quite a large number of poems, some
of which were subsequently torn up, some remain unpublished, and some
have found a place in her books. A strong poetical tendency is evident
throughout all her books, and is particularly prominent in “Ardath,” a
great portion of which is almost as much poetry as prose. Two letters,
written by Eric Mackay at this time, and now preserved in Miss Corelli’s
autograph album, are particularly interesting. One ran:

“I am happier than I have been since boyhood, for I have a little sister
again, and that little sister--the best and brightest in the world--does
everything for me. But how far short of your ambition for me must I
fall!--for you have already done so much in your short life--you, a
child, and I, alas! a man growing old.”

And in another he said:

“I must thank you for sending me the little Keats volume. Curiously
enough, I never read his poems at all before. Browning I can’t stand,
but if you like him I must read him. You seem to live in an atmosphere
of poetry, but pray be careful and do not study too hard.”

“Love-Letters of a Violinist” at last made Eric Mackay famous. The book
was published in 1885, and it was Marie Corelli who arranged for its
production. She had fully convinced herself of the beauty of the poems,
and she determined that they should be published as became what she
regarded as their great value. She corrected the proofs of the poems,
selected the binding, and saw to every detail of the book. The poems
were published anonymously, and at once became the talk not only of
England, but of America. There was much speculation as to the
authorship. Eric Mackay entered fully into the humor of the thing, and
made numerous suggestions to his acquaintances as to the probable
writer, even putting forth the hint that the late Duke of Edinburgh, an
able violinist, might have written them. He must have chuckled hugely at
the discussions about this anonymous author; and the whole story was
often talked about among his friends. Miss Corelli wrote an introductory
notice to a subsequent edition of the “Love-Letters,” the introductory
note and the initials “G. D.”--which she had adopted--causing almost as
much discussion as the publication of the “Love-Letters” themselves. “G.
D.” was meant by her to signify _Gratia Dei_. Probably few books have
ever emerged from the press in more attractive form. It was a quaint,
vellum-bound, antique-looking volume tied up on all sides with strings
of golden silk ribbon, and illustrated throughout with fanciful
wood-cuts.

But the poems are beautiful and deserving of the fame they attained. It
is curious how very different in quality they are to the author’s
earlier published works, issued in 1864, 1871, and 1880. Each
“Love-Letter” (and there are twelve of them) is in twenty stanzas--each
stanza contains six lines. Antonio Gallenga of _The Times_ declared the
poems to be as regular and symmetrical as Dante’s “Comedy,” with as
stately and solemn, ay, and as arduous a measure!... “There are
marvelous powers in this poet-violinist. Petrarch himself has not so
many changes for his conjugation of the verb ‘to love.’” The latter is
what may be called, to quote a phrase recently used in a well-known
newspaper, a “quotation from an hitherto unpublished review,” because
the late Antonio Gallenga wrote a review of the “Love-Letters” at the
request of Miss Corelli (whom he had known since her childhood); but
_The Times_ refused it, and he sent Miss Corelli the original
manuscript, from which she quoted excerpts in her “Introduction” to the
“Love-Letters.”

A lengthy review entitled “A New Love-Poet” appeared in _London
Society_ under the name of “W. Stanislas Leslie,” no other than Marie
Corelli herself. For the rest, all the critics fell foul of the book and
“slated” the author unmercifully.

Some of the reviewers, notwithstanding the mystery they made of it, knew
all about the authorship. Miss Corelli gave the news to the world in an
anonymous letter to the _New York Independent_, which was the first
journal to reveal the identity of the writer of the poems. It published
a brief statement to the effect that the author was simply a gentleman
of good position, the descendant of a distinguished and very ancient
family, George Eric Mackay.... “He will undoubtedly,” it was added, “be
numbered with the choice few whose names are destined to live by the
side of poets such as Keats, whom, as far as careful work, delicate
feeling, and fiery tenderness go, Eric Mackay may be said to resemble.”

Swinburne, about whom Marie Corelli was to write so strongly in “The
Sorrows of Satan,” the poet-violinist thus addressed:

“Thou art a bee, a bright, a golden thing
With too much honey; and the taste thereof
Is sometimes rough, and somewhat of a sting
Dwells in the music that we hear thee sing.”

Again, there are such pretty fancies as:

“Phœbus loosens all his golden hair
Right down the sky--and daisies turn and stare
At things we see not with our human wit,”

and

“A tuneful noise
Broke from the copse where late a breeze was slain,
And nightingales in ecstasy of pain
Did break their hearts with singing the old joys.”

There are scores of passages like these. The great gifts displayed in
the volume certainly afforded some justification a few years afterwards
for the strenuous efforts which Marie Corelli made to get her
stepbrother made Poet Laureate.

The “Love-Letters of a Violinist,” great as was their success as poems,
did not prove lucrative. Miss Corelli had provided for the first issue;
afterwards Mr. Eric Mackay made a free gift of the book to the
publishers of the Canterbury Poets series. The sales have since been
considerable, but the arrangement made by Mr. Mackay was one which, of
course, did not benefit him financially.

Shortly after the publication of “The Love-Letters of a Violinist,”
there were serious developments in Dr. Charles Mackay’s illness. He was
stricken down with paralysis, and the pinch of poverty was being felt,
for there was very little coming into the home. Marie Corelli had now a
great responsibility upon her young shoulders. The completion of her
musical training it was impossible to afford. What should she do? She
determined to try to write a novel. More articles and essays were
contributed anonymously to newspapers and magazines; and, meanwhile, the
plan of “A Romance of Two Worlds” had been prepared and the book was
being written. Finally it was submitted to and accepted by a great
publisher, who came to see Miss Corelli, and stared with amazement to
find that the young lady to whom he was introduced as the author was a
personal friend of his. Yet so it was, and the story of the publication
and reception of the book is instructive.

CHAPTER III

“A ROMANCE OF TWO WORLDS”

In ninety-nine cases out of a hundred an author’s first long manuscript
is a poor and immature thing, which, owing to its inflammatory nature,
were best devoted to fire-lighting purposes. But the aspiring scribbler,
not being--from this point of view, at any rate--a utilitarian in his
views, would as lief lose his right hand as behold his precious pages
being put to the base wooing of wood and coals. Instead, he spends
several pounds on having it typewritten, and then sends it forth upon
its travels round the publishing houses. It comes back to him with
exasperating regularity, until the author, at last realizing that his
book does not appeal to publishers’ readers quite as vividly as it does
to its creator, either (if he be wise) consigns it to the dust-bin, or
(if he be unwise) pays one of the shark publishing firms to bring it
out. Did he know that the wily fellows to whom he entrusts his work
simply print enough copies for review purposes and a few more to put on
their shelves, charging him the while for a whole edition, he would not
part with his good money so readily! As it is, he has the satisfaction
of seeing his story between covers, of sending it to his friends, of
beholding his name in the “Books Received” corner of the daily papers,
of knowing for certain that a copy, wherever else it may not be found,
will always be supplied to students of fiction at the British Museum;
and that is all.

It is needless to say this was not the course of procedure adopted by
Miss Marie Corelli. She wrote voluminously in her school-days, and was
as successful as most young girls are when they are serving their
literary apprenticeship. She scribbled poetry, and was no doubt
happy--as every youthful scribe should be--when she was rewarded for her
labors by the mere honor of print.

But the time came--as come it always does to those who have the real
gift of literary creativeness--when the young artist set a large canvas
upon her easel and sturdily went about the task of filling it.

Of ideas, at such an age, there is an abundant flow. Meals are irksome
and many hours are stolen from slumber; it is late to bed and early to
rise; it is a hatred of social duties, and a period when everything else
but the dream of fame is forgotten. Although we may take the foregoing
to be fairly applicable to the average girl-author, Miss Corelli denies
that the writing of “A Romance of Two Worlds” ever caused _her_ to
become “æsthetically cadaverous.” Her methodical habits may account for
the fact that, in spite of much desk toil and hard thinking, she has
always managed to keep a well-balanced mind _in corpore sano_.

“I write every day from ten in the morning till two in the afternoon,
alone and undisturbed.... I generally scribble off the first rough draft
of a story very rapidly in pencil; then I copy it out in pen and ink,
chapter by chapter, with fastidious care, not only because I like a neat
manuscript, but because I think everything that is worth doing at all is
worth doing well.... I find, too, that in the gradual process of copying
by hand, the original draft, like a painter’s first sketch, gets
improved and enlarged.”

The “Romance,” then, according to this salubrious programme, entered
quietly into a state of being. Miss Corelli was doubtful whether it
would ever find a publisher: her first notion was to offer it to
Arrowsmith, as a railway-stall novelette. Possibly the success of
“Called Back” suggested the Bristol publisher, the title she first fixed
upon, “Lifted Up,” being eminently suggestive of a shilling series.
However, the manuscript never went westwards--a matter which good Mr.
Arrowsmith has excellent cause to regret--for, in the interim, as a kind
of test of its merit or demerit, Miss Corelli sent it to Bentley’s. The
“readers” attached to that house advised its summary rejection. Moved by
curiosity to inspect a work which his several advisers took the trouble
to condemn in such singularly adverse terms, Mr. George Bentley decided
to read the manuscript himself, and the consequence of his unprejudiced
and impartial inspection was approval and acceptance.

Letters were exchanged, terms proposed and agreed upon. “I am glad that
all is arranged,” wrote Mr. Bentley; “nothing now remains but to try to
make a success of your first venture. The work has the merit of
originality, and its style writing will, I think, commend it.”

A later letter from him says: “I expect our rather ‘thick’ public will
be slow in appreciating the ‘Romance,’ but if it once takes, it may go
off well.”

These extracts are interesting as showing the view taken by a veteran
publisher--one who had been dealing with books and authors since early
manhood--of a work by an absolutely unknown writer. His opinion of Miss
Corelli’s powers is represented by a further letter dispatched to her
in February, 1886: “I shall be perfectly ready to give full
consideration to anything which proceeds from your pen, all the more
readily, too, because I see you love wholesome thought, and will not
lend yourself to corrupt and debase the English mind.... I have no
greater pleasure than to bring to light a bright writer like yourself.
After all, the Brightness must be in the author, and so the sole praise
is to her.”

After his first visit to Miss Corelli, in July of that year, Mr. Bentley
wrote as follows: “The afternoon remains with me as a pleasant memory. I
am so glad to have seen you. I little expected to see so young a person
as the authoress of works involving in their creation faculties which at
your age are mostly not sufficiently developed for such works.”

Miss Corelli was allowed to retain her copyright, a fact which, though
regarded by her as of slight import at the time, has since proved of
some pecuniary advantage, seeing that the “Romance” is now in its
twentieth edition.

The wise old publisher saw nothing attractive, explanatory, or salable
in such a name as “Lifted Up,” so a new title was asked for. Scott once
said there was nothing in a name, and certainly it did not matter what
such a magician as he was, called a book, any more than it matters what
name any firmly established author fixes upon; but a new writer can
seldom afford to despise the gentle art of alliteration or the
appellation which appeals to the eye, ear, and imagination.

Both Dr. Charles Mackay and his son George Eric were appealed to by the
young beginner in that literary career to which they were both
accustomed. Both demanded a reading of the manuscript that they might be
guided by its contents as to the title. But Marie refused to show her
manuscript to any one. She told her stepfather that he would only “laugh
at her silly fancies.” She would not let George Eric read it, because
she wanted to surprise him by quoting some of his poetry in the book
from the “Love-Letters of a Violinist,” which title she, by-the-bye, had
suggested. She said her story was “about this world and the next,”
whereupon Dr. Mackay, who happened to be reading Lewis Morris’s “Songs
of Two Worlds” at the time, suggested “A Romance of Two Worlds.”

So, as “A Romance of Two Worlds,” the book appeared. Up to this time
Miss Corelli had naturally had no experience with reviewers. She had
heard of them, of course, being a member of a literary household, and
she had every reason to suppose that they would, in the ordinary course
of events, write criticisms upon the “Romance.” In this expectation,
however, she was doomed to disappointment. It received only four
reviews, all brief and distinctly unfavorable. It may not be
uninteresting, at this distance of time, to quote the criticism which
appeared in a leading journal, as it is a very fair sample of the rest:

“Miss Corelli would have been better advised had she embodied her
ridiculous ideas in a sixpenny pamphlet. The names of Heliobas and Zara
are alone sufficient indications of the dulness of this book.”

Less could hardly have been said. Had the paper been a provincial
weekly, and the writer a junior reporter to whom the book had been flung
with a curt editorial order to “write a par about that,” the review
could not have been more innocent of any attempt at criticism. It is
highly apparent that the critic in question was not employed on the
elbow-jogging terms known as “on space.”

As for the names, it would have been equally absurd to call a
Chaldæan--descended directly from one of the “wise men of the East”--and
his sister, by the Anglo-Saxon Jack and Jill; or, indeed, to apply to
them European nomenclature of any description. The “Romance,” to quote
its writer’s own description, was meant to be “the simply-worded
narration of a singular psychical experience, and included certain
theories on religion which I, personally speaking, accept and believe.”

What name, then, would this reviewer have chosen for the electric healer
who is the principal male character in the work? Although he lived in
Paris, it would hardly have been fair to christen him Alphonse, a name,
by the way, strongly suggestive of a French valet. Clearly the critic
here was unreasonable as well as idle.

With regard to the allegation as to dulness, we imagine that Miss
Corelli’s most bitter detractors have never accused her of this most
unpardonable crime in a maker of books. Her imagination may take flights
exasperating in their audacity to the stay-at-home mind of Wellington
Street; she may occasionally state her opinions a thought too
didactically for people who are themselves opinionated; when she cries
shame on vice and humbug, her pen may coin denunciations somewhat too
hot-and-strong for the easy-going and the worldly; but, whatever she is,
or whatever she does, she is never _dull_.

In spite of the meagre allowances in the review way dealt out by the
press to “A Romance of Two Worlds,” the book prospered exceedingly. It
is absurd to deny the power of the press--either for well or for
ill--and Miss Corelli’s career is a striking proof of the soundness of
this statement. The public recognized the power of the new writer, and
the “Romance” sold by thousands; the press went out of its way to
condemn the works that followed it, and thereby advertised them. “If you
can’t praise me, _slate_ me,” said an author once to an editor; and he
spoke sagely. Luke-warm reviews are the worst enemies a writer can have;
favorable reviews impress a certain number of book-buyers, book-sellers,
and librarians; but bitingly hostile criticisms--tinged, if possible,
with personal spite--are frequently quite as helpful as columns of
eulogy.

In the case of “A Romance of Two Worlds,” the press did not help one way
or the other, however. The public discovered the book for themselves,
and letters concerning its theories began to pour in from strangers in
all parts of the United Kingdom. At the end of its first twelve months’
run, Mr. Bentley brought it out in one volume in his “Favorite” series.
Then it started off round the world at full gallop.

It was, as Miss Corelli has already related in a very frank magazine
article, a most undoubted success from the moment Bentleys laid it on
their counter. It was “pirated” in America; chosen out and liberally
paid for by Baron Tauchnitz for the popular and convenient little
Tauchnitz series; and translated into various Continental languages. A
gigantic amount of correspondence flowed in upon the authoress from
India, Africa, Australia, and America; and it may be added that the more
recent editions of the “Romance” have contained very representative
excerpts from this epistolary bombardment. One man wrote saying that the
book had saved him from committing suicide; another that it had called a
halt on his previous driftings towards Agnosticism; others that the book
had exercised a comforting and generally beneficent influence over them.
To quote only one correspondent: “I felt a better woman for the reading
of it twice; and I know others, too, who are higher and better women for
such noble thoughts and teaching.”

Now, if a book--however one may object to the writer’s convictions or
disagree with them--has an undoubted influence for good; if it drives
from some minds the black spectre of Doubt, makes good men better, bad
men less bad, and all men _think_, then has not that book won a brave
excuse for its existence? may it not be considered, as a work of art,
infinitely the superior of a picture or a play or another book that
leaves beholders or readers exactly where it found them?

Many people condemn Marie Corelli without reading her, on the old
Woolly West principle of “First hang, then try!”

She has a big public, but it would be a thousand times bigger if only
scoffers and doubters would really _read_ these books by the authoress
whom they hang without trial. Let them take a course of Marie Corelli
during the long winter evenings, passing on from book to book--from the
“Romance” to “Vendetta,” thence to “Thelma,” “Ardath,” “Wormwood,” “The
Soul of Lilith,” and so on--in the order in which they were written. For
the idle and listless, for the frivolous, for the irreligious, for the
purse-proud, for the down-hearted and distressed, she will prove a
veritable “cure,” for she is at once a moralist and a tonic. And whereas
she is a literary sermon in herself to those who listen to other
preachers without profit, so will she prove a profitable and restorative
change of air to the busy, the honestly prosperous, the “godly,
righteous, and sober” of her students. She is for all, and, where funds
are scarce and shillings consequently precious, Free Libraries bring her
within reach of everybody.

At a time when our leading dramatists and novelists drag their art in
the mud for the sake of the lucre that may be found down there in
plenty, it is refreshing and hope-inspiring to find that the writer
with the largest public in the world, whose work has penetrated to every
country and is thus not restricted to Anglo-Saxondom any more than a new
type of rifle is, has ranged herself on the side of _Right_! Thus, owing
to the wide-spread interest in her work, she is enabled to preach the
gospel of her beliefs in all corners of the globe;--this, too, in spite
of the fact that she is comparatively a newcomer in literature.

“My appeal for a hearing,” wrote Miss Corelli, when describing, in the
pages of the _Idler_, the appearance of her first book, “was first made
to the great public, and the public responded; moreover, they do still
respond with so much heartiness and good-will, that I should be the most
ungrateful scribbler that ever scribbled if I did not” (despite press
“drubbings” and the amusing total ignoring of my very existence by
certain cliquey literary magazines) “take up my courage in both hands,
as the French say, and march steadily onward to such generous cheering
and encouragement. I am told by an eminent literary authority that
critics are ‘down upon me’ because I write about the supernatural.
Neither ‘Vendetta,’ nor ‘Thelma,’ nor ‘Wormwood’ is supernatural. But,
says the eminent literary authority, why write at all, at any time,
about the supernatural? Why? Because I feel the existence of the
supernatural, and, feeling it, I must speak of it. I understand that the
religion we profess to follow emanates from the supernatural. And I
presume that churches exist for the solemn worship of the supernatural.
Wherefore, if the supernatural be thus universally acknowledged as a
guide for thought and morals, I fail to see why I, and as many others as
choose to do so, should not write on the subject.... But I distinctly
wish it to be understood that I am neither a ‘Spiritualist’ nor a
‘Theosophist’.... I have no other supernatural belief than that which is
taught by the Founder of our Faith....”

The plot of the story with which Miss Corelli won her spurs is simple in
the extreme. The plot indeed, is a secondary matter, the main strength
of the book being the Physical Electricity utilized by Heliobas--the
medicine man of Chaldæan descent who has neither diploma nor license--in
his cure of the young improvisatrice whose nerves have been shattered by
over-devotion to musical study and whose vitality has been reduced to an
alarmingly low ebb by her inability to recuperate, even in the soothing
climate of the Riviera. An artist who has been saved from
self-destruction and restored to absolute health by Heliobas, advises
her to seek out this “Dr. Casimir” (as Heliobas is called in Paris) and
put herself in his hands. This she does, with astounding results; for,
from a miserable, woe-begone creature, all “palpitations and headaches
and stupors,” Casimir’s potions and electrical remedies change her into
an absolutely healthy woman, “plump and pink as a peach.” In Casimir’s
house lives the physician’s sister, Zara, who, by means of the same
medical and electrical properties, retains, at thirty-eight, the
complexion and supple health of a girl of seventeen, being ever “as
fresh and lovely as a summer morning.” During her stay with him,
Heliobas expounds his “Electric Creed” to the young musician, and by her
own wish, and by means of his extraordinary hypnotic powers--combined
with a fluid preparation which he causes her to take--throws her into a
trance, in the course of which “strange departure,” her soul is
temporarily separated from her body and floats from the earth to other
spheres. Guided by the spirit Azùl, it wanders to the “Centre of the
Universe,” and, after being permitted to gaze upon the wonders and
glories of the supernatural, returns to earth and once more takes its
place in the work-a-day body from which it had been temporarily
released. After Casimir has afforded the girl further explanations of
his theories, she is admitted to the small circle of adherents to the
Electric Creed. As a result of Casimir’s treatment she eventually finds
herself not only in possession of complete health, but also equally
perfected in her work; so much so, indeed, that while her improved looks
are a delight to her friends, her playing fills them with wonder and
delight.

The story ends pathetically. Just as the heroine is about to go forth
into the world again, armed with new bodily vigor and tenfold her
previous talent, her friend, the ever-youthful Zara, is killed by a
flash of lightning. After attending the burial of his sister in
Père-la-Chaise, Heliobas takes leave of his patient, and proceeds to
Egypt to accustom himself to the solitude to which his sister’s death
has condemned him. The reader is given to understand, however, that
Heliobas and the young musician meet again later on under more cheerful
conditions.

Such is a mere outline of this popular story, which is told throughout
with admirable restraint and dignity, the language being moderate, and
the arguments pithily expressed. The half-dozen minor characters are
touched in with all the skill of an experienced novelist; and yet, when
Miss Corelli set to work on this “Romance,” she was younger than her
heroine is represented to be.

The actual penmanship occasioned by the writing of the book must have
been as nothing compared with the very arduous thought and study
connected with the mental generation of the views held by Heliobas and
his fellow-believers. That the theories here exploited are well worth
the consideration of all thoughtful persons, is proved by the intense
interest the book has aroused in so many widely different and widely
separated areas of civilization.

It ought to be remembered, too, that, at the time the “Romance” was
published, the wonders of the X-rays had not been demonstrated, nor had
wireless telegraphy become a _fait accompli_. Yet these were distinctly
foretold in Marie Corelli’s first book, as also the possible wonders yet
to be proved in certain new scientific theories of Sound and Color. It
may instruct many to know that the theory of God’s “Central World” with
which all the universe moves, is a part of the authoress’s own implicit
belief in a future state of being.

CHAPTER IV

“VENDETTA” AND “THELMA”

To Miss Corelli’s host of admirers the story of “Vendetta” must be so
familiar as to render a lengthy repetition of it unnecessary. “Vendetta”
is, briefly, an exposition--in the form of a novel--on marital
infidelity.

In August, 1886, before the book was published, Mr. Bentley wrote: “May
I tell you that I have been again looking into ‘Vendetta,’ and I venture
to prophesy a success? It is a powerful story, and a great stride
forward on the first book ... it marches on to its awful finale with the
grimness of a Greek play.”

That Mr. Bentley’s prophecy was fulfilled is clearly indicated in a
letter addressed by him to the authoress on October 22d of the same
year: “I have very great pleasure in sending the enclosed, because I
should have been mortified beyond expression if the public had not
responded to the marked power of your story. I believe you will come now
steadily to the front, and I am very curious to read your new story"....
“I shall yield to no reader of your works,” he again wrote, some
time afterwards, “in a very high opinion of such scenes as the supper
scene in ‘Vendetta’--as good as if Bulwer had written it....”

As the preface to “Vendetta” tells us, the book’s chief incidents are
founded on an actual and fatal blunder which was committed in Naples
during the cholera visitation of 1884. “Nothing,” says the authoress,
“is more strange than truth;--nothing, at times, more terrible!”
“Vendetta” is, then, practically, a true story, and certainly a very
terrible one, of a Neapolitan nobleman who, being suddenly attacked by
the scourge that was decimating this fair southern city, fell into a
coma-like state so closely resembling death that he was hurried into a
flimsy coffin, and deposited in his family vault as one deceased.
Awaking from his deep swoon, the frenzied strength which would naturally
come to a man finding himself in such an appalling situation, enabled
him to break the frail boards of his narrow prison and escape from the
vault. In the course of his wanderings, ere he found an outlet, he
became acquainted with the fact that a band of brigands had utilized the
mausoleum as a store-house for their ill-gotten valuables. Having helped
himself liberally to a portion of the plunder, the count--with hair
turned white by his harrowing experiences--retraced his steps to his
house, only to find his most familiar friend consoling his supposed
widow for the loss of her husband in a manner which plainly gave
evidence that the amours of the guilty couple were by no means of recent
origin. Fired by a desire for revenge, and materially assisted by the
bandits’ secret hoard, the wronged nobleman, instead of making known his
resurrection to his wife or anybody else, quitted Naples for a while. On
his reappearance, six months later--well disguised by his white hair and
a pair of smoked spectacles--he represented himself to be an elderly and
wealthy Italian noble, lately returned from a long but voluntary exile
from his native land. Playing his _rôle_ to perfection, he soon
succeeded in striking up a friendship with his wife and her lover, his
ire increasing as he found that they were both supremely indifferent to
the memory of the man whom they imagined to be lying in the tomb of his
ancestors.

From this point the reader is compelled to pass rapidly from chapter to
chapter in following out the injured husband’s scheme of retaliation.
With remarkable ingenuity the novelist depicts the manner in which the
elderly nobleman, making free use of his abundant means, wormed himself
into the confidence of his supposed widow as well as his traitorous
friend, and how he finally manœuvred the latter into a duel which proved
fatal to the doer of evil, and the former into a second marriage with
himself. The curtain falls on a midnight adventure which proved fatal to
the twice-wed wife.

Miss Corelli appears to be thoroughly at home at Naples and among the
Neapolitans. Her descriptions of the place and its people are admirable.
She is well-versed in the art of painting a pretty picture, only, for
the purposes of her plot, to destroy it with a great ugly dab across the
smiling canvas. For the story opens as daintily as you please. Left,
while still a youth, an ample fortune, Count Fabio Romani dwelt “in a
miniature palace of white marble, situated on a wooded height
overlooking the Bay of Naples.” His pleasure grounds “were fringed with
fragrant groves of orange and myrtle, where hundreds of full-voiced
nightingales warbled their love-melodies to the golden moon.”

One can imagine that a young nobleman, who, though athletic and fond of
the open air, was at the same time of a bookish and dreamy disposition,
might, in such a pleasant retreat, have lingered on, a bachelor, until
the discretion of the thirties would have befriended him in selecting a
suitable mate. As it was, he saw but few women, and did not seek their
society; but, when only a few years had passed since his accession to
the title, Fate cast in his way a face “of rose-tinted, childlike
loveliness,” it dazzled him. And “of course I married her.”

The fair canvas is not blurred over too soon, for following the marriage
come several years of bliss undimmed by any cloud. The false friend’s
infidelity remains unexposed and all is peace at the Villa Romani, the
husband doting and believing himself to be doted upon, and a girl-babe,
“fair as one of the white anemones” which abounded in the woods
surrounding the home, arriving to add pride to his love. Then the bolt
falls. The cholera descends upon Naples, and with inexorable clutch
claims victim after victim.

Count Fabio, strolling down to the harbor one hot early morn, comes upon
a lad stricken by the dread malady, and tends him. Within an hour he is
himself convulsed with excruciating agony, and, whilst stretched on a
bench in a humble restaurant, loses consciousness--to awake in his
coffin.

The horrors of such a restoration to life are depicted with
extraordinary force, and with equal power is described the revulsion of
feeling--the intoxicating delight--experienced by the unfortunate man
as, having regained his liberty, he stands rejoicing in the morning
light and listens to the song of a boatman who is plying his oars on
the smooth surface of the Bay. It was a happy fancy to set down the
words of the sailor’s carol--a gentle touch of human gladness ere the
demon of vengeance whispers “Vendetta!”

With astonishing cleverness the outraged husband maps out his plan of
requital; his patience, his self-control, his constant alertness are
described by himself--the story is told in the first person--with a
deliberation that is almost diabolical in its cold-blooded intensity.

Count Fabio scorns the idea of divorce or even an ordinary duel; his
revenge must partake of nothing so prosaic as an action at law or ten
minutes’ rapier play. The matter does, indeed, come to a fight at last,
but even here the injured nobleman gives his rival no chance; for, by
removing his smoked spectacles, and disclosing his eyes for the first
time to his one-time friend, he so unnerves his opponent that the latter
fires wildly and merely grazes the count’s shoulder, while Fabio’s
bullet finds a vital spot in the breast of the man who in a mere prosaic
action for divorce would be referred to as the co-respondent.

The count intended to kill his man, and, if his action were
unsportsmanlike, he would doubtless have excused it on the ground that a
_vendetta_ wots not of fair play, the idea being that one person has to
bring about the death of another, by means fair or foul. The count found
it necessary to his programme to make the duel appear a perfectly fair
one; but as a matter of fact he never for a moment, owing to the
precautions he took, had any misgivings as to which combatant would
prove successful.

In the event of this book being dramatized, the most thrilling situation
will undoubtedly be pronounced the scene in the vault when Fabio, having
remarried his wife, takes her to what he describes as the house where he
keeps his treasure. When retreat is impossible the guilty woman
discovers that he has lured her into the Romani mausoleum. In this
noisome place of sepulture, amidst the bones of bygone Counts Romani, he
discloses his identity, and points to his own coffin, broken asunder--a
ghastly proof of the fact that his story is true. This is his night of
triumph: here ends his revenge. “Trick for trick, comedy for comedy.”
His once familiar friend lies dead in a grave distant but a few yards
from the vault in which, held fast in a ruthless snare, stands the wife
whose love had strayed from her husband to the silent one yonder.

Her first fright over, she shows resource even in these dire straits:
she flees, but a locked gate bars her exit, and then she almost
succeeds in stabbing her jailer. But nothing avails against his
vigilance and iron strength, and her terrible surroundings turn her
brain. Mad, she breaks into song--an old melody that at last, when too
late, touches the heart of her husband, and he resolves to remove her
from the charnel-house. But ere his new-found compassion can take
action, while she is crooning over the bandits’ hoard of jewels and
decking her fair arms and neck with blazing gems, a sudden upheaval of
Nature, not uncommon in those parts, shakes a ponderous stone out of the
vault’s roof and silences her song forever.

The conclusion is fittingly brief. The once proud noble flees from
Naples to the wild woodlands of South America, where, with other
settlers, he ekes out a bare existence by the rough and unremitting toil
inseparable from such surroundings.

* * * * *

It is a relief to turn from these scenes of black and tempestuous
passion to the gracious and winning personality of the Norwegian girl
Thelma, whose name adorns the title-page of Miss Corelli’s third novel.
Here is no pestilence, for the opening chapters seem to breathe health
and strength and well-being, so redolent is the setting of all that is
good and sweet.

Miss Corelli’s publisher was delighted with the manuscript. “I have read
all,” wrote Mr. Bentley, on March 22d, 1887; “what a nuisance space is!
Here are three hundred miles separating us, and I feel I could say what
I have to say fifty times better by word of mouth than with this pen....
‘Thelma,’ as long as it is Norwegian, is a lovely dream--a romance full
of poetry and color. ‘Thelma’ in London (I speak of the book) I cannot
like. Of course the contrast, if not too deep, is effective.... How glad
I was to get back to Norway! The death of Olaf is very picturesquely
painted, and little Britta is a charming little brick.” In a previous
letter, written when he had perused up to “page 1017,” he said: “The
character of Sigurd I consider a most beautiful creation. I hardly like
to write what I really think of it, since either it is of the very
highest order, or I have no claim to critical ability of any sort. His
whole career, his half-thought-out, half-uttered exclamations, the
poetry of his thoughts, his passion so noble and so pitiful, the grand
and highly dramatic close of his life, must give you a position which
might be denied for ‘Vendetta’ as melodrama. Here there is nothing of
that sort of life--here one is in the world which held Ariel. The Bonde
I like much, and Lorimer. How necessary are some defects to a perfect
liking! How we are in touch with poor Humanity through its weak side!
This is, I suppose, why we do not sympathize as we ought with Christ. We
feel sad for ourselves, and I can only truly pity those who need
it,--the sort of cry in our hearts for the lost perfection.... I could
write several sheets about the novel, but I forbear. Don’t write too
fast. _One who can write as well_ as you can, can write better, and in
the long run will stand better on financial grounds.”

Here is advice from one possessing great experience and much worldly
wisdom. How helpful such sound and friendly counsel proved to the young
novelist can readily be imagined.

“The death of Sigurd, and that also of Olaf,” wrote Mr. Bentley, on
March 28th, 1887, “are far ahead in literary excellence and truth of
anything in ‘She’".... “I confess I hate perfect people,” he remarks in
a subsequent letter, “and that is why, on the contrary, I love Thelma’s
father, have a strong sympathy with poor Sigurd as well as with many of
the other characters in the story, and with that pretty little side
picture of the plucky little waiting maid. I congratulate you on your
next idea. It is in the Spirit of the age to pierce into the mysteries
of the unseen world, and I look forward to some interesting speculations
from your enquiring mind.”

Various passages in other letters testify to Mr. Bentley’s genuine
appreciation of the book. “A clever lady, a great friend of mine whose
opinion I value, is charmed with ‘Thelma.’ This lady was a friend of
Guizot, is a keen critic, and hates our modern novels.” And again:
“There is a rich imagery in ‘Thelma,’ which makes me believe you capable
of becoming our first novelist, and there is a versatility which bodes
well.... But God sends what is best for His children--may His best be
for you!”

“Thelma” is, in truth, for some considerable way through its numerous
pages, a very pretty story: by many readers, as has been said, it is
counted Miss Corelli’s best achievement, albeit the authoress, in her
heart of hearts, sets “Ardath” above everything that has come from her
pen.

“Thelma” is quaintly unorthodox from its very start, for the two
principal characters meet each other in the unconventional manner so
dear to the heart of the romance-lover. A wave-lapped beach, at
midnight, in the Land of the Midnight Sun--a handsome English
aristocrat--a wonderful maid, who can claim direct descent from the old
Vikings--some slight assistance required in the launching of a
boat--are not these particulars sufficient to whet the appetite for what
is bound to follow? Favored by circumstances, this chance meeting ripens
into a full-fledged friendship, whence to a wooing and a wedding is no
far cry in the hands of a skilful novelist.

The main theme of the story, of course, is English society as viewed by
a girl who, though naturally refined and carefully educated, is, as
regards the world and its ways, a child. Thelma, having become Lady
Bruce-Errington, is gradually introduced to her husband’s social equals,
the result being as diverting as it is pathetic; for she has to go
through a process of disillusionment whereby she learns with no little
pain that an invitation to dinner is not necessarily a genuine
expression of regard any more than a woman’s kiss betokens the slightest
affection or even liking for the woman upon whom it is bestowed.

Having imbibed all the accomplishments of the schoolroom, Thelma finds
that the vanity of the world is a study which brings much bitterness of
soul in the mastering. At first the young bride’s astonishing frankness
is taken for a supreme effort of art; then, when the truth dawns upon
her associates, her success in society advances by leaps and bounds,
and she becomes what is called “the rage.” Naturally her large nature
soon sickens of such adulation, and induces a strange weariness which
gives place to blank despair and unutterable misery when the
machinations of certain evily-disposed persons lead her to believe that
her husband has bestowed his affections upon a burlesque actress. So
great is her selflessness that the poor girl makes excuses for her
husband’s (alleged) infidelity, and actually blames herself for not
having proved sufficiently fascinating to keep him by her side. In
bitter weather she quietly leaves London--bound for home. She crosses
the rough seas in a cargo-boat, and arrives in Norway to find that her
father is just dead. Her husband follows her by a perilous route, and,
surviving the many dangers of the journey, gains her bedside in time to
save her life and reason. And thereafter all is well.

In a book containing six hundred and fifteen closely-printed pages,
there must of necessity be a long roll of characters. It is often the
case that characters, increasing in number as a book progresses in the
writing, demand more and more space for their exploitation. Hence such
voluminous works as “Thelma.” In the first part of the novel the persons
introduced are mainly of the bachelor kind, and, though useful in
filling chairs at the literary repast, are not absolutely necessary to
the plot’s working. In Book II.--“The Land of Mockery”--a new set of
people is introduced, society people mostly, and their servants. In Book
III.--“The Land of the Long Shadow”--the reader is taken to Norway in
the winter, the novelist appropriately and strikingly making Nature’s
moods harmonize with those of her pen-and-ink creations.

Miss Corelli lays on her colors with an unsparing brush--there is
nothing half-and-half in her characterization. There are four
“principals” in this play. Lady Winsleigh, as opposed to Thelma, fills a
_rôle_ full of wrongful possibilities in that she portrays “a woman
scorned,” than whom, as we are asked to believe, Hell hath no fury whose
malevolence is of a worse description. Sir Francis Lennox is, in
wrong-doing, her masculine counterpart; and to balance him we have
Thelma’s husband, an excellent fellow who makes a fool of himself in a
truly bewildering manner. His behavior in endeavoring to bring about a
reconciliation between his secretary and his secretary’s wife--the
actress already referred to--is the weak spot in the book.

Much, however, that displeases the critical sense--which is fortunately
not the predominating mental attribute of the novel-reading public--is
obliterated by Thelma’s womanliness and attractively gentle nature. She
is born to love and to suffer, and still to love, without murmur or
reproach, “for better for worse, for richer for poorer,” the husband of
her heart’s choice. She is a human flower, well pictured by the lines
from Rossetti quoted by the authoress:

“Sweet hands, sweet hair, sweet cheeks, sweet eyes, sweet mouth
Each singly wooed and won!”

CHAPTER V

“ARDATH”--THE STORY OF A DEAD SELF--THE WONDERFUL CITY OF AL-KYRIS--THE
MISSION OF THE BOOK

In no work produced by her busy pen has Miss Corelli given such range to
her imagination, to her love of the beautiful and fantastic, as in
“Ardath.” This, her fourth book, abounds in wonderful accounts of a
strange people in a strange place. When she sets a scene of barbaric
splendor in the city of Al-Kyris, she reaches great descriptive heights;
she tells, indeed, a tale of beauty, of horror, and of extraordinary
amours, whose like can nowhere be found, look where you will. “Ardath”
stands alone--a prose poem and a startlingly vivid narrative in one. “I
have read it,” wrote Mr. Bentley (referring to the work in manuscript
form), “with wonder that one small head could hold it all.”

That the authoress has a quick and appreciative eye for the picturesque,
her most bitter detractor will not care to deny; she loves to write of
birds and flowers, field and forest, golden sunshine and blue waters.
She exhibits a passion for the bygone--in architecture and in man. In
her interesting miscellany, “A Christmas Greeting,” she reproves those
who would take from the charming old-worldliness of Shakespeare’s
birthplace by erecting in Stratford-on-Avon ugly villas and shops
suggestive of Clapham or Peckham Rye. She would--as we all would--have
Stratford kept as much as possible like Stratford was when Shakespeare
wandered by Avon’s banks or brooded over the fire in his home near to
the old Guild Church.

“Ardath” was written in a hot glow of inspiration. Its theme is drawn
from the Book of Esdras, one of the apocryphal Jewish writings which,
while not used for “establishment of doctrine,” are held to be of value
for historical purposes and for “instruction of manners.” Like a
constantly recurring refrain in a musical composition, the passage in
Esdras chosen by the authoress for her text greets the reader ever and
anon as he turns the pages: “_So I went my way into the Field which is
called ‘Ardath,’ and sat among the flowers._”

On this passage Miss Corelli built her romance, and so successfully did
she work out her ideas that “Ardath” drew letters from all sorts and
conditions of men--letters discussing the theories propounded in her
writings, and asking for information and advice of encyclopædic
character. Amongst the

[Illustration: A BOATING PLACE ON THE AVON]

[Illustration: A FAVORITE REACH ON THE AVON]

correspondence were many flattering letters from men and women of light
and leading, not only in England, but abroad. The novel under notice,
which was issued in 1889, brought Miss Corelli a letter of praise from
Lord Tennyson. The work was indeed so remarkable a piece of imaginative
conception and picturesque writing that it appealed peculiarly to the
Laureate’s sense of the poetic and artistic.

Of the mission of the book, which was of serious character, we shall
speak anon. “Ardath” is one of the author’s finest efforts to further
the cause of true religion. A strange outcome of the book was the
proposed building, by some enthusiastic Americans, of a Corelli city in
Fremont County, Colorado, U. S. A., on the Arkansas River, and a
prospectus was actually issued explaining the project.

“Ardath” is divided into three parts. In the first is introduced a
sceptic poet, Theos Alwyn. In the Second Book, Theos is transplanted
into the city of Al-Kyris, in a bygone world, where he is supposed to
have led a previous existence five thousand years before Christ’s
advent. In the Third Book, Alwyn is back in London, amongst old
associates, with the knowledge of all these strange experiences within
him. The book has a sub-title, “The Story of a Dead Self,” and it is in
the city of Al-Kyris that the peculiar “Dead Self” experience comes to
Theos Alwyn, through whom Miss Corelli expounds lessons to all men--and
women.

The story opens in the heart of the Caucasus Mountains, where a wild
storm is gathering, and there is an early example of the descriptive
delights with which the book is adorned. Miss Corelli is unique, not
alone in her imaginings and in her treatment of them, but, too, in her
powerful pictures of scenery. Here,

“in the lonely Caucasus heights, drear shadows drooped and
thickened above the Pass of Dariel--that terrific gorge which like
a mere thread seems to hang between the toppling frost-bound
heights above, and black abysmal depths below. Clouds, fringed
ominously with lurid green and white, drifted heavily yet swiftly
across the jagged peaks where, looming largely out of the mist, the
snow-capped crest of Mount Kazbek rose coldly white against the
darkness of the threatening sky.... Night was approaching, though
away to the west a broad gash of crimson, a seeming wound in the
breast of heaven, showed where the sun had set an hour since. Now
and again the rising wind moaned sobbingly through the tall and
spectral pines that, with knotted roots fast clenched in the
reluctant earth, clung tenaciously to their stony vantage ground;
and mingling with its wailing murmur, there came a distant hoarse
roaring as of tumbling torrents, while at far-off intervals could
be heard the sweeping thud of an avalanche slipping from point to
point on its disastrous downward way. Through the wreathing vapors
the steep, bare sides of the near mountains were pallidly visible,
their icy pinnacles, like uplifted daggers, piercing with sharp
glitter the density of the low-hanging haze, from which large drops
of moisture began presently to ooze rather than fall. Gradually the
wind increased, and soon with sudden fierce gusts shook the
pine-trees into shuddering anxiety,--the red slit in the sky
closed, and a gleam of forked lightning leaped athwart the driving
darkness. An appalling crash of thunder followed almost
instantaneously, its deep boom vibrating in sullenly grand echoes
on all sides of the Pass; and then--with a swirling, hissing rush
of rain--the unbound hurricane burst forth alive and furious. On,
on!--splitting huge boughs and flinging them aside like straws,
swelling the rivers into riotous floods that swept hither and
thither, carrying with them masses of rock and stone and tons of
loosened snow--on, on! with pitiless force and destructive haste,
the tempest rolled, thundered, and shrieked its way through
Dariel.”

It was such fine writing as this, doubtless, which caught Tennyson’s
fancy on casually opening the book to inspect and arrive at conclusions
concerning its contents for himself, regardless of anything reviewers
might have said previously in its disfavor. It was a sympathetic perusal
of its many pages that drew from him a letter of commendation which he
duly dispatched to its writer. It was the poetic conception of the city
of Al-Kyris which appealed to the lonely Man of Wight, pondering, in his
long island walks, on the strange romance of pre-Babylonian times set
down by a woman who had won the whole-hearted approval of his great
contemporary, William Gladstone.

Not unlike this majestic opening of “Ardath” are many of the poet’s own
sublime pen-pictures. A master of verse, standing high above all others
of his time as well as above most who had preceded him, the warm
encomiums that he deliberately awarded to Marie Corelli should surely
silence the snarls of envious Grub Street.

But to our story. Within the Monastery of Lars, “far up among the crags
crowning the ravine,” are seen a group of monks whose intonations
strangely stir a listener,--an Englishman,--Alwyn, whose musings on the
reverential exercises of the monks indicate the religious purpose that
underlies the story which follows. For Alwyn at the time is not only a
poet, but an egoist and an agnostic. What sort of fellows are these
monks, he muses,--fools or knaves? They must be one or the other, thinks
he, else they would not thus chant praises “to a Deity of whose
existence there is, and can be, no proof.” He is none the less conscious
that the ending of faith and the prevalence of what he regards as Truth,
would be a dreary result, destroying the beauty of the Universe. With
cold and almost contemptuous feelings he watches the proceedings of
these monks, and listens to the recital of their seven _Glorias_:

“Glory to God, the Most High, the Supreme and Eternal!” And with one
harmonious murmur of accord the brethren respond:

“Glory forever and ever! Amen!”

Vespers over, the monks leave their chapel, and immediately the agnostic
poet is face to face with one who is presumably chief of the Order--the
monk who had recited the _Glorias_. And who, indeed, is he? None other
than the mystic scientist, the Heliobas of “A Romance of Two Worlds,”
who has now adopted this secluded monastic life. To him Theos Alwyn
explains that he is miserable, and that, though an agnostic and searcher
after absolute and positive proof, he desires for a time to be deluded
into a state of happiness. So, the Parisian fame of Heliobas having
reached him, this modern poet does not hesitate to seek from him a peace
and happiness which neither his world of success nor his agnostic
opinions can give him. From Heliobas he learns that this strange monk
possesses a certain spiritual force which can overpower and subdue
material force--that he can release the poet’s soul--“that is, the Inner
Intelligent Spirit which is the actual You”--from its house of clay and
allow it an interval of freedom. Alwyn pleads--even demands--that
Heliobas will exercise this power at once; but the monk, amazed and
reproachful, declines.

“To-night!--without faith, preparation, or prayer,--you are willing
to be tossed through the realms of space like a grain of dust in a
whirling tempest? Beyond the glittering gyration of unnumbered
stars--through the sword-like flash of streaming comets--through
darkness--through light--through depths of profoundest
silence--over heights of vibrating sound--you--_you_ will dare to
wander in these God-invested regions--you, a blasphemer and a
doubter of God!”

Stranger than many of the marvels of the book is the scene that follows.
It is a contest of Will between Alwyn and Heliobas. The former,
concentrating all the powers of his mind upon the effort, declares that
Heliobas _shall_ release his soul:

“He felt twice a man and more than half a God ... what--what was
that dazzling something in the air that flashed and whirled and
shone like glittering wheels of golden flame? His lips parted--he
stretched out his hands in the uncertain manner of a blind man
feeling his way. ‘Oh, God!--God!’ he muttered, as though stricken
by some sudden amazement; then, with a smothered gasping cry he
staggered and fell heavily forward on the floor--insensible!...”

The soul of the poet had by a superhuman access of will managed to break
its bonds and escape elsewhere. “But whither? Into what vast realms of
translucent light or drear shadow?” Unable to answer the question, the
monk betakes himself to the monastery chapel, and prays in silence till
the heavy night had passed and the storm “had slain itself with the
sword of its own fury on the dark slopes of the Pass of Dariel.”

Theos for a time lies as one dead. Anon he awakes, seats himself at a
table, and writes. Sometimes he murmurs “Ardath,” but he goes on writing
for hours. Then Heliobas rejoins him. “I have been dreaming,” Theos
says. The monk points to the written manuscript as proof that the dream
has been productive, at any rate. Alwyn reads from the manuscript and
recites:

“With thundering notes of song sublime
I cast my sins away from me,
On stairs of sound I mount--I climb!
The angels wait and pray for me!”

But that, he remembers, is a stanza he had heard somewhere when he was a
boy. Why does he now think of it? “_She_ has waited,--so she
said,--these many thousand days!” And there was the key to the dream.
There was a woman in it; and an angel.

Theos explains his dream to Heliobas, tells how he had seemed to fly
into darkness, how in wild despair he cried “Oh, God, where art Thou?”
and heard a great rushing sound as of a strong wind beaten through with
wings, while a voice, grand and sweet as a golden trumpet blown suddenly
in the silence of night, answered, “_Here!--and Everywhere!_” And then
all was brightness, a slanting stream of opaline radiance cleft the
gloom, and Alwyn was uplifted by an invisible strength. And then he
hears some one call him by name, “Theos, my Beloved!” and a woman of
entrancing beauty appears, crowned with white flowers, and robed in a
garb that seems spun from midsummer moonbeams; ... a smiling
maiden-sweetness in a paradise of glad sights and sounds.

And this being, bidding Alwyn return to his own star, further directs
him to seek out the Field of Ardath, where she will meet him. And so
they part.

Theos Alwyn awakens from his dream madly in love with this vision of
loveliness, and determines, if a Field of Ardath there is, to go there
and keep the appointment. Heliobas shows him where the Field of Ardath
lies. It is mentioned in the Book of Esdras, in the Apocrypha, and is
described as situated four miles west of the Babylonian ruins. Alwyn
decides on journeying thither, first sending the poem he had written to
his London friend, Francis Villiers, with the request that as
“Nourhàlma; a Love Legend of the Past,” it shall be published in the
usual way.

By the waters of Babylon we next find Theos Alwyn, who is soon housed in
the Hermitage, near Hillah, with one Elzear of Malyana, to whom Heliobas
has supplied the traveler with a letter of introduction. So impatient is
this lover to prove the truth or falsity of his mystic vision at Dariel,
that, on the first night of his arrival at the Hermitage, he proceeds
shortly before midnight to search for the Field of Ardath which was
known to the Prophet Esdras. He sets forth, and the wondrous story of
his experiences immediately commences. “Kyrie eleison! Christe eleison!
Kyrie eleison!” sung by full, fresh, youthful voices in clear and
harmonious unison, greets his ears; though whence comes the sound, and
from whom, there is nothing to show. “Was ever madman more mad than I,”
he murmurs. It is a sweet and fascinating madness none the less, for the
angel-lover is true to her promise. “Behold the field thou thoughtest
barren, how great a glory hath the moon unveiled!” quoth the Prophet
Esdras, and as Theos treads the Field of Ardath, which had appeared,
when first his eyes rested upon it, a dreary and desolate place, he
finds the turf covered with white blossoms, star-shaped and
glossy-leaved, with deep golden centres, wherein bright drops of dew
sparkled like brilliants, and whence puffs of perfume rose like incense
swung at unseen altars. And here he finds, moving sedately along through
the snow-white blossoms, a graceful girl. He no longer has eyes for the
flower-transfiguration of the lately barren land. “My name is Edris; I
came from a far, far country, Theos,--a land where no love is wasted and
no promise forgotten!” she tells him. More than that, she adds that she
has waited and prayed for him through long bright æons of endless glory,
and he recognizes in Edris at last the angel of his vision. She upbraids
him for his doubts and unhappiness, speaks slightingly of fame as a
perishable diadem; and crying “O fair King Christ, Thou shalt prevail!”
she leaves him, and as she goes Theos is told “prayers are heard, and
God’s great patience never tires;--learn therefore _from the perils of
the past, the perils of the future_.” Alwyn, falling senseless, drifts
into the dream wherein he is to learn the story of his new self.

The description of Theos’s dream fills over fifteen score of pages. The
reader is impelled on and on, finding in every step new subject for
wonder. The city of Al-Kyris is a feast of scenic splendors, the skill
of the writer providing fascinating word-pictures of incidents more
strange than were ever imagined in an Arabian Nights’ entertainment. And
through all runs a steady and strong undercurrent made up of the solid
lesson of the book, “_learn from the perils of the past, the perils of
the future_.”

Theos Alwyn could not tell how long he slept on the Field of Ardath, for
his awakening was confusing. He had a consciousness of his previous
life, its conditions, his position, and opinions. All now was changed.
He was before a gate leading into a walled city, the entrance to which
consisted of huge massive portals apparently made of finely moulded
brass, and embellished on either side by thick round stone towers from
the summits of which red pennons drooped idly in the air. Through the
portals was seen a wide avenue paved entirely with mosaics, and along
this passed an endless stream of wayfarers. A strange city and a strange
people. Fruit-sellers, carrying their lovely luscious merchandise in
huge gilded baskets, stood at almost every corner; flower-girls, fair as
their own flowers, bore aloft in their gracefully upraised arms wide
wicker trays overflowing with odorous blossoms tied into clusters and
wreaths. Theos understood the language spoken. It was perfectly familiar
to him--more so than his own native tongue. What was his native tongue?
Who was he? “Theos Alwyn” was all he could remember. Whence did he come?
The answer was direct and decisive. From Ardath. But what was Ardath?
Neither a country nor a city. And his dress!--he glanced at it, dismayed
and appalled--he had not noticed it till now. It bore some resemblance
to the costume of ancient Greece, and consisted of a white linen tunic
and loose upper vest, both garments being kept in place by a belt of
silver. From this belt depended a sheathed dagger. His feet were shod
with sandals, his arms were bare to the shoulder and clasped at the
upper part by two broad silver armlets richly chased. The men were for
the most part arrayed like himself, though here and there he met some
few whose garments were of soft silk, instead of linen, who wore gold
belts in place of silver, and who carried their daggers in sheaths that
were literally encrusted all over with flashing jewels.

“The costume of the women was composed of a straight clinging gown,
slightly gathered at the throat and bound about the waist with a
twisted girdle of silver, gold, and, in some cases, jewels; their
arms, like those of the men, were bare; and their small delicate
feet were protected by sandals fastened with crossed bands of
ribbon coquettishly knotted. The arrangement of their hair was
evidently a matter of personal taste, and not the slavish copying
of any set fashion. Some allowed it to hang in loosely flowing
abundance over their shoulders; others had it closely braided or
coiled carelessly in a thick, soft mass at the top of the head; but
all without exception wore white veils--veils long, transparent and
filmy as gossamer, which they flung back or draped about them at
their pleasure.”

Dazed and bewildered, Theos Alwyn gazed about him. Then, following the
crowd, he was borne along to a large square which bordered on the banks
of a river that ran through the city. A strange gilded vessel was seen
approaching. Huge oars, like golden fins, projected from the sides of
the vessel and dipped lazily now and then into the water, wielded by the
hands of invisible rowers. The ship sparkled all over as though it were
carved out of one great burning jewel. Golden hangings, falling in rich,
loose folds, draped it gorgeously from stem to stern; gold cordage
looped the sails. On the deck a band of young girls, clad in white and
crowned with flowers, knelt, playing softly on quaintly shaped
instruments; and a cluster of tiny, semi-nude boys, fair as young
cupids, were grouped in pretty, reposeful attitudes along the edge of
the gilded prow, holding garlands of red and yellow blossoms which
trailed down to the surface of the water.

Theos, gazing dreamily and wonderingly upon the scene, was suddenly
roused to feverish excitement, and with a smothered cry of ecstasy fixed
his straining eager gaze on one supreme, fair figure--the central glory
of the marvelous picture.

“A woman or a Goddess?--a rainbow Flame in mortal shape?--a spirit
of earth, air, fire, water?--or a Thought of Beauty embodied into
human sweetness and made perfect? Clothed in gold attire, and
girded with gems, she stood, leaning indolently against the middle
mast of the vessel, her great sombre dusky eyes resting drowsily on
the swarming masses of people, whose frenzied roar of rapture and
admiration sounded like the breaking of billows.”

Beauty-stricken, Theos was roughly brought back to a sense of his
position as a stranger in the city. Al-Kyris was given up to the worship
of a serpent, Nagâya. This woman who had passed was Nagâya’s High
Priestess, the chief power in the place. All the people worshiped her,
and Theos had not, with them, fallen down before her. Immediately he was
seized and roughly handled by the mob, who proclaimed him an infidel and
a spy. At this opportune moment the Poet Laureate of the Realm, one
Sah-Lûma, made his appearance. In Al-Kyris the Laureate was a great man,
next only indeed to Zephorânim, the King.

Sah-Lûma rebuked the crowd for their ill-treatment of the stranger; and
then, hearing that Theos was a poet from a far country, took him to his
own palace.

Probably no vainer person than Sah-Lûma ever existed, whether in a real
or imaginary world. They were very artistic in Al-Kyris. Nobody ever
seemed to work except the black slaves. Apparently there was no
necessity for that. The people, including the King, positively doted on
poets. No wonder Sah-Lûma was the Prince of Egoists, seeing that he was
the chief poet in Al-Kyris.

The Laureate explained the religion of Al-Kyris to his guest:

“We believe in no actual creed,--who does? We accept a certain
given definition of a supposititious Divinity, together with the
suitable maxims and code of morals accompanying that definition--we
call this Religion,--and we wear it as we wear our clothing, for
the sake of necessity and decency,--though truly we are not half so
concerned about it as about the far more interesting details of
taste in attire. Still, we have grown used to our doctrine, and
some of us will fight with each other for the difference of a word
respecting it,--and as it contains within itself many seeds of
discord and contradiction, such dissensions are frequent,
especially among the priests, who, were they but true to their
professed vocation, should be able to find ways of smoothing over
all apparent inconsistencies and maintaining peace and order. Of
course, we, in union with all civilized communities, worship the
Sun, even as thou must do,--in this one leading principle at least,
our faith is universal!

“‘And yet,’ he went on thoughtfully, ‘the well-instructed know
through our scientists and astronomers (many of whom are now
languishing in prison for the boldness of their researches and
discoveries) that the Sun is no divinity at all, but simply a huge
Planet,--a dense body surrounded by a luminous flame-darting
atmosphere,--neither self-acting nor omnipotent, but only one of
many similar orbs moving in strict obedience to fixed mathematical
laws. Nevertheless, this knowledge is wisely kept back as much as
possible from the multitude;--for, were science to unveil her
marvels too openly to semi-educated and vulgarly constituted minds,
the result would be, first Atheism, next Republicanism, and,
finally, Anarchy and Ruin. If these evils--which, like birds of
prey, continually hover about all great kingdoms--are to be
averted, we must, for the welfare of the country and people, hold
fast to some stated form and outward observance of religious
belief.’”

These views were strikingly similar to those held by Theos when he was
in the world, and he could thus endorse the further assertions of
Sah-Lûma, who deemed even a false religion better for the masses than
none at all, urging that men were closely allied to brutes. If the moral
sense ceased to restrain them they at once leaped the boundary line and
gave as much rein to their desires and appetites as hyenas and tigers.
And in some natures the moral sense was only kept alive by fear--fear of
offending some despotic invisible force that pervaded the Universe, and
whose chief and most terrible attribute was not so much creative as
destructive power. Thus Sah-Lûma again on the theology of Al-Kyris:

“To propitiate and pacify an unseen Supreme Destroyer is the aim of
all religions,--and it is for this reason we add to our worship of
the Sun that of the White Serpent, Nagâya the Mediator. Nagâya is
the favorite object of the people’s adoration;--they may forget to
pay their vows to the Sun, but never to Nagâya, who is looked upon
as the emblem of Eternal Wisdom, the only pleader whose persuasions
avail to soften the tyrannic humor of the Invincible Devourer of
all things. We know how men hate Wisdom and cannot endure to be
instructed; yet they prostrate themselves in abject crowds before
Wisdom’s symbol every day in the Sacred Temple yonder,--though I
much doubt whether such constant devotional attendance is not more
for the sake of Lysia, than the Deified Worm!”

Lysia, High Priestess of Nagâya, was the charmer of the God of Al-Kyris,
charmer of the serpent and of the hearts of men. “The hot passion of
love is to her a toy, clasped and unclasped so!--in the pink hollow of
her hand; and so long as she retains the magic of her beauty, so long
will Nagâya-worship hold Al-Kyris in check.” Otherwise,--who was to
know? Not Sah-Lûma and not Theos, though both were to learn later.
Already in Al-Kyris, it was explained to Theos by his new friend, there
were philosophers who were tired of the perpetual sacrifices and the
shedding of innocent blood that marked the worship of the city. There
was a Prophet Khosrûl who even denounced Lysia and Nagâya in the open
streets, and gave out the faith that was in him--that far away in a
circle of pure Light the true God existed,--a vast, all-glorious Being,
who, with exceeding marvelous love, controlled and guided Creation
towards some majestic end. Furthermore, Khosrûl held that thousands of
years thence (the times described in Al-Kyris are assumed to be 5000
B.C.) this God would embody a portion of His own existence in human
form, “and will send hither a wondrous creature, half God, half man, to
live our life, die our death, and teach us by precept and example the
surest way to eternal happiness.”

It is the prophet who gave out this faith against whom the King and the
people of Al-Kyris are mostly incensed. They prefer their worship of
Lysia, “The Virgin Priestess of the Sun and the Serpent,” who “receives
love as statues may receive it--moving all others to frenzy she is
herself unmoved.” So ’tis said. There is, however, the threatening
legend:

“When the High Priestess
Is the King’s mistress
Then fall Al-Kyris!”

And the fall of Al-Kyris is imminent.

To the splendors of the court of Zephorânim, King of Al-Kyris, Theos is
duly introduced by the Poet Laureate. He finds there that the poetic
muse is adored, and Sah-Lûma is scarcely less esteemed than the King,
who, indeed, his friend and devotee, would almost make the Poet supreme.
The government and religion of Al-Kyris is mainly humbug. They sin
freely and get absolution at an annual feast where a maiden is always
slaughtered and offered as a sacrifice to Nagâya.

Theos has some quaint experiences. His great friend Sah-Lûma enchants
the court with a poem--one that Theos faintly remembers he himself had
written in days of old. The poet and his friend, after a court function,
proceed to a reception at the Palace of Lysia. There they witness and
take part in marvelous scenes; and the garden of the Palace gives the
novelist an opportunity for those beautiful word-pictures that her pen
evolves so brilliantly. The poets attend a midnight reception and there
witness an extraordinary ballet which follows a banquet even more
astounding in its incidents and in its revelations of the real character
of this so-called Virgin Priestess. One, Nir-jalis, who had received
favors from Lysia, and who, filled and flooded with wine, was indiscreet
in his utterances, is given by her a cup of poison--the Chalice of
Oblivion--which he drinks, and before a laughing, bacchanalian crowd
dies a horrible death with the jeering words of Lysia in his ears, her
contemptuous smile upon him. Nobody cares. In Al-Kyris, and certainly in
Lysia’s Palace, they enjoy such scenes.

Theos, amazed, watches all. He, too, has another strange revelation
before the night is through. In the midst of the revelry he hears a
chime of bells, which reminds him of the village church of his earlier
years, and of odd suggestions of fair women who were wont to pray for
those they loved, and who believed their prayers would be answered. As
he meditates thereon he is suddenly seized and borne swiftly along till
in the moonlight he recognizes Lysia. Dramatic indeed is the scene that
follows. Theos makes a passionate declaration of love to her, and has
the promise from Lysia: “Thou shalt be honored above the noblest in the
land ... riches, power, fame, all shall be thine--_if thou wilt do my
bidding_.” The bidding is “_Kill Sah-Lûma_,” and it is Lysia who shows
Theos his sleeping friend and places in his hand the dagger with which
to strike. Horrified at the suggestion, Theos flings the weapon from
him, escapes from the Palace, and reaches the home of Sah-Lûma, where,
later, the Poet Laureate rejoins him.

The sands of Al-Kyris were fast running out, and events crowded one upon
the other in rapid succession. Theos was terrorized when Sah-Lûma
recited “the latest offspring of my fertile genius--my lyrical romance
‘Nourhàlma.’” Then the full title was proclaimed--“Nourhàlma: A
Love-Legend of the Past”; and we are given the first line of this
mysterious poem:

“_A central sorrow dwells in perfect joy._”

It was the poem written by Theos after the vision of Edris! He had to
hear Sah-Lûma proclaim it as his own; to praise it, too, as the work of
the other. Assuredly the cup of self-abnegation for Theos Alwyn was very
full. As they talked about the poem a great commotion was heard in the
streets. Theos and Sah-Lûma found themselves in the midst of a turbulent
crowd, who, for once, even disregarded the Poet Laureate. The Prophet
Khosrûl was predicting in the midst of excited multitudes the early
destruction of the city, and the coming of the Redeemer. Upon Theos was
again forced the knowledge which was his in the world whence he had been
transported to this pre-Christian age; and, suddenly roused to
excitement, he declared to these talented barbarians--“He HAS come! _He
died for us, and rose again from the dead more than eighteen hundred
years ago!_”

From the astonishment caused by this declaration the people had scarcely
been roused by words from Sah-Lûma, when King Zephorânim appeared.
Khosrûl, having delivered his last dread warning, fell dead; and his
decease was immediately followed by the collapse of the great obelisk of
the city. The people’s final terrors had begun. The last words of the
Prophet Khosrûl had been a reiteration of the old forgotten warning
regarding the relations of the High Priestess and the King, and the fall
of the city was foretold for _that night_.

Escaping the destruction caused by the fall of the obelisk, Sah-Lûma and
Theos returned to the Palace of the former, and there the Poet Laureate
for the first time showed real emotion on learning that his favorite
slave, Niphrâta, had left him forever. Soon Sah-Lûma and Theos were
summoned by Zèl, High Priest of the Sacrificial Altar, to take part in
the Great Sacrifice; for the people were terrified by the many strange
happenings and were about to join in solemn unison to implore the favor
of Nagâya and the gods. The Temple of Nagâya was magnificently decorated
for this New Year’s Festival. There Sah-Lûma found that the maiden to be
sacrificed was Niphrâta, and he made an impassioned demand, then an
appeal, for her life. Niphrâta was permitted her choice, but she
repudiated Sah-Lûma, appearing to be in love with some ghostly
representation of the Poet and to be unconscious of his material
existence. She had, she plaintively cried, waited for happiness so long;
and, the Sacrificial Priest calling for the victim, she rushed upon the
knife the Priest held ready for her. One second and she was seen
speeding towards the knife; the next--and the whole place was enveloped
in darkness. Fire broke out in every part of the Temple. A terrible
scene of destruction was enacted, and the terrified people rushed hither
and thither in the effort to save their lives;--efforts vain, because
the last day of the city had come,--Al-Kyris was doomed,--there was
rescue neither for people nor priests.

Sah-Lûma, death being certain, desired to die with Lysia, but his claim
was contested by the King. Sovereign and Poet then learned that they had
been rivals in love. The prophecy of Khosrûl was being fulfilled. The
barbarous Lysia, even in these last moments, was fierce in her hate,
and demanded of the King that he should kill Sah-Lûma. Her last order
was obeyed. She could secure the death of the Poet, but she could not
save herself. Her own death was one of the most terrible and appalling
scenes ever conceived or described. Nagâya, the huge snake that the
people of Al-Kyris had worshiped, claimed its own. Frightened by the
flames, in its fear it turned upon its mistress Lysia, and, with the
King vainly striving to drag her from the coils of the python, the High
Priestess, chief of the city of lies, atheism, and humbug, died a death
which she had many times remorselessly and gleefully decreed for others.

Theos, gazing at the funeral pyre, as it vaguely seemed to him, of a
wasted love and a dead passion, passed from the scene, taking with him
the dead body of his friend the Poet. And as he kept his steadfast gaze
on Sah-Lûma’s corpse, “the dead Poet’s eyes grew into semblance of his
own eyes, the dead Sah-Lûma’s face smiled spectrally back at him in the
image of his own face!--it was as though he beheld the Picture of
Himself, slain and ‘reflected in a magician’s mirror!’” Humbly he prayed
to God to pardon his sins and to teach him what he should know; and
again he heard soft, small voices singing _Kyrie Eleison_, and AWOKE to
find himself on the Field of Ardath, the dawn just breaking, and the
angel Edris near him. Then Edris told him that in the past he had been
Sah-Lûma, that in those days he would neither hear Christ nor believe in
Him, and that his talents had been misused; she also told Theos how his
future years should be spent. She promised that afterwards he should
meet her in the highest Heaven, but “not till then, _unless the longing
of thy love compels_.”

It is in that portion of the work called “Poet and Angel” that the
serious aim of Marie Corelli in writing this romance is clearly and
emphatically brought out. Theos Alwyn is himself once again; but he is a
very different self. Returning to London he is received warmly by his
friend Villiers, and hears that “Nourhâlma” has brought him much of fame
and profit. He had ceased to care for one or the other. He tells
Villiers he has become a Christian, anxious, so far as he is able, to
follow a faith so grand, and pure, and true. In his declarations on the
subject we hear what our author again and again urges in many
books--that Christianity and Religion are not determined by one sect or
the other. In the words of Theos:

“I am not a ‘convert’ to any particular set form of faith,--what I
care for is the faith itself. One can follow and serve Christ
without any church dogma. He has Himself told us plainly, in words
simple enough for a child to understand, what He would have us
do,--and though I, like many others, must regret the absence of a
true Universal Church where the servants of Christ may meet all
together without a shadow of difference in opinion, and worship Him
as He should be worshiped, still, that is no reason why I should
refrain from endeavoring to fulfil, as far as in me lies, my
personal duty towards Him. The fact is, Christianity has never yet
been rightly taught, grasped, or comprehended;--moreover, as long
as men seek through it their own worldly advantage, it never will
be,--so that the majority of people are really as yet ignorant of
its true spiritual meaning, thanks to the quarrels and differences
of sects and preachers. But, notwithstanding the unhappy position
of religion at the present day, I repeat I am a Christian, if love
for Christ and implicit belief in Him can make me so.”

This is the text on which many of Alwyn’s powerful arguments are based,
in dealing, both in and out of society, with those opinions of sceptics
and agnostics which had formerly commended themselves to him but which
he now combats with convincing clearness and strength. To emphasize his
position he quotes that terse rebuke of Carlyle’s, in “Sartor Resartus,”
as to the uselessness of Voltaire’s work:

“Cease, my much respected Herr von Voltaire,--shut thy sweet voice;
for the task appointed thee seems finished. Sufficiently hast thou
demonstrated this proposition, considerable or otherwise: That the
Mythus of the Christian Religion looks not in the eighteenth
century as it did in the eighth. Alas, were thy six-and-thirty
quartos and the six-and-thirty thousand other quartos and folios
and flying sheets of reams, printed before and since on the same
subject, all needed to convince us of so little! But what next?
Wilt thou help us to embody the Divine Spirit of that Religion in a
new Mythus, in a new vehicle and vesture, that our Souls, otherwise
too like perishing, may live? What! thou hast no faculty of that
kind? Only a torch for burning and no hammer for building?--Take
our thanks then--and thyself away!”

The theologian and the lay thinker alike must follow with keen interest
the arguments of Theos Alwyn against atheism, materialism, and, what
Miss Corelli calls, Paulism. Uncompromisingly should those writers be
denounced who take immorality for their theme, and achieve considerable
sales thereby. The declarations of Alwyn are of particular interest
because in them expression is given to many of Marie Corelli’s own views
on sacred things. The man or woman who is bewildered by the quarrels of
the religious sects of these days, and whose bewilderment is increased
by the teachings of the cynics, may well exclaim with Alwyn what a
howling wilderness this world would be if given over entirely to
materialism, and conclude with him that, if it were, scarce a line of
division could be drawn between man and the brute beasts of the field!
“I consider,” says the poet, “that if you take the hope of an after-joy
and blessedness away from the weary, perpetually toiling Million, you
destroy, at one wanton blow, their best, purest, and noblest
aspirations. As for the Christian Religion, I cannot believe that so
grand and holy a Symbol is perishing among us. We have a monarch whose
title is ‘Defender of the Faith,’--we live in the age of civilization
which is primarily the result of that faith,--and if, as it is said,
Christianity is exploded,--then certainly the greatness of this hitherto
great nation is exploding with it! But I do not think, that because a
few sceptics uplift their wailing ‘All is vanity’ from their
self-created desert of agnosticism, _therefore_ the majority of men and
women are turning renegades from the simplest, most humane, most
unselfish Creed that ever the world has known. It may be so, but, at
present, I prefer to trust in the higher spiritual instinct of man at
his best, rather than accept the testimony of the lesser Unbelieving
against the greater Many, whose strength, comfort, patience and
endurance, if these virtues come not from God, come not at all.”

To those who, through the atheistic views of some in the churches and of
the hosts outside, begin to feel doubt as to the truth of the Christian
faith, this book “Ardath” will be of enormous value. It will strengthen
their faith and aid greatly to carry conviction to those who pause,
unable to decide amid the chaotic teachings of conflicting theorists. We
praise this book more especially for its virtue as an antidote to the
pitiful writings of some female novelists whose vicious themes must do
much harm amongst the women of the day. “If women give up their faith,”
declares Alwyn to the Duchess de la Santoisie, “let the world prepare
for strange disaster! Good, God-loving women,--women who pray,--women
who hope,--women who inspire men to do the best that is in them,--these
are the safety and glory of nations! When women forget to kneel,--when
women cease to teach their children the ‘Our Father,’ by whose grandly
simple plea Humanity claims Divinity as its origin,--then shall we learn
what is meant by ‘men’s hearts failing them for fear and for looking
after those things which are coming on the earth.’ A woman who denies
Christ repudiates Him, Who, above all others, made her sex as free and
honored as everywhere in Christendom it is. He never refused woman’s
prayers,--He had patience for her weakness,--pardon for her sins,--and
any book written by woman’s hand that does Him the smallest shadow of
wrong is to me as gross an act as that of one who, loaded with benefits,
scruples not to murder his benefactor!”

The reading of “Ardath” will help many to the conviction of Theos
Alwyn--“God Exists. I, of my own choice, prayer, and hope, voluntarily
believe in God, in Christ, in angels, and in all things beautiful, and
pure, and grand! Let the world and its ephemeral opinions wither; I will
not be shaken down from the first step of the ladder whereon one climbs
to Heaven!”

Such is the teaching of this remarkable book “Ardath,” which inculcates
these lessons interwoven with a romantic story of fascinating interest.

Towards its close there occurs, again in the person and in the words of
Heliobas, a scathing comment upon “spiritualists,” for whom six tests
are suggested:

“_Firstly._--Do they serve themselves more than others?--If so,
they are entirely lacking in spiritual attributes.

“_Secondly._--Will they take money for their professed
knowledge?--If so, they condemn themselves as paid tricksters.

“_Thirdly._--Are the men and women of commonplace and thoroughly
material life?--Then, it is plain they cannot influence others to
strive for a higher existence.

“_Fourthly._--Do they love notoriety?--If they do, the gates of the
unseen world are shut upon them.

“_Fifthly._--Do they disagree among themselves, and speak against
one another?--If so, they contradict by their own behavior all the
laws of spiritual force and harmony.

“_Sixthly_ and lastly.--Do they reject Christ?--If they do, they
know nothing whatever about Spiritualism, there being _none_
without Him.”

There is a charming finale. Theos marries the angel Edris. An angel?
Yes; but an angel because _a woman, most purely womanly_. That is all,
and all women can be angels--“A Dream of Heaven made human!”

CHAPTER VI

“WORMWOOD” AND “THE SOUL OF LILITH”

Some day a selection of extracts from “The Works of Marie Corelli” will
be published, and excellent reading it will prove. For, scattered about
the novelist’s goodly list of books, one may light on many interesting
little observations concerning human nature which will well bear
reproduction without the context. In the course of this biography a
modest choice of Miss Corelli’s thoughts on religion, men, women,
education, and such-like topics will be found; but it is impossible in
the narrow scope of the present publication to quote everything that one
would like to.

Early in “Wormwood” there occurs a passage of the kind to which we
refer. It is a pretty description of the ill-fated heroine of the story,
and of her “soft and trifling chatter.” Pauline de Charmilles is
eighteen, newly home from school--“a child as innocent and fresh as a
flower just bursting into bloom, with no knowledge of the world into
which she was entering, and with certainly no idea of the power of her
own beauty to rouse the passions of men.” Pauline, by mutual parental
head-nodding, is thrown much into the society of young Beauvais (who
tells the story), a wealthy banker’s son. His description of the girl
forms the passage alluded to above:

“Pauline de Charmilles was not a shy girl, but by this I do not
mean it to be in the least imagined that she was bold. On the
contrary, she had merely that quick brightness and _esprit_ which
is the happy heritage of so many Frenchwomen, none of whom think it
necessary to practice or assume the chilly touch-me-not diffidence
and unbecoming constraint which make the young English “mees” such
a tame and tiresome companion to men of sense and humor. She was
soon perfectly at her ease with me, and became prettily garrulous
and confidential, telling me stories of her life at Lausanne,
describing the loveliness of the scenery on Lake Leman, and drawing
word-portraits of her teachers and schoolmates with a facile
directness and point that brought them at once before the mind’s
eye as though they were actually present.”

Pauline’s ingenuousness and alluring looks quickly enslave young
Beauvais. He cannot understand the reason of this fascination. He quite
realizes that she is a bread-and-butter schoolgirl, and “a mere baby in
thought,” but--she is beautiful. So, having granted that the net in
which he finds himself immeshed is purely a physical one, he thus
descants on the reasonableness of his fall:

“Men never fall in love at first with a woman’s mind; only with her
body. They may learn to admire the mind afterwards, if it prove
worth admiration, but it is always a secondary thing. This may be
called a rough truth, but it is true, for all that. Who marries a
woman of intellect by choice? No one; and if some unhappy man does
it by accident, he generally regrets it. A stupid beauty is the
most comfortable sort of housekeeper going, believe me. She will be
strict with the children, scold the servants, and make herself look
as ornamental as she can, till age and fat render ornament
superfluous. But a woman of genius, with that strange subtle
attraction about her which is yet not actual beauty,--she is the
person to be avoided if you would have peace; if you would escape
reproach; if you would elude the fixed and melancholy watchfulness
of a pair of eyes haunting you in the night.”

The love of Beauvais is apparently returned by Pauline, and all goes
merrily in the direction of marriage-bells, whose ringing seems a matter
of no great distance off when the two young people become betrothed;
although it is apparent to a great friend of Pauline’s, Heloïse St. Cyr,
that the schoolgirl is not so sure of herself in the matter of being in
love as she should be.

Among the many charmingly French touches in this book is Pauline’s
reassuring speech to her lover. “Be satisfied, Gaston; I am thy very
good little _fiancée_, who is very, very fond of thee, and happy in thy
company, _voilà tout_!” And then, taking a rose from her
_bouquet-de-corsage_, she fastens it in his button-hole, enchanting him
completely.

Then comes Silvion Guidèl, nephew of M. Vaudron, Curé of the parish in
which live the De Charmilles. Guidèl is destined for the priesthood and
possesses considerable personal charms. Beauvais _père_ comments on
them:

“A remarkably handsome fellow, that Guidèl!” he said. “Dangerously
so, for a priest! It is fortunate that his lady penitents will not
be able to see him very distinctly through the confessional
gratings, else who knows what might happen! He has a wonderful gift
of eloquence too. Dost thou like him, Gaston?”

“No!” I replied frankly, and at once, “I cannot say I do!”

My father looked surprised.

“But why?”

“Impossible to tell, _mon père_. He is fascinating, he is
agreeable, he is brilliant; but there is something in him that I
mistrust!”

As events prove, Beauvais _fils_ has only too good reason to distrust
the embryo priest. Soon after, Beauvais _père_ is called away to London
for several weeks, and, as a consequence of the superintending of the
Paris banking house falling entirely to the son, Gaston sees but little
of his _fiancée_. But he is often in the company of Silvion Guidèl, to
whom he becomes much attached in spite of his previous feelings towards
M. Vaudron’s nephew. So, writing the history of those days long
afterwards, Beauvais acknowledges that he was mistaken in changing his
attitude towards Guidèl:

“Though first impressions are sometimes erroneous, I believe there
is a balance in favor of their correctness. If a singular antipathy
seizes you for a particular person at first sight, no matter how
foolish it may seem, you may be almost sure that there is something
in your two natures that is destined to remain in constant
opposition. You may conquer it for a time; it may even change, as
it did in my case, to profound affection; but, sooner or later, it
will spring up again, with tenfold strength and deadliness; the
reason of your first aversion will be made painfully manifest, and
the end of it all will be doubly bitter because of the love that
for a brief while sweetened it. I say I loved Silvion Guidèl!--and
in proportion to the sincerity of that love, I afterwards measured
the intensity of my hate!”

The wedding day draws closer, and Beauvais remains blind to everything
save his own joy and the bliss which he fondly imagines will result from
the union. True, he sometimes notices a certain lack of enthusiasm in
Pauline’s view of the approaching ceremony, but he attributes this and
her wistfulness of expression to “the nervous excitement a young girl
would naturally feel at the swift approach of her wedding day.”
Strangely enough, Guidèl, too, shows signs of physical and mental
distress, but when Beauvais rallies him on his manner and appearance, he
puts the young banker off with light speeches in which, however, there
is a certain bitterness which puzzles the latter considerably. However,
Beauvais still suspects nothing. At length Pauline shatters all his
dreams of the future, and makes him a miserable wretch for life, by
confessing that she loves Silvion Guidèl, that her love is returned, and
that, in consequence of this mutual passion, the worst of possible fates
has befallen her.

Then Beauvais flies to absinthe drinking, which is the keynote of the
story. From that time on it is all absinthe. A broken-down painter,
André Gessonex, lures him on to this disastrous form of begetting
forgetfulness; and this is the first step down the short steep hill
which leads to the young banker’s utter ruin. Having once tasted the
potent and fascinating mixture, he returns to it again and again, and
gradually it warps him, physically and mentally, finally transforming
him into one of the meanest scoundrels in Paris.

But this is after many days. On the morning after his first bout of
absinthe drinking, Beauvais decides to challenge Silvion, but discovers
that the betrayer of Pauline has disappeared from Paris. Thereupon,
though sore at heart, he determines to save Pauline’s family an
infinity of shame by marrying the girl; and so the preparations
continue.

But in the interval that elapses between this decision and the date
fixed for the nuptials, the absinthe works a terrible change in
Beauvais’ attitude towards Pauline, with the result that, when the day
of the ceremony arrives, he denounces her before her parents and the
large assembly of guests as the cast-off mistress of Guidèl, and harshly
refuses to make her his wife.

The awful effect of this speech may be imagined; poor Pauline’s looks
confirm the truth of his statement; the guests quietly leave the
broken-hearted parents with their daughter; there is no marriage. Take
the decorations down; fling the wedding feast to the mendicants who
whine round the house; there is no marriage!

Even Beauvais _père_ turns on his miscreant of a son as they quit the
desolate girl’s abode:

“Gaston, you have behaved like a villain! I would not have believed
that my son could have been capable of such a coward’s vengeance!”

I looked at him and shrugged my shoulders.

“You are excited, _mon père_! What have I done save speak the
truth, and, as the brave English say, shame the devil?”

“The truth--the truth!” said my father passionately. “Is it the
truth? and if it is, could it not have been told in a less brutal
fashion? You have acted like a fiend!--not like a man! If Silvion
Guidèl be a vile seducer, and that poor child Pauline his
credulous, ruined victim, could you not have dealt with _him_ and
have spared _her_? God! I would as soon wring the neck of a bird
that trusted me, as add any extra weight to the sorrows of an
already broken-hearted woman!”

More than this, the indignant old man gives his son a substantial sum of
money, and turns him out of his house.

Pauline, too, leaves her home in a mysterious and sudden fashion,
without telling any one where she is going. The death of her father, M.
de Charmilles, quickly follows. Beauvais drinks himself stupid every
night, and spends his days doggedly hunting for Pauline, who, he feels
sure, has hidden herself in the loathsome slums in which Paris abounds.
And in time he does meet her, but long before this he encounters her
seducer, Silvion Guidèl, and, after a mad struggle, throttles him, and
casts the corpse into the Seine.

The murder is not traced home to Beauvais, who drinks more deeply than
ever of the deadly absinthe, and becomes more surely its slave with
every draught. Gessonex, the disreputable artist who introduced him to
this form of vice, ends his failure of a career by shooting himself on
the pavement outside of a _café_ after one of these carousals, and it
is while Beauvais is visiting the artist’s grave that he at last sets
eyes on Pauline, kneeling by the tomb of the De Charmilles. For he
cannot mistake the figure crouching by that closed door: “She was
slight, and clad in poorest garments--the evening wind blew her thin
shawl about her like a gossamer sail,--but the glimmer of the late
sunlight glistened on a tress of nut-brown hair that had escaped from
its coils and fell loosely over her shoulders,--and my heart beat
thickly as I looked,--I knew--I felt that woman was Pauline!”

When he endeavors to track her to her lodgings, however, she
unconsciously eludes him, and he obtains no clue as to where she may be
found.

Weeks go by, and Beauvais swallows more and more absinthe by way of
deadening thought and feeling. The insidious poison is beginning to tell
on his brain. At times he is seized by the notion that everything about
him is of absurdly abnormal proportions, or the reverse. “Men and women
would, as I looked at them, suddenly assume the appearance of monsters
both in height and breadth, and again, would reduce themselves in the
twinkling of an eye to the merest pigmies.” So, while the _absintheur’s_
brain and body decline, the summer fades into autumn, and he is still
looking for Pauline. At length, one dismal November evening, whilst
wandering home in his usual heavily drugged condition, he hears a woman
singing in one of the by-streets. She is singing a well-known convent
chant, the “Guardian Angel”:

“_Viens sur ton aile, Ange fidèle_
_Prendre mon cœur!_
_C’est le plus ardent de mes vœux;--_
_Près de Marie_
_Place-moi bientôt dans les cieux!_
_O guide aimable, sois favorable_
_A mon désir_
_Et viens finir_
_Ma triste vie_
_Avec Marie!"_

It is Pauline at last! Then the absinthe tells its tale, and Beauvais
completes his scheme of vengeance. With cold-blooded ferocity he
confesses that he has slain her lover, whereupon the desolate girl, the
hopes she had fostered of meeting Silvion again being forever shattered,
buries her woes in the dark bosom of the river of sighs.

Beauvais haunts the Morgue for two days, and his patience is rewarded.
Here is a piece of description which, in its way, is perfect:

“An afternoon came when I saw the stretcher carried in from the
river’s bank with more than usual pity and reverence,--and I,
pressing in with the rest of the morbid spectators, saw the fair,
soft, white body of the woman I had loved and hated and maddened
and driven to her death, laid out on the dull hard slab of stone
like a beautiful figure of frozen snow. The river had used her
tenderly--poor little Pauline!--it had caressed her gently and had
not disfigured her delicate limbs or spoilt her pretty face;--she
looked so wise, so sweet and calm, that I fancied the cold and
muddy Seine must have warmed and brightened to the touch of her
drowned beauty!

“Yes!--the river had fondled her!--had stroked her cheeks and left
them pale and pure,--had kissed her lips and closed them in a
childlike, happy smile,--had swept all her soft hair back from the
smooth white brow just to show how prettily the blue veins were
penciled under the soft transparent skin,--had closed the gentle
eyes and deftly pointed the long dark lashes in a downward sleepy
fringe,--and had made of one little dead girl so wondrous and
piteous a picture, that otherwise hard-hearted women sobbed at
sight of it, and strong men turned away with hushed footsteps and
moistened eyes.”

And that, practically, is the end of the story, for Gaston Beauvais,
having revenged himself on his sweetheart and her betrayer, has nought
to do now save drink absinthe. _Delirium tremens_ ensues, Beauvais is
laid up for a month, and at the end of that period the doctor speaks
plain words of wisdom and warning to him:

“You must give it up,” he said decisively, “at once,--and forever.
It is a detestable habit,--a horrible craze of the Parisians, who
are positively deteriorating in blood and brain by reason of their
passion for this poison. What the next generation will be, I dread
to think! I know it is a difficult business to break off anything
to which the system has grown accustomed,--but you are still a
young man, and you cannot be too strongly warned against the danger
of continuing in your present course of life. Moral force is
necessary,--and you must exert it. I have a large medical practice,
and cases like yours are alarmingly common, and as much on the
increase as morphinomania amongst women; but I tell you frankly, no
medicine can do good where the patient refuses to employ his own
power of resistance. I must ask you, therefore, for your own sake,
to bring all your will to bear on the effort to overcome this fatal
habit of yours, as a matter of duty and conscience.”

But the physician’s admonition falls on heedless ears. Beauvais returns
to the alluring glass, and the book ends with the confession that he is
a confirmed _absintheur_--“a thing more abject than the lowest beggar
that crawls through Paris whining for a sou!--a slinking, shuffling
beast, half monkey, half man, whose aspect is so vile, whose body is so
shaken with delirium, whose eyes are so murderous, that if you met me by
chance in the daytime, you would probably shriek for sheer alarm!”

Such is the graphic and terrible picture drawn by Marie Corelli of the
effects of this iniquitous draught. If Beauvais had not been tempted by
Gessonex to taste it, it is not probable that Pauline’s piteous
confession would have resulted in such wholesale tragedy; for Heloïse
St. Cyr, the sweet woman-friend of the bride-elect’s, dies, too, and so
an entire happy household is destroyed by reason of one man’s
uncontrollable savagery.

Had Beauvais never put his lips to the fatal glass, he would in all
probability, on hearing what had befallen his sweetheart, have quietly
broken off the match. For, it must be remembered, he was a respectable
young banker, of sober mien and quiet ways, not a Bohemian and
frequenter of all-night _cafés_. But he tasted absinthe, and so brought
about his undoing, as many another young Parisian is bringing it about
at the present day. Here is the novelist’s fierce denunciation of the
vice:

“Paris, steeped in vice and drowned in luxury, feeds her brain on
such loathsome literature as might make even coarse-mouthed
Rabelais and Swift recoil. Day after day, night after night, the
absinthe-drinkers crowd the _cafés_, and swill the pernicious drug
that of all accursed spirits ever brewed to make of man a beast,
does most swiftly fly to the seat of reason to there attack and
dethrone it;--and yet, the rulers do nothing to check the spreading
evil,--the world looks on, purblind as ever and selfishly
indifferent,--and the hateful cancer eats on into the breast of
France, bringing death closer every day!”

“Wormwood” is undoubtedly a work of genius--a strange, horrible book,
yet fraught with a tremendous moral. The story of inhuman vengeance goes
swiftly on, without a stop or stay; one feels that the little bride-girl
is doomed, that the priest must die, that unutterable misery must be the
final lot of all the actors in the story.

Marie Corelli does not overstate the case when she declares that
absinthe has taken a grim and cancerous hold of Paris. It is called for
in the _cafés_ as naturally as we, in London, order a “small” or “large”
Bass. But what a difference in the two beverages! A French writer of
authority says that fifteen per cent. of the French army are rendered
incapable by the use of absinthe.

The bulk of the French populace drinks either _bock_ or light wine, and
it takes a fairly large amount of either to produce intoxication. In
England the populace drinks draught ale or whiskey. Comparing the two
peoples and their behavior--for example--on public holidays, we must
allow that the French are by far the more sober nation. But in London we
have not--except in one or two West-End _cafés_--this dreadful absinthe,
and we may well be thankful that the drinking of it has not grown upon
us as it has grown upon the Parisians.

Could not Marie Corelli turn the heavy guns of her genius on the drink
question _this_ side of the Channel! The field is a very wide one.
Children under fourteen are now prevented by law from being served at
public-houses. It would be a good plan, too, if women could not order
intoxicants from grocers. Many a man, in discharging his grocer’s
account, does not trouble to inspect the items, or is not afforded the
chance of inspecting them; many a man, however, if he were to submit his
grocer’s book to a close scrutiny, would find that bottles of inferior
wines and spirits were being supplied along with the raisins and
baking-powder not for his own, the cook’s, or his family’s use, but for
the secret consumption of his wife.

In suggesting new legislative measures with regard to the sale of
intoxicants in this country, Marie Corelli would be performing a public
service worthy of the Nation’s profoundest gratitude.

* * * * *

“The Soul of Lilith,” which was published about a year after “Wormwood,”
is a work of a very different character. This book treats of a subject
in which Marie Corelli revels. As a brief introductory note explains,
“The Soul of Lilith” does not assume to be what is generally understood
by a “novel,” being simply the account “of a strange and daring
experiment once actually attempted,” and offered to those who are
interested in the unseen possibilities of the Hereafter. It is the story
of a man “who voluntarily sacrificed his whole worldly career in a
supreme effort to prove the apparently Unprovable.”

This persistent probing on Marie Corelli’s part of what most writers
shun and very few have ever attempted to solve, is one of the secrets of
her great sales. Turn to page 319 of “The Soul of Lilith,” and you will
find the matter put neatly in a nutshell:

“And so it happens that when wielders of the pen essay to tell us
of wars; of shipwrecks, of hairbreadth escapes from danger, of love
and politics and society, we read their pages with merely
transitory pleasure and frequent indifference, but when they touch
upon subjects beyond earthly experience--when they attempt, however
feebly, to lift our inspirations to the possibilities of the
Unseen, then we give them our eager attention and almost passionate
interest.”

This passage may afford a little light to those people who are forever
declaring that they cannot understand what other people can see in Marie
Corelli. The fact is, Marie Corelli appeals to a tremendous section of
the public--a section in which, we are assured, the fair sex does not
predominate. Indeed, the majority of the novelist’s correspondents are
_men_. Marie Corelli is intensely in earnest, imaginative, and
passionate. She lets her reader know, before she has covered many pages,
precisely what her book is to be about, and in this way she spares one
the irritation excited by those old-fashioned writers who used to drone
on for chapter after chapter, making headway in an exasperatingly slow
and cumbrous fashion.

Then it must be taken into consideration that there is a very big public
which has practically nothing to do except eat meals, sleep, take
exercise, and read novels. Such people are necessarily more
introspective than busy folk, and many of them are exceedingly anxious
as to what will become of them when it shall please Providence to put an
end to their aimless existence in this vale of smiles and tears. Marie
Corelli supplies them with ample food for thought and argument.

Perhaps all these attempts to solve the Unsolvable have a morbid
tendency; a little simple faith is certainly more salutary. However that
may be, a very great public regards such attempts as more engrossing
reading-matter than tales “of love and politics and society”; and a
still stronger reason for Marie Corelli’s immense popularity is to be
found in the fact that she is the only female Richmond in the field.
She sits on a splendidly isolated throne, a writer whose genius has
enabled her to soar to certain peculiar heights which no other literary
man or woman has succeeded in scaling.

“The Soul of Lilith,” as we have inferred, displays its author in her
element. It is a work which, from its nature, may be classed with “A
Romance of Two Worlds” and “Ardath.” It possesses the same mystic
properties, the same speculative endeavors to obtain knowledge that is
denied to mortals.

“_I have kept one human creature alive and in perfect health for
six years on that vital fluid alone._”

This is the kernel of the story, which narrates how El-Râmi, a man of
Arabian origin, possessing many of the mysteriously occult powers
peculiar to the Indian _fakir_, injects a certain fluid into the still
warm veins of a dead Egyptian girl-child called Lilith. In this way he
preserves her body in a living condition, and the success of his
experiment is proved by the fact that Lilith passes from childhood to
womanhood whilst in this state, and answers questions put to her by
El-Râmi.

It is the desire of El-Râmi, however, to make himself master of Lilith’s
soul as well as of her body, and this impious object leads to the
destruction of the fair form he has preserved and of his own reason. For
he falls in love with Lilith, and the declaration of his passion is
followed by her crumbling away to dust. The shock to his highly strung
organization results in his mental collapse, and from this he never
recovers.

There are many passages of wild beauty and extraordinary power in this
story, which occupies many pages in the telling before the superbly
dramatic _dénouement_ is reached. Heliobas, the wise physician of “A
Romance of Two Worlds,” but now turned monk, is introduced into the
story, and warns El-Râmi that his atheistic experiment will prove
fruitless:

“How it is that you have not foreseen this thing I cannot
imagine,”--continued the monk. “The body of Lilith has grown under
your very eyes from the child to the woman by the merest material
means,--the chemicals which Nature gives us, and the forces which
Nature allows us to employ. How then should you deem it possible
for the Soul to remain stationary? With every fresh experience its
form expands,--its desires increase,--its knowledge widens,--and
the everlasting necessity of Love compels its life to Love’s
primeval source. The Soul of Lilith is awakening to its fullest
immortal consciousness,--she realizes her connection with the great
angelic worlds--her kindredship with those worlds’ inhabitants,
and, as she gains this glorious knowledge more certainly, so she
gains strength. And this is the result I warn you of--her force
will soon baffle yours, and you will have no more influence over
her than you have over the highest Archangel in the realms of the
Supreme Creator.”

El-Râmi reminds Heliobas that it is only a woman’s soul that he is
striving for--“how should it baffle mine? Of slighter character--of more
sensitive balance--and always prone to yield,--how should it prove so
strong? Though, of course, you will tell me that Souls, like Angels, are
sexless.”

The monk repudiates such a suggestion. “All created things have sex,” he
declares, “even the angels. ‘Male and Female created He them’--recollect
that,--when it is said God made Man in ‘His Own Image.’”

“What! Is it possible you would endow God Himself with the Feminine
attributes as well as the Masculine?” cries El-Râmi, in astonishment.

“There are two governing forces of the Universe,” replied the monk
deliberately; “one, the masculine, is Love,--the other, feminine,
is Beauty. These Two, reigning together, are GOD;--just as man and
wife are One. From Love and Beauty proceed Law and Order. You
cannot away with it--it is so. Love and Beauty produce and
reproduce a million forms with more than a million variations, and
when God made Man in His Own Image it was as Male and Female. From
the very first growths of life in all worlds,--from the small,
almost imperceptible beginning of that marvelous evolution which
resulted in Humanity,--evolution which to us is calculated to have
taken thousands of years, whereas in the eternal countings it has
occupied but a few moments,--Sex was proclaimed in the lowliest
sea-plants, of which the only remains we have are in the Silurian
formations,--and was equally maintained in the humblest _lingula_
inhabiting its simple bivalve shell. Sex is proclaimed throughout
the Universe with an absolute and unswerving regularity through all
grades of nature. Nay, there are even male and female Atmospheres
which when combined produce forms of life.”

The verbal duel between Heliobas, the man of God, and El-Râmi, the man
of Science, is exceedingly well-written. In the course of their
conversation El-Râmi opines that Heliobas is more of a poet than either
a devotee or a scientist. The monk’s rejoinder is worth quoting:

“Perhaps I am! Yet poets are often the best scientists, because
they never _know_ they are scientists. They arrive by a sudden
intuition at the facts which it takes several Professors
Dry-as-Dust years to discover. When once you feel you are a
scientist, it is all over with you. You are a clever biped who has
got hold of a crumb out of the universal loaf, and for all your
days afterwards you are turning that crumb over and over under your
analytical lens. But a poet takes up the whole loaf unconsciously,
and hands portions of it about at haphazard and with the abstracted
behavior of one in a dream.”

In spite, however, of Heliobas’ warning words, El-Râmi proceeds with his
experiment, which ends as recorded. The scientist is taken by his
brother Féraz--a poetically conceived character--to a monastery in
Cyprus, where he lives in placid contentment. Here he is visited by some
English friends, who sum up his condition and suggest a simple remedy
for others inclined to pursue similar researches in a way that strikes
one as singularly practical:

“He always went into things with such terrible closeness, did
El-Râmi,”--said Sir Frederick after a pause; “no wonder his brain
gave way at last. You know you can’t keep on asking the why, why,
why of everything without getting shut up in the long run.”

“I think we were not meant to ask ‘why’ at all,” said Irene slowly;
“we are made to accept and believe that everything is for the
best.”

And surely the gentle rejoinder of Irene is one that should silence
controversy, dissipate vain speculation, and bring peace and rest to
many thousands of minds which are wearied with attempts “to prove the
apparently Unprovable.”

CHAPTER VII

MR. BENTLEY’S ENCOURAGEMENT--SOME LETTERS OF AN OLD PUBLISHER

When Solomon was at the zenith of his glory the number of people who
could read must have been extremely limited, and yet that monarch--whose
methods of administering justice may compare, in point of brevity and
common sense, with those of the late Mr. Commissioner Kerr--is known to
have commented on the never-ceasing literary output of his generation.

We may take it, then, that from the earliest times the supply of books
has always exceeded the demand--when Israel had kings there must have
been publishers, and from that era to the days of Byron (and, possibly,
in subsequent times) there must have been robbers among them.

The young and aspiring writer has probably trodden a thorny path in his
pursuit of fame at all stages of literary history; for, dealing only
with the facts of yesterday and to-day, the scribe of tender years,
after successfully arranging for the publication of his work has still
had the vitriolic condemnation of the jealous critic to contend with.

There have been occasional straightforward articles in the literary
journals on the ethics of criticism, and now and then a writer of note
and influence has come forward with a word in behalf of the literary
pilgrim, who, however, still goes on his way having no real weapon of
defense save his native ability--and in Marie Corelli’s case this has
proved to be a very sharp weapon indeed!

How Mr. Bentley first became acquainted with Miss Corelli has already
been described in the chapter on “A Romance of Two Worlds.” When Mr.
Bentley paid his first call on her, he found her, to his astonishment, a
mere schoolgirl. It was altogether a novel experience to him to have
dealings with a writer who was at once so youthful and so gifted, and
the attitude he adopted towards her from that time onwards was benignly
paternal.

Marie Corelli has never employed a literary agent, and fails to see why
a writer should not manage his or her own business affairs without any
such extraneous assistance. In some respects we ourselves are of the
opinion that the agent is an undesirable “middleman,” he being far too
apt to hold out glittering awards which lure authors on to work above
their normal pace; but it must be borne in mind that there are many
authors who are poor hands at haggling over terms with publishers and
editors, and, in such cases, the literary agent proves of great service.

No gentleman of this order, then, came between Miss Corelli and Mr.
Bentley after the successful appearance of the “Romance;” terms for
future work were arranged to the mutual satisfaction of author and
publisher; and book after book, under these genial auspices, was
steadily written, each new volume serving still more fully to
substantiate the high opinion Mr. Bentley formed of Miss Corelli’s
abilities after reading her first manuscript.

Shortly after the publication of “The Soul of Lilith” Mr. George Bentley
retired from active participation in the business of his firm (which was
subsequently incorporated with the house of Macmillan), and Miss Corelli
transferred her books to Messrs. Methuen. Hereunder is a list of the
novelist’s works published by Messrs. Bentley:

“A Romance of Two Worlds,” Published 1886.
“Vendetta,” “ 1887.
“Thelma,” “ 1888.
“Ardath,” “ 1889.
“Wormwood,” “ 1890.
“The Soul of Lilith,” “ 1892.

Portions of some of the many letters written to the author of these
works by her publisher we have already quoted. We will now proceed to
give a selection of extracts from others. The reader will not fail to
observe how happily cordial--affectionate, almost--were the relations of
these two--the gray-headed publisher and the young lady novelist.

The first of our selection has to do with “Ardath,” which Mr. Bentley
had been reading in manuscript form:

“_March 3d, 1889._

“You have been very patient and considerate, and I think you
believed that I would not lose any time in reading your Romance,
for a Romance it is, and a most original one. _I have read it all_,
that is, to 964. I should like to see the conclusion.

“The story of Al-Kyris is a magnificent dream, the product of a
rich imagination, the story rising towards the close to
considerable power. The design, the method, the treatment, all are
original, and the fancy has an Eastern richness, and, I presume, a
legitimate basis in fact.

* * * * *

“There is so much in the work that I could write yards upon yards
about it. The fine drawing of Sah-Lûma, its consistency, and the
moral taught by him; the character of Lysia, typifying Lust; that
of poor Niphrâta, of the King, and the finely conceived character
of Theos; the scenes, one after the other, in rapid succession,
ending in the fall of Al-Kyris, should give you a _status_ as a
writer of no ordinary character.

* * * * *

“There can be no doubt that it is a most unusual work, a daring and
sustained flight of the imagination. You will have to rest after
it, for some of your _life_ has gone into it.”

“_March 14th, 1889._

“You must bear in mind that in giving an opinion I am bound to have
an eye upon what I deem defect, rightly or wrongly. I have no need
to call your attention to merits--if I had, I could write a quarto
letter on the merits of Al-Kyris, in which I include, by the way,
the beautiful scene on Ardath, and the first introduction of Edris.
So in the epilogue I quite agree with your critic in his high
admiration of the Cathedral scene, and the reappearance of Edris.

* * * * *

“Please do what you wish--you may be quite right and I wrong. I
shall be very glad to be wrong, as I sincerely desire your success,
because you have a worthy motive and an honorable ambition in
writing, and not any lower aim competing with your Art-Love.

* * * * *

“I enter into your feelings about being ‘passed over,’ but I
observe that reputations which grow gradually and always grow, come
to compel attention at some time or other.”

It would appear from the next letter that the novelist had been throwing
out a hint that the doughty knights of Grub Street might be approached
with a preface of a nature to make them pause ere they ground her latest
work under heel. Mr. Bentley’s letter in reply, like that which follows
it, is redolent of his sturdy independence and sound common sense.

“_April 21st, 1889._

“As to an appeal to critics, I never make one. No good book, that
is a really literary production, should require it, and any other
sort of book doesn’t deserve it.”

“_May 27th, 1889._

“The criticism will do no harm, though it may exercise some in
trying to understand how the blowing hot and cold can be
reconciled. For years almost the whole Press regularly attacked
Miss Broughton, and I have often said that in a long business life
I have never known any one so decried as she was by the Press, who
yet had the good fortune to see the public set aside the verdict of
the critics. May the public so deal with you, and leave the critics
to their isolation.”

The following was written after Mr. Gladstone’s first visit to the
novelist. It should be explained that Mr. Gladstone, when he first
called, found Miss Corelli “out,” and was afterwards invited by her to
come to tea on a particular date:

“_June 4th, 1889._

“I do indeed congratulate you on bringing the man (Gladstone), who
is in all men’s mouths, to your feet, and that, too, simply by your
writings. I know you will be charmed with him, and he with you.
That is a safe prophecy. You will find him delightfully eloquent,
various in knowledge, and highly appreciative.”

And again, on the same topic:

“UPTON, SLOUGH, BUCKS,
“_June 6th, 1889_.

“How very kind of you to write to me the very interesting account
of your interview with Mr. Gladstone!

“It is an event of your life, an event of which you may well be
proud, because the interview arises from his interest in the
product of your brain and heart. It does him honor that he should
thus seek to form the acquaintance of one whom he believes to be
possibly moulding public opinion in religious matters.

“I do most heartily congratulate you, because, in the history of
your life, such an interview henceforth becomes a bit of your
career, as Fox’s conversations with the poet Rogers forms an
interesting and valuable episode in Rogers’ life.”

The following are characteristic of Mr. Bentley’s opinions and frame of
mind. The conclusion of the letter written in October is pleasantly
Johnsonian:

“_June 11th, 1889._

“Genius recognizes genius; it is only mediocrity which is jealous.
Genius is too full of richness to want others’ laurels.”

“_October 14th, 1889._

“I shall very gladly give the matter my best attention, as I need
not add that my literary association with you is a source both of
pleasure and pride to me. At any rate I feel a pride and pleasure
in publishing for an author who loves her work, and does it not
primarily for money, but for fame, and because she can’t help the
bubbling over of her rich imagination. When I get to London, one of
my first visits will be to you. Real conversation is delightful and
refreshing, and the idle talk of the ‘crushes’ is weariness of the
flesh and death to the spirit. You, who aim at higher things, have
an ideal; you who, thank God, believe this world to be a
stepping-stone to one of immeasurable superiority, must often have
asked yourself, after one of the great assemblies to which you went
or where you received--_Cui bono?_ Yes, if the weather keeps
decent, I will with the greatest pleasure refresh my mind with some
converse with you.”

Now occurs an interval of ten months, and then the manuscript of
“Wormwood” evokes the following sentiments:

“_August 5th, 1890._

“DEAR THELMA,--Of the power in your latest work there can be no
doubt. The interest commences immediately, and is on the increase
throughout. The grip you have of the story is extraordinary, and
will react upon the reader, ensuring success.”

“_September 5th, 1890._

“The public, however, may forgive you for the extraordinary power
of some of the scenes, which haunt me now, though it is a month
since I read them.”

“OCTOBER 9TH, 1890.

“When you are on the eve of a remarkable success in the making or
marring of which a few days can have no part, it is a little
unreasonable that you should take so gloomy a view. I await with
confidence the happier feeling which I feel certain is to succeed
these darker moments, and am, as ever....”

“_October 20th, 1890._

“I feel very confident of a great run upon your book. Power is what
the public never refuses to recognize.”

“_October 24th, 1890._

“You so distrust yourself, that you believe your success hangs upon
arts which belonged to publishers who existed in the days of Lady
Charlotte Bury, whereas you have a right to presume that the public
need nothing more than to know a novel of yours is at the
libraries.

* * * * *

“Once more, believe a little more in yourself.”

“_November 3d, 1890._

“I have just had a debate about ‘Wormwood’ with one of the leading
critics of the day, who was complaining of the gloom which
overspread the book.

“‘Well,’ said I, ‘you cannot deny that none but a person who had
genius could have written that work.’

“‘Genius is a big word, but yet I think you are right in this
case,’ replied the critic.

“I know I am.”

“_November 17th, 1890._

“The _Athenæum_ review, to dignify it with that name, is the barest
outline of the story. It points to what, I believe, is the real
cause,--a doubt in the writer’s mind whether an attack would not
stultify the attacker. He recognizes the power, I am certain, but
won’t give you the meed of praise for it.”

“_March 1st, 1891._

“The _Spectator_ is very savage on ‘Wormwood’ this week, but speaks
of the force and power of your imagination.”

“_October 17th, 1891._

“But you must not complain; your recognition, though much slower,
is more and more a fact. Your reputation to-day is higher by a good
way than it was two years ago, as the demand for your works
indicates. Be true to yourself, and only write when the impulse is
irresistible, and all will be well with little Thelma.”

The first part of the next letter has reference to “The Soul of Lilith.”
Following it are further remarks about “Ardath,” which, of all Marie
Corelli’s books, seems to have taken the greatest hold on Mr. Bentley.

“_November 4th, 1891._

“I am glad to hear of your successful progress with your new story.
I get quite curious as the time approaches. One cannot feel with
you as with most authors, that we know what is coming. Every new
story is a new departure.

* * * * *

“I had a charming letter from Herr Poorten Schwartz (Maarten
Maartens) in which he speaks in glowing terms of ‘Ardath,’ which he
had just been reading. He says the description of Al-Kyris is a
magnificent effort of the imagination, in which I entirely agree,
and I rank the description in richness of conception with
Beckford’s famous ‘Hall of Eblis.’ So far, I think it is your
greatest height of imaginative conception--just as in ‘Wormwood,’
much as it repels me in parts, I cannot but recognize the
tremendous dramatic force of many of the scenes.”

“_January 3d, 1892._

“I can say truthfully that I have not known any writer bear success
better than you do, and may you be put to the test for a long time
to come.

* * * * *

“I like much to hear you say, ‘As long as my brain under God’s
guidance will serve me.’ It is an age when such an observation is
by no means an ordinary one, yet I doubt whether the genius of any
writer attains its full scope unless it listen to His voice.”

“_January 29th, 1892._

“‘Good wine needs no bush,’ and I am averse to associating your
name or mine with a system of vulgar exploitation.

“What do Dickens, Thackeray, George Eliot, Collins, or Besant owe
to exploitation, and how long do the reputations survive which are
built on this mushroom bed?”

The following alludes to the publication of a new edition of the work
mentioned:

“_March 16th, 1892._

“DEAR IMPULSIVE, WARM-HEARTED THELMA,--

“Tell me what I am to give you for _Thelma_.[A] I should like to
gratify your wish. Your prosperity and success you know I rejoice
at, and I trust your belief of a short life is only the outcome of
one of those wistful sad moments, which come to all who are richly
endowed with imagination.”

“_April 11th, 1892._

“So cheer up, little Thelma; you have youth and imagination, and
love your art, and have the will to work. So you have the world
before you, and ought to die a rich woman, if that is worth living
for.”

“_April 16th, 1892._

“DEAR LITTLE LADY,--

“It makes me feel uncomfortable to hear of brave little Thelma
being half killed, like Keats, for a review.

“Pooh! stuff and nonsense! You are not to be snuffed out by any
notice. As to not writing again, you will live to write many a good
book yet.

“Laugh at the review, and don’t notice it to any of your friends.
You have a good spirit of your own, and you don’t need to be
crushed, and neither will you be. You will be the first to laugh
this day six months for having been temporarily disquieted.

“As to Law! Oh, lor! Wouldn’t your enemies, if you have any,
rejoice to see you at loggerheads with the Press? No, no, that
wouldn’t do.

“You can _firmly_ rely on your gifts to render nugatory all
attacks upon you of the nature of the present. Let me hear that
Thelma’s herself again.

“Yours sincerely,
“GEORGE BENTLEY.”

“_May 4th, 1892._

“The attacks do not daunt me, and it seems to me that three out of
the four are by one hand.”

“UPTON, SLOUGH,
“_May 17th, 1892._

“DEAR THELMA,--

“I am right glad at the news in your letter. I am sure you will now
see that the late attacks on ‘Lilith’ will derive their importance
only when you notice them. Even from those who do not like highly
imaginative literature, I have heard the remark that the reviews in
question were entirely one-sided, and left one to suppose that the
English public was cracked in running after a writer without a
solitary merit.

* * * * *

“Put together the talents of all your critics, and ask them to
paint the city of Al-Kyris. That came out of a finely sustained
vision, your intense interest in your subject keeping it at a white
heat. I reckon two-thirds of ‘Ardath’ as one of the finest
contributions to imaginative literature which this country
possesses.

* * * * *

“Never write a line if the humor is not in you. It is that
impulsion to write because you can’t help it, which carries you
away, and, for that reason, carries away your reader.”

[Illustration: WHAT BECOMES OF THE PRESS CUTTINGS]

[Illustration: MARIE CORELLI’S PET YORKSHIRE TERRIER “CZAR"]

“_August 29th, 1892._

“Mille felicitations! Thelma, I hope you will keep a diary, which,
though it will not be published in my day, and I shan’t read it,
will some day give interesting glimpses into the social life of
this last decade of the nineteenth century.

* * * * *

“That is a good trait in you that you love your work, and as long
as you do, take it from an old publisher, the public will like it.
Once write as a machine, and the decline is assured.

“I hope and expect that you will like the Prince of Wales. Gambetta
thought highly of him, and your wit will draw out his.”

“_October 4th, 1892._

“I wish you were more assured on this point. Such a creation as
‘Ardath’ will not be again in our time. It assures your position
amongst all those whose opinion is worth having, as surely as
Beckford is remembered to this day by the ‘Hall of Eblis.’”

The next (undated) was written just after Queen Victoria desired that
_all_ Marie Corelli’s works should be sent to her:--

“Bravo! Bravissimo!! dear Thelma, as one used to cry out in my old
opera days, when the glorious Grisi denounced Pollio in _Norma_. I
rejoice at your being recognized all round by Scotch Duchess and
Australian wool merchant, and I hope it may be that Her Most
Gracious Majesty will enjoy a trip into the two worlds of her
bright little subject’s creation, wherein the subject is Queen and
the Queen her subject.”

“_October 28th, 1892._

“I was unable to write and tell you how glad I am that you are once
more yourself again.

“Bother the papers; don’t let them bother you. If I lived next door
to you, I should intercept them all.

* * * * *

“It seems a growing fashion to use strong language, and certainly
such language has been leveled at you. The fair sex in former days
were held to command a chivalrous respect, which seems to be almost
as much a thing of the past as the Crusades.”

This of October 28th, 1892, forms the last of the batch of extracts
placed in our hands. Throughout his business associations with Miss
Corelli, it is apparent that Mr. Bentley was everything that was kindly,
tactful, and encouraging. The imaginative temperament is always a
difficult one to deal with, and Mr. Bentley excelled himself in this
respect. Even when he wished to bestow a mild rebuke he did so with an
old-fashioned courtesy that is truly delightful and only too rare in
these days of dictated, typewritten epistles.

There are other letters, but from these it will be only necessary to
cull a sentence here and there. All the above-quoted communications, we
should add, were in Mr. Bentley’s own handwriting.

Marie Corelli has always been a neat workwoman, and here, in a letter
from her publisher, dated August 28th, 1886, we find a tribute to the
perfection of her “copy:”--

“The printers report that, owing to the fewness of the corrections
and the clearness with which they are made, revises will be
unnecessary, which will be a great gain in time, as well as a
saving of expense.”

_Vice versâ_, one calls to mind a tale of Miss Martineau’s about
Carlyle, who literally smothered his proof-sheets with corrections. One
day he went to the office to urge on the printer. “Why, sir,” said the
latter, “you really are so very hard upon us with your corrections. They
take so much time, you see!” Carlyle replied that he had been accustomed
to this sort of thing--he had got works printed in Scotland,
and ---- “Yes, indeed, sir,” rejoined the printer, “we are aware of that.
We have a man here from Edinburgh, and when he took up a bit of your
copy, he dropped it as if it had burnt his fingers, and cried out,
‘Lord, have mercy! have you got that man to print for? Lord knows when
we shall get done with his corrections.’”

It is evident that Mr. Bentley deemed his _protégée_--if we may so term
her--capable of turning her pen in many directions. “I am not sure that
you could not give us a fine historical novel,” he wrote in 1887, “if
you got hold of a character which fascinated your imagination.”

In a letter dated May 7th, 1888, he refers playfully to “the little blue
silk dress” which seems to have taken his fancy on a previous occasion;
nor did he forget the young novelist’s birthday, for in a previous
letter of the same year he declares that, if he were in London, he would
“be tempted to cast prudence to the wind, even to the perilous East
wind, to offer you my greeting on the first of May.”

Besides being a keen judge of manuscript--as, indeed, he had need to
be--Mr. Bentley wrote very pleasant prose himself. His reading was
extensive and his comments thereon lucid and thoughtful. In 1883 he
printed for private circulation among his friends a little green covered
volume called “After Business.” A copy of this work, presented to Miss
Corelli a fortnight after Mr. Bentley first met her, lies before us.
There are seven chapters, whose nature can be divined from their titles:
I. An Evening with Erasmus. IV. How the World Wags. V. An Afternoon with
Odd Volumes--and so forth. A peaceful, soothing little book is this.
Here is the final passage of the “Odd Volumes” chapter. It affords a
happy example of the book’s literary flavor, of its truly “After
Business” characteristics:

“Let us say good-bye to these dear old volumes, and step
down-stairs, that Lawrence’s sister may give us one of his
favorite melodies. God provides good things for men in music and
books and flowers, and when His fellow-men disappoint Him, or die
around Him, it is something to be able to enjoy the melody of
Mozart and to live with the grand old ghosts who, disembodied, flit
about the old library.”

The influence of the kindly advice George Bentley dealt out to the young
novelist cannot be overestimated. Was she upset by a criticism, he came
to her aid with good humored _badinage_ and sympathy; was she
despondent, he laughed away the mood and bade “Thelma” be herself again!
Always, indeed, he urged her to _be herself_--to embody in her books the
message so nobly delivered by a poet:

“_Stand upright, speak thy thought, declare_
_The truth thou hast, that all may share;_
_Be bold, proclaim it everywhere;_
_They only live who dare._”

CHAPTER VIII

“BARABBAS”--A “PASSION PLAY” IN PROSE

“Why should women’s writings be in any respect inferior to that of men
if they are only willing to follow out _the same method of
self-education_?” asked Charles Kingsley. This was of the nature of a
prophecy, for had Kingsley lived until to-day he would have seen the
verification of his words. Women, as a rule, do not self-educate
themselves. They will not try to walk alone. They understand only just
the easy verse and rhyme of existence. Some few understand to-day a
higher phase by self-conviction. Marie Corelli is certainly one.

To write prose, _perfect_ prose; to stir the heart and move the soul, is
the highest phase of mental reasoning. It is the air and melody of
spiritual conception, the so-called “supernatural.” All our lives we can
talk prose, but to grasp tersely your brain’s creation, to fix upon your
different dream characters and embody them with life, with passion, and
with naturalness--the naturalness which has existed from creation--is
the highest prose, for it is poetry and prose hand-in-hand, an
achievement, a oneness of the two.

This was Marie Corelli’s idea in penning “Barabbas.” Setting her mind
hard and fast to face creeds and defy criticism; true to the instincts
which permeated her mind throughout her pristine works, she went on
following her soul impression, her inspiration to see “good” in most
things, nobility in men and women who might be scourged by the world.
And thus “Barabbas,” though a robber, might have had some strong points,
and though of an evil nature must certainly, from scriptural evidence,
have had the sympathy of the populace. That sympathy gave the author the
keynote to produce the human drama, which is lived over and over again
to-day and forever,--and which is aptly called _A Dream of the World’s
Tragedy_.

Marie Corelli, true to her colors in this later work, still adheres to
poetic spirituality, the “ideal,” the sublime, the free, the
sympathetic, mingled with the rendering of a forcible and traitorous
character in that of “Judith” (the heroine of the book) in its full
strength of weakness and evil, and in its final magnificent revulsion
from _a past_ to the glory of a holy repentance and in finding the King,
in the symbol of the cross. Take this scene, where after madness and
despair, she meets her death:

“The sun poured straightly down upon her,--she looked like a fair
startled sylph in the amber glow of the burning Eastern noonday.
Gradually an expression of surprise and then of rapture lighted her
pallid face,--she lifted her gaze slowly, and, with seeming wonder
and incredulity, fixed her eyes on the near grassy slope of the
Mount of Olives, where two ancient fig-trees twining their gnarled
boughs together made an arch of dark and soothing shade. Pointing
thither with one hand, she smiled,--and once more her matchless
beauty flashed up through form and face like a flame.

“‘Lo there!’ she exclaimed joyously,--‘how is it that ye could not
find Him? There is the King!’

“Throwing up her arms, she ran eagerly along a few steps, ...
tottered, ... then fell face forward in the dust, and there lay;
... motionless forever! She had prayed for the pardon of
Judas,--she had sought,--and found--the ‘King!’”

The conception of the character of “Judith” in “Barabbas” is fret with
strong and sympathetic points. She is the mainspring of the work. The
idea of the “Betrayal” emanates from her, yet the æsthetic treatment at
the finale with the symbol of the cross, while closing her eyes in
death, is poetry in itself.

Listen to Peter’s definition of a lie:

“The truth, the truth,” cried Peter, tossing his arms about; “lo
from henceforth I will clamor for it, rage for it, die for it!
Three times have I falsely sworn, and thus have I taken the full
measure of a Lie! Its breadth, its depth, its height, its worth,
its meaning, its results, its crushing suffocating weight upon the
soul! I know its nature,--’tis all hell in a word! ’tis a ‘yea’ or
‘nay,’ on which is balanced all eternity! I will no more of it,--I
will have truth, the truth of men, the truth of women,--no usurer
shall be called honest,--no wanton shall be called chaste,--to
please the humor of the passing hour! No--no, I will have none of
this, but only truth! The truth that is seen as a shining, naked
simitar in the hand of God, glistening horribly! I, Peter, will
declare it!--I who did swear a lie three times, will speak the
truth three thousand times in reprisal of my sin! Weep, rave, tear
thy reverend hairs, unreverent Jew! Thou who as stiff-necked,
righteous Pharisee, didst practice cautious virtue and self-seeking
sanctity, and now through unbelief art left most desolate!”

The critics were as usual up in arms over “Barabbas,” but in spite of
them its sale has been immense. The book has made such headway since its
publication that it has been translated into more foreign tongues than
any other novel of either the past or present--the translations
comprising thirty to forty languages. As a matter of original
conception, tragical effect and clearness of diction, “Barabbas” is
considered by many the best of Marie Corelli’s works.

In “Barabbas” there is no loitering by the way, as it were, to argue,
although the moral throughout is strong enough. The author’s sensibility
grasps the situation of that potent day in the World’s era with a subtle
reasoning of how to-day things are precisely the same, and would be
precisely the same at the advent of a new Christus, save possibly as
regards the execution. For our lunatic asylums afford an infinitely
better kind of torture than the cross.

The character of Jesus of Nazareth, “the dreamy Young Philosopher” of
his short day, is the poem of the tragedy. Barabbas himself is a
character of much force, despite his weakness in the hands of Judith.
The soliloquies of Melchior throughout the first part of the book are
somewhat drastic, though the character bears out well its own mission.

There is extreme spirituality in the sayings of this somewhat important
creation. He might be the Cicero of the work. One of his replies to
Barabbas, showing the vesture of his thoughts, occurs again thus:

“If thou dost wait till thou canst ‘comprehend’ the mysteries of
the Divine Will, thou wilt need to grope through æons upon æons of
eternal wonder, living a thinking life through all, and even then
not reach the inner secret. Comprehendest thou how the light finds
its sure way to the dry seed in the depths of earth and causes it
to fructify?--or how, imprisoning itself within drops of water and
grains of dust, it doth change these things of ordinary matter into
diamonds which queens covet? Thou art not able to ‘comprehend’
these simplest facts of simple nature,--and nature being but the
outward reflex of God’s thought, how should’st thou understand the
workings of His interior Spirit which is Himself in all? Whether He
create a world, or breathe the living Essence of His own Divinity
into aerial atoms to be absorbed in flesh and blood, and born as
Man of virginal Woman, He hath the power supreme to do such things,
if such be His great pleasure. Talkest thou of miracles?--thou art
thyself a miracle,--thou livest in a miracle,--the whole world is a
miracle, and exists in spite of thee! Go thy ways, man; search out
truth in thine own fashion; but if it should elude thee, blame not
the truth which ever is, but thine own witlessness which cannot
grasp it!”

A terse reasoning out of the living essence of the supreme, and an
almost matchless soliloquy.

Here is another of Melchior’s speeches:

“Men are pigmies,--they scuttle away in droves before a storm or
the tremor of an earthquake,--they are afraid of their lives. And
what are their lives? The lives of motes in a sunbeam, of gnats in
a mist of miasma,--nothing more. And they will never be anything
more, till they learn how to make them valuable. And that lesson
will never be mastered save by the few.”

It was Marie Corelli’s idea in this particular work evidently to clothe
her characters in the real _human_, that which is changeless and
unchangeable as cycles in the world’s eye; and to show that the mind of
man in its essentials _does not change_, and that its perfection is
gained only by the spiritual side of things, overcapping the material
and the so-called animal. That God intends men and women to attain this
superiority over matter is one of the æsthetic treasures of Marie
Corelli’s literature, generally not particularly well received, still
less understood, but haply none the less welcome, as it is a conception
of its own peculiar originality by no means local. The fictional
character of Caiaphas in all his sycophancy and sacerdotal arrogancy
occupies a measure of the romance, furnishing a tone of treachery
throughout.

“Once dead,” whispered Caiaphas, with a contemptuous side-glance at
the fair-faced enemy of his craft, the silent “Witness unto the
Truth,”--“and, moreover, slain with dishonor in the public sight,
he will soon sink out of remembrance. His few disciples will be
despised,--his fanatical foolish doctrine will be sneered down, and
we,--_we_ will take heed that no chronicle of his birth or death or
teaching remains to be included in our annals. A stray street
preacher to the common folk!--how should his name endure?”

Naturally the description of the Magdalen is full of extraordinary
beauty. It is the beauty of a regenerated soul, a soul of love and
greatness, emancipated from the material, yet bearing the same. The
death of the one Magdalen, and the rising therefrom of the new Mary, is
pathetically described in her own words to Barabbas:

“Friend, I have died!”--she said.--“At my Lord’s feet I laid down
all my life. Men made me what I was; God makes me what I am!”

* * * * *

“Thou’rt man”--she answered.--“Therefore as man thou speakest! Lay
all the burden upon woman,--the burden of sin, of misery, of shame,
of tears; teach her to dream of perfect love, and then devour her
by selfish lust,--slay her by slow tortures innumerable,--cast her
away and trample on her even as a worm in the dust, and then when
she has perished, stand on her grave and curse her, saying--‘Thou
wert to blame!--thou fond, foolish, credulous trusting soul!--thou
wert to blame!--not I!’”

If Miss Corelli was bold in attacking so vast and so controversial a
subject as the tragedy of the Christ, she was none the less inspired in
her conception of the situation. The description of Jesus of Nazareth,
upon whom the story centres and concludes, is simplicity itself. It
teaches charity, love, brotherhood, and yet preaches humility; not
humility of a universal ignorance, but that “humility” which puts even
dignity in the shade, since it is dignity in another name. The pathetic
touches are the cream of her story. It is not a long study, but what
there is, is strange and touching with the wholesomeness of real pathos,
not of one particular class, not mythical, but a tender theme as it were
from a woman’s tender heart, possessing the faculty of a noble sympathy
for the world’s greatest tale of inimitable love and sorrow therefrom.
The chapter on the resurrection is one of the highest aims of the work,
and has been read frequently as a “lesson” in the Churches on Easter
day. The peculiar and idealistic spirituality of the angels at the tomb
is told in a fashion distinctive of the writer. The scene of the
resurrection, indeed, is worth giving in its entirety:

“A deep silence reigned. All the soldiers of the watch lay
stretched on the ground unconscious, as though struck by lightning;
the previous mysterious singing of the birds had ceased; and only
the lambent quivering of the wing-like glory surrounding the two
angelic Messengers, seemed to make an expressed though unheard
sound as of music. Then, ... in the midst of the solemn hush, ...
the great stone that closed the tomb of the Crucified trembled, ...
and was suddenly thrust back like a door flung open in haste for
the exit of a King, ... and lo!... a Third great Angel joined the
other two! Sublimely beautiful He stood,--the Risen from the Dead!
gazing with loving eyes on all the swooning, sleeping world of men;
the same grand Countenance that had made a glory of the Cross of
Death, now, with a smile of victory, gave poor Humanity the gift of
everlasting Life! The grateful skies brightened above Him,--earth
exhaled its choicest odors through every little pulsing leaf and
scented herb and tree; Nature exulted in the touch of things
eternal,--and the dim pearly light of the gradually breaking morn
fell on all things with a greater purity, a brighter blessedness
than ever had invested it before. The man Crucified and Risen, now
manifested in Himself the mystic mingling of God in humanity; and
taught that for the powers of the Soul set free from sin, there is
no limit, no vanquishment, no end! No more eternal partings for
those who on the earth should learn to love each other,--no more
the withering hopelessness of despair,--the only “death” now
possible to redeemed mortality being “the bondage of sin”
voluntarily entered into and preferred by the unbelieving. And from
this self-wrought, self-chosen doom not even a God can save!”

This appeals fully to the poetic imagination, and it seems to quicken a
kind of personal interest as to the marvelous mystery of that stupendous
occasion.

Marie Corelli’s Christ embodies much of the human--the human that is
divinely magnetic, almost, if not quite, undefinable, yet not exclusive,
not idolatrous, but simply and gently _human_. The creation of the
character of Jesus of Nazareth possesses no atom of bigotry. It teaches
love and does not seek to embitter hate. The aura of the master
character permeates each living character throughout the work. It
preaches Love, Charity, and Brotherhood; it ignores the Church (_i.e._,
sectarian misnomer), so it should have, as it has through so many
tongues, its mission.

There is no new creed, no new passion, no new deed under the sun to-day.
There is only the same recapitulation in a fresh garb. Our Saints still
live to-day. It sounds drastic enough, but Miss Corelli feels this and
knows that midst the fair field of fairness there is also the thorn and
the poisonous flower any one may cull, or the simple field lily that
lifts its face to Heaven, and sees only Heaven in its purity.

Kingsley said, “The history of England is the literature of England.”
Possibly so. The strong advance of women writers ever since that
excellent man’s passing has proved much of this. It is to the honor of
women to-day. It is proved in the fine grasp of subjects, the faculty of
dealing poetically with a theme, so widely known yet always fresh, under
new lens, and without which this world to many would be a finite and a
joyless place. There is just another quotation from “Barabbas,” quite at
the conclusion of this remarkable book, which weighs in with this and
also with the author’s idea,--just an exoneration of the Great Tragedy,
a simplification of the whole story. It is the finale and in itself not
only teaches powerfully, but is an invitation, as it were, from a potent
mind to those to whom it sends its own message:

“‘It is God’s symbolic teaching,’ he said, ‘which few of us may
understand. A language unlettered and vast as eternity itself! Upon
that hill of Calvary to which thou, Simon, turnest thy parting
looks of tenderness, has been mystically enacted the world’s one
Tragedy--the tragedy of Love and Genius slain to satisfy the malice
of mankind. But Love and Genius are immortal; and immortality must
evermore arise: wherefore in the dark days that are coming let us
not lose our courage or our hope. There will be many forms of
faith,--and many human creeds in which there is no touch of the
Divine. Keep we to the faithful following of Christ, and in the
midst of many bewilderments we shall not wander far astray. The
hour grows late,--come, thou first hermit of the Christian
world!--let us go on together!’

“They descended the hill. Across the plains they passed slowly,
taking the way that led towards the mystic land of Egypt, where the
Pyramids lift their summits to the stars, and the Nile murmurs of
the false gods forgotten. They walked in a path of roseate radiance
left by a reflection of the vanished sun; and went onward steadily,
never once looking back till their figures gradually diminished and
disappeared. Swiftly the night gathered, and spread itself darkly
over Jerusalem like a threatening shadow of storm and swift
destruction; thunder was in the air, and only one pale star peeped
dimly forth in the dusk, shining placidly over the Place of Tombs,
where, in his quiet burial-cave, Barabbas slept beside the
withering palm.”

CHAPTER IX

“THE SORROWS OF SATAN,”--AS A BOOK AND AS A PLAY,--THE STORY OF THE
DRAMATIZATION

The publication of “The Sorrows of Satan,” in 1895, caused a greater
sensation than had followed the appearance of any other work by Miss
Corelli. Many presumably competent judges of literature indulged in an
absolute orgie of denunciation. In the _Review of Reviews_, Mr. W. T.
Stead printed a column or so of sneers, though admitting that the
conception was magnificent, and that the author had an immense command
of language. Anxious, apparently, not to miss what would greatly
interest the public, a good twelve pages of his periodical were devoted
to extracts from the book. He knew, as all the critics knew, that all
the world would soon be reading it, and forming its own judgment. The
public must, in very truth, form an unflattering opinion of the fairness
of some of those who attempt to force their own opinions of a book upon
men and women who are not only fully capable of thinking for themselves,
but who, sometimes,--as in the case of Marie Corelli’s
publications,--insist upon doing so.

Most of the critics entirely missed the point of “The Sorrows of Satan.”
There is a notable character in the book--Lady Sibyl Elton. Now the idea
of Lady Sibyl was an allegorical one. She represented, to Marie
Corelli’s mind, the brilliant, indifferent, selfish, vicious
impersonation of _Society offering itself body and soul to the devil_.
This was completely lost sight of by most of those who criticised the
book, and who had not the imagination to see _beyond_ the mere _forms_
of _woman_ and _fiend_. _All_ the other characters are arranged to play
round this one central idea, so far as the “woman of the piece” was
concerned.

It utterly surprised the author to find that people imagined that she
had taken some real woman to portray, and had contrasted her badness
with Mavis Clare to advertise her own excellent character against the
other’s blackness. Facts, however, are facts. Marie Corelli considers
that the evils of society are wrought by women; hence the impersonation
of Lady Sibyl as a woman, courting the devil. Secondly, she considers
that the reformation of society must be wrought by women; hence the
impersonation of Mavis Clare, as a woman _repelling_ the devil.

“The Sorrows of Satan” is now in its forty-third edition. The book has
not only been read by representatives of all classes in all countries,
but is valued and loved by many thousands who, by the wonderful power of
this single pen, have been forced to _think_; and, by meditating upon
the problems which make the book, have found themselves better men and
women for the exercise.

“Thousands and tens of thousands throughout English-speaking
Christendom,” declared Father Ignatius, “will bless the author who has
dared to pen the pages of ‘The Sorrows of Satan’; they will bless Marie
Corelli’s pen, respecting its denunciation of the blasphemous verses of
a certain ‘popular British poet.’ Where did the courage come from that
made her pen so bold that the personality of God, the divinity of
Christ, the sanctity of marriage, the necessity of religious education
should thus crash upon you from the pen of a woman?”

Courageous, indeed, is any author or speaker who attacks the
selfishness, the materialism, the insincerity of much of our social life
and of many of our social customs. And what made the attack so
successful, what caused such bitter resentment on the part of those who
hate Marie Corelli for her exposures of shams and impostures, and her
valiant upholding of virtue and of truth, is the fact that the author
has not only the courage which her convictions give her, but that she
has the power that justifies her bravery! The book is a grand and
successful attempt to show how women who are good and true hold the
affection, the esteem, the devotion, the homage of men; it is an
incentive to women to be in men’s regard the Good Angels that men best
love to believe them; it is a lesson to women how to attain the noblest
heights of womanhood.

As Marie Corelli, in discussing the “Modern Marriage Market,” has said,
“Follies, temptations, and hypocrisies surround, in a greater or less
degree, all women, whether in society or out of it; and we are none of
us angels, though, to their credit be it said, some men still think us
so. Some men still make ‘angels’ out of us, in spite of our cycling
mania, our foolish ‘clubs,’--where we do nothing at all,--our rough
games at football and cricket, our general throwing to the winds of all
dainty feminine reserve, delicacy, and modesty,--and we alone are to
blame if we shatter their ideals and sit down by choice in the mud when
they would have placed us on thrones.”

The woman who reads and studies “The Sorrows of Satan” will desire to
attain the angel ideal; and the lesson will be the better learned by the
reading of this book because of the appalling picture of Lady Sibyl
Elton, whose callousness and whose _fin-de-siècle_ masquerading, lying,
trickery, atheism, and vice, make up an abomination in the form of Venus
that is a painting of many society beauties of the day,--soulless
beauties whose bodies are as deliberately sold in the marriage mart as
the clothes and jewels with which their damning forms are adorned.

And then in “The Sorrows of Satan” there is the unattractive personality
of Geoffrey Tempest, a man with five millions of money, one of whose
first declarations on the attainment of wealth is that he will give to
none and lend to none, and who pursues a life of vanity, selfishness,
and self-aggrandizement, until at last he repels the evil genius of the
story, Prince Lucio Rimânez--the devil.

In the opening chapter of “The Sorrows of Satan” we are introduced to
Mr. Geoffrey Tempest, at the moment a writer and a man of brains, but
starving and sick at heart through a hopeless struggle against poverty,
and railing against fate and the good luck of a “worthless lounger with
his pockets full of gold by mere chance and heritage.” He is in the
lowest depths of despair, having just had a book of somewhat lofty
thoughts rejected with the advice that, to make a book “go,” it is
desirable, from the publisher’s point of view, that it should be
somewhat _risqué_; in fact, the more indecent the better. It was pitiful
advice and wholly false, for the reason that the great majority of
publishers most carefully avoid works of the kind. Tempest’s case is bad
indeed. He must starve, because his ideas are “old-fashioned.” Moreover,
he cannot pay his landlady her bill. And just at this critical moment
two things happen. He receives £50 from an old chum and £5,000,000 from
Satan. But he is not aware of the real source from which proceeds the
latter sum. Presumably it comes from an unknown uncle whose solicitors
confide to the legatee that the old man had a strange idea “that he had
sold himself to the devil, and that his large fortune was one result of
the bargain.” But who, with five millions to his name, would worry about
an old man’s fancies? Certainly not Geoffrey Tempest. Probably no man.

On the very night that the intimation of his good fortune reaches him,
the newly made millionaire receives a call from Prince Lucio Rimânez,
whose person is beautiful, whose conversation is witty to brilliance,
whose wealth is unlimited, and whose age is mysterious. The meeting
takes place very suitably in the dark, and the hands of the pair meet in
the gloom “quite blandly and without guidance”; and we soon hear from
the lips of the Prince that it is a most beautiful dispensation of
nature that “honest folk should be sacrified in order to provide for the
sustenance of knaves!” and that the devil not only drives the world whip
in hand, but that he manages his team very easily.

Tempest and Rimânez forthwith become friends--even more, chums
inseparable; and soon we find Mr. Geoffrey Tempest very aptly playing
the part he had formerly rallied against--that of a worthless lounger
with his pockets full of gold, and gluttonously swallowing the evil and
corrupting maxims of his fascinating friend. He eats the best of food,
drinks the most expensive of wines, and rides in the most luxurious of
carriages; his book is published and advertised and boomed at his own
expense, and he has not a particle of sympathy for the poor or the
suffering. “It often happens that when bags of money fall to the lot of
aspiring genius, God departs and the devil walks in.” So asserts
Rimânez--who ought to know; and so it proves in the case of his rich and
ready disciple, Mr. Geoffrey Tempest. Nothing seems to disturb the
serenity of the multi-millionaire in the early days of his new-found
wealth and power--for the world bows before him--except a mysterious
servant of the Prince’s, a man named Amiel, who cooks mysterious meals
for his master and, imp of mischief, plays strange pranks upon his
fellow-servants.

Soon Tempest, through the instrumentality of his princely friend, makes
the acquaintance of the beautiful Lady Sibyl Elton. “No man, I think,
ever forgets the first time he is brought face to face with perfect
beauty in woman. He may have caught fleeting glimpses of many fair faces
often,--bright eyes may have flashed on him like starbeams,--the hues of
a dazzling complexion may now and then have charmed him, or the
seductive outlines of a graceful figure;--all these are as mere peeps
into the infinite. But when such vague and passing impressions are
suddenly drawn together in one focus, when all his dreamy fancies of
form and color take visible and complete manifestation in one living
creature who looks down upon him, as it were, from an empyrean of
untouched maiden pride and purity, it is more to his honor than his
shame if his senses swoon at the ravishing vision, and he, despite his
rough masculinity and brutal strength, becomes nothing but the merest
slave to passion.” Thus Geoffrey Tempest when the violet eyes of Sibyl
Elton first rest upon him.

The scene is a box at a theatre, the play of questionable character
about a “woman with a past.” The picture is complete with the lady’s
father--the Earl of Elton--bending forward in the box and eagerly
gloating over every detail of the performance. There is assuredly no
exaggeration in this portraiture. Such scenes can be witnessed every
night during the season. Nor does Marie Corelli go beyond the unpleasing
truth in asserting that novels on similar themes are popular amongst
women and are a sure preparation for the toleration and applause by
women of such plays.

The Earl of Elton is hard up, as his daughter knows, and she has been
trained to manœuvre for a rich husband. The idea of a marriage for love
is out of the question; she is too wary to brave “the hundred gloomy
consequences of the _res angusta domi_,” as old Thackeray puts it. She
is not the sort of girl who marries where her heart is, “with no other
trust but in heaven, health, and labor,”--to quote the same mighty
moralist.

As Prince Rimânez has explained to Tempest, Lady Sibyl is “for sale” in
the matrimonial market, and Tempest determines to buy her; or, in other
words, decides that he wants to marry her and that his millions will
enable him to achieve that object. Poor Lady Sibyl! A victim of
circumstances, it is impossible not to pity her! Cold, callous,
heartless, calculating, corrupt, she is what her mother has made
her--the mother herself being a victim of paralysis and sensuality, a
titled, worn-out _rouée_.

“Madame, we want mothers!” Napoleon once said truly to one who sorrowed
over the decadence of French manhood; and to the Countess of Elton might
have been applied, with more justice than to the less sinful sisters
from whom society sweeps its skirts, the name of wanton.

Tempest loses no time in pursuing what now becomes the main object of
his life--marriage with Lady Sibyl Elton, who is quite ready to be
wooed. Incidentally, the book contains stirring pictures of the times.
There is a visit of Tempest and Rimânez to an aristocratic
gambling-house, and Miss Corelli’s account of the scene there enacted is
but a true description of what is going on constantly “in the West.” How
often, when the Somerset House records of the wills of deceased men of
note are revealed, do people marvel that So-and-so, with his vast
income, was able to put by so little!

Very often it is the gaming-table that supplies the reason. For the
gambling fever is raging in the world of to-day from peers, statesmen,
lawyers, aye, and ministers, to the street-boys who stake their trifles
on a race or a game of shove ha’penny. There are book-makers who, as the
police records show, do not hesitate to accept penny bets on horse
races from boys. There are “swell” boardinghouses, we know, in secluded
country retreats, where _roulette_, _rouge et noir_, and baccarat are
played nightly all the year round, not for pounds, but for hundreds of
pounds, and the police of the districts concerned never disturb the
accursed play. There are luxurious flats in London where similar play
goes on, equally undisturbed by the police. And there are the gaming
hells, such as Miss Corelli describes, where often may be seen men of
distinction, whose names are familiar to every ear, destroying their
peace, their prosperity, the happiness of themselves and their families,
for the luck of the cards.

To such a place as this--where wealth and position were the only “open
sesames”--went Tempest and Prince Rimânez. Both, so rich that it
mattered not to them what resulted, play and win heavily, mainly from a
Viscount Lynton. Rimânez here stays one of the only good impulses that
came to Geoffrey Tempest after his accession to wealth. He would have
forgiven the Viscount his ruinous losses. And so the play goes on, and
then--a merry bet--Lynton plays with Rimânez at baccarat for a queer
stake--his soul. Of course he loses, and Rimânez has but a short time to
wait to collect the wager, for the mad young Viscount blows out his
brains that night. Such is the history--less only the last specific
bet--of many a young aristocrat’s suicide.

In the furtherance of his marriage scheme, Tempest purchases Willowsmere
Court, in Warwickshire, a place which, in his palmy days, the Earl of
Elton had owned, but which had subsequently got into the hands of the
Jews. Near to Willowsmere lives Mavis Clare, the good angel of the
story. It has been said “in print,” and it is popularly believed even
now, notwithstanding positive denial, that Mavis Clare was intended to
portray Miss Marie Corelli. It was an unwarrantable and unfair
suggestion, because it implied to Miss Corelli that gross libel, often
falsely attributed to her, of vanity and self-advertisement. In very
truth, if she were vain it would be a sin easy to condone in one who has
achieved so much. Yet, happily, she is so true a woman that vanity has
no part in her character, and she is incapable of deliberately applying
to herself the Mavis Clare description.

In the _Review of Reviews_ it was stated: “A leading figure in ‘The
Sorrows of Satan’ is none other than the authoress herself, Marie
Corelli, who, like Lucifer, the Son of Morning, also appears under a
disguise. But it is a disguise so transparent that the wayfaring man,
though a fool, could not fail in identifying it. Mavis Clare, whose
initials it may be remarked[B] are the same as those of the authoress,
represents Marie Corelli’s ideal of what she would like to be, but
isn’t; what in her more exalted moments she imagines herself to be. It
is somewhat touching to see this attempt at self-portraiture.” The
suggestion thus put forward, that Mavis Clare was a _deliberate_
portrait of Miss Marie Corelli, was at once accepted by the public--be
it said to the credit of the public, who, having read her books, must
have been instilled with the accurate idea that the talented author must
be good and true, like Mavis Clare. Color was naturally lent to the
suggestion of her deliberate self-portraiture by the similarity of the
initials, and also of the circumstances of Miss Corelli and the lady of
the story.

Nothing, however, was further from Miss Corelli’s thoughts or intentions
than this, and the similarity of the initials was purely accidental. The
name was written in the manuscript and appeared in the proofs as “Mavis
Dare” and not Mavis Clare. Not only just before the book went to press,
but actually whilst it was in the press, the second name was suddenly
altered, because it was pointed out to Miss Corelli that the name was
so very like the “Avice Dare” of another writer. When these facts were
brought to Mr. Stead’s notice he did Miss Corelli the justice to
apologize for the statement which had been made in the _Review of
Reviews_.

It is Lady Sibyl who suddenly and violently breaks the thin wall between
Tempest’s desire to marry her and the formal request that she shall
become his wife. She, with just enough glimmering of honor to detest the
“marriage by arrangement,” informs him of her knowledge that her charms
are for sale and that he, Tempest, is to be the accepted purchaser. Her
language is plain enough in very truth to demonstrate the hideousness of
the bargain, for this is the picture of the bride-to-be that she herself
draws for the edification of her future husband:

“I ask you, do you think a girl can read the books that are now
freely published, and that her silly society friends tell her to
read,--‘because it is so dreadfully _queer_!’--and yet remain
unspoilt and innocent? Books that go into the details of the lives
of outcasts?--that explain and analyze the secret vices of
men?--that advocate almost as a sacred duty ‘free love’ and
universal polygamy?--that see no shame in introducing into the
circles of good wives and pure-minded girls, a heroine who boldly
seeks out a man, _any_ man, in order that she may have a child by
him, without the ‘degradation’ of marrying him? I have read all
those books, and what can you expect of me? Not innocence, surely!
I despise men,--I despise my own sex,--I loathe myself for being a
woman! You wonder at my fanaticism for Mavis Clare,--it is only
because for a time her books give me back my self-respect, and make
me see humanity in a nobler light,--because she restores to me, if
only for an hour, a kind of glimmering belief in God, so that my
mind feels refreshed and cleansed. All the same, you must not look
upon me as an innocent young girl, Geoffrey, a girl such as the
great poets idealized and sang of. I am a contaminated creature,
trained to perfection in the lax morals and prurient literature of
my day.”

The unholy wedding of the selfish millionaire and Lady Sibyl Elton takes
place. Prince Rimânez acts as master of the ceremonies, and calls to his
aid a devil’s own army of imps who work marvelous musical and
picturesque effects--their identification as creatures of hell being, of
course, hidden. Even thunder and lightning are called down to add to the
remarkable scene. And so the marriage bargain is completed.
Disillusionment quickly follows, and we find the husband and wife
mutually disgusted with one another, and on the verge of hate. Lady
Sibyl, however, finds passion at last, passion for the husband’s friend,
Lucio Rimânez, Prince of Darkness.

To such an extent does this fever of love possess her that she seeks
out Rimânez one night and declares her love, only to be scorned by him:

“I know you love me,” (is his retort); “I have always known it!
Your vampire soul leaped to mine at the first glance I ever gave
you.” And he rejects her pleadings. “For you corrupt the
world,--you turn good to evil,--you deepen folly into crime,--with
the seduction of your nude limbs and lying eyes you make fools,
cowards, and beasts of men!” There is no limit to the degradation
of this evil wife. “Since you love me so well,” he said, “kneel
down and worship me!”

She falls upon her knees. And the scene thus continues:

“With every pulse of my being I worship you!” she murmured
passionately. “My king! my god! The cruel things you say but deepen
my love for you; you can kill, but you can never change me! For one
kiss of your lips I would die,--for one embrace from you I would
give my soul!...”

“Have you one to give?” he asked derisively. “Is it not already
disposed of? You should make sure of that first! Stay where you are
and let me look at you! So!--a woman, wearing a husband’s name,
holding a husband’s honor, clothed in the very garments purchased
with a husband’s money, and newly risen from a husband’s side,
steals forth thus in the night, seeking to disgrace him and pollute
herself by the vulgarest unchastity! And this is all that the
culture and training of nineteenth-century civilization can do for
you? Myself, I prefer the barbaric fashion of old times, when rough
savages fought for their women as they fought for their cattle,
treated them as cattle, and kept them in their place, never
dreaming of endowing them with such strong virtues as truth and
honor! If women were pure and true, then the lost happiness of the
world might return to it, but the majority of them are like
you--liars--ever pretending to be what they are not. I may do what
I choose with you, you say? torture you, kill you, brand you with
the name of outcast in the public sight, and curse you before
Heaven, if I will only love you! All this is melodramatic speech,
and I never cared for melodrama at any time. I shall neither kill
you, brand you, curse you, nor love you; I shall simply--call your
husband!”

After further passages of this description, concluding with some passes
with a dagger, the scene ends, the hidden but listening husband coming
forth and blessing the friend for his upright conduct. The inevitable
follows. Lady Sibyl commits suicide; and the husband, finding the corpse
seated in a chair before a mirror, carries out a plan for an awful
midnight interview with the dead, turning on a blaze of lamps, and
sitting down there in the death-chamber to read a document left by his
wife, in which she gives a pitiful picture of the training that has made
her character so repellent. She describes, in a remarkable and appalling
letter, of which an extract follows, how the death-giving poison is
taken and the agonizing thoughts of the last moments.

“Oh, God!... Let me write--write--while I can! Let me yet hold fast
the thread which fastens me to earth,--give me time--time before I
drift out, lost in yonder blackness and flame! Let me write for
others the awful Truth, as I see it,--there is No death!
None--none! _I cannot die!..._ Let me write on,--write on with this
dead fleshly hand, ... one moment more time, dread God!... one
moment more to write the truth,--the terrible truth of Death whose
darkest secret, Life, is unknown to men!... To my despair and
terror,--to my remorse and agony, I live!--oh, the unspeakable
misery of this new life! And worst of all,--God whom I doubted, God
whom I was taught to deny, this wronged, blasphemed and outraged
God EXISTS! And I could have found Him had I chosen,--this
knowledge is forced upon me as I am torn from hence,--it is shouted
at me by a thousand wailing voices!... too late!--too late!--the
scarlet wings beat me downward,--these strange half-shapeless forms
close round and drive me onward ... to a further darkness, ... amid
wind and fire!... Serve me, dead hand, once more ere I depart, ...
my tortured spirit must seize and compel you to write down this
thing unnamable, that earthly eyes may read, and earthly souls take
timely warning!... I know at last WHOM I have loved!--whom I have
chosen, whom I have worshiped!... Oh, God, have mercy!... I know
who claims my worship now, and drags me into yonder rolling world
of flame!... his name is ----”

Here the manuscript ends,--incomplete and broken off abruptly,--and
there is a blot on the last sentence as though the pen had been
violently wrenched from the dying fingers and flung hastily down.

From this terrible incident the story hastens to its close, remarkable
alike for the discourses of the Prince of Darkness, for the experiences
of Tempest, for his final severance from the evil genius and his return
to honest work. And here it is necessary to consider the conception of
his Satanic Majesty with which the author presents us. She states that
the idea came to her in the first place from the New Testament: “There I
found that Christ was tempted by Satan with the offer of thrones,
principalities and powers, all of which the Saviour rejected. When the
temptation was over I read that Satan left Him, and that angels came and
ministered to Him. I thought this out in my own mind and I concluded
that if man, through Christ, would only reject Satan, Satan would leave
him, and that angels would minister to him in the same way that they
ministered to Christ. Out of this germ rose the wider idea that Satan
himself might be glad for men to so reject him, as he then might have
the chance of recovering his lost angelic position.” In fact, the writer
would have it that Satan becomes on terms of intimacy with man, and man
then becomes consequently evil, only if man shows that he wishes to
travel an evil course; that man may never redeem the devil, but that
when man has become as perfect as, through Christ, he may, then the
devil may again become an angel--a Doctrine of universal salvation for
sinners and for Satan too. No other writer has given such a conception
of the devil’s character and position.

The central conception of “The Sorrows of Satan,” Marie Corelli further
says, is that as the possession of an immortal spirit must needs breed
immortal longings, Satan, being an angel once, must of necessity long
for that state of perfection; and that God, being the perfection of
love, could not in His love deny all hope of final redemption even to
Satan. Truly she here gives a conception of the God of Love more
attractive than the pitiless readings of the Divine character which some
theologians would have us accept.

There are the two conflicting influences in the novelist’s conception of
the devil--Satan endeavoring to corrupt and destroy man, yet knowing
that if man rejects him he is nearer to his own redemption. And so in
this book we find Prince Lucio Rimânez often giving utterance to
thoughts and principles which the man enslaved by him refuses to adopt
and practice, as if he longed for Tempest to repel him, though helping
forward all his selfish schemes. And we are given, too, the picture of
this Prince of Darkness, finding that Mavis Clare could not be tempted,
begging for her prayers--“_you_ believe God hears you.... Only a pure
woman can make faith possible to man. Pray for me, then, as one who has
fallen from his higher and better self; who strives, but who may not
attain; who labors under heavy punishment; who would fain reach Heaven,
but who by the cursed will of man, and man alone, is kept in hell! Pray
for me, Mavis Clare; promise it; and so shall you lift me a step nearer
the glory I have lost.”

Rimânez and Tempest go on a long yachting cruise together,--to
Egypt,--and during this journey the discourses of the Prince are
numerous and of intense interest. In one he states that if men were true
to their immortal instincts and to the God that made them,--if they were
generous, honest, fearless, faithful, reverent, unselfish, ... if women
were pure, brave, tender, and loving,--then “Lucifer, Son of the
Morning,” lifted towards his Creator on the prayers of pure lives, would
wear again his Angel’s crown. There is for a brief period after this a
vision of the devil,--“one who, proud and rebellious, like you, errs
less, in that he owns God as his Master”--as an Angel. And then the
yacht, steered by the demon Amiel, crashes on through ice with a noise
like thunder, to the world’s end. Tempest catches a passing glimpse of
his dead wife, and feels remorse and pity at last. A few moments pass
and Tempest’s hour has come, an hour for a great decision:

“Know from henceforth that the Supernatural Universe in and around
the Natural is no lie,--but the chief Reality, inasmuch as God
surroundeth all! Fate strikes thine hour,--and in this hour ’tis
given thee to choose thy Master. Now, by the will of God, thou
seest me as Angel;--but take heed thou forget not that among men I
am as Man! In human form I move with all humanity through endless
ages,--to kings and counselors, to priests and scientists, to
thinkers and teachers, to old and young, I come in the shape their
pride or vice demands, and am as one with all. Self finds in me
another Ego;--but from the pure in heart, the high in faith, the
perfect in intention, I do retreat with joy, offering naught save
reverence, demanding naught save prayer! So am I--so must I ever
be--till Man of his own will releases and redeems me. Mistake me
not, but know me!--and choose thy Future for truth’s sake and not
out of fear! Choose and change not in any time hereafter,--this
hour, this moment is thy last probation,--choose, I say! Wilt thou
serve Self and Me? or God only?”

The choice is made. Tempest realizes with shame his miserable vices, his
puny scorn of God, his effronteries and blasphemies; and in the sudden
strong repulsion and repudiation of his own worthless existence, being,
and character, he finds both voice and speech. “God only! Annihilation
at His hands, rather than life without Him! God only! I have chosen!”
From the brightening heaven there rings a silver voice, clear as a
clarion-call,--“Arise, Lucifer, Son of the Morning! One soul rejects
thee,--one hour of joy is granted thee! Hence, and arise!” And with a
vision of the man fiend rushing for a brief hour to celestial regions,
because of one soul that rejected Satan, Geoffrey Tempest finds himself
tied to a raft on the open sea, and remembers the promise, “Him who
cometh unto me will I in no wise cast out.”

The late Rev. H. R. Haweis, preaching on this book, said: “‘Seek ye
first the kingdom of God and His righteousness and all these things
shall be added unto you,’ is the grand moral carried out,” and that is
an opinion, notwithstanding the ban of the Romish Church, which is
entertained of the book by many Christian men, by a large number of
Christian clergy. It is a declaration of the Nemesis of everything that
opposes itself to the will of God. The book teaches the softening
influences upon mankind of good deeds done, of good words spoken. It
teaches, in brief, that there are two contending powers at work upon
mankind--the evil and the good; and the book is an eloquent, beautiful,
effective contribution to the victory of the Good. The sensuality, the
evil imagination, the prostitution of the marriage sacrament to
commercial bargains, the infidelity, in thought and intention, though
not in deed, of Lady Sibyl Elton, are stripped of their pretty dressings
and shown in their detestable reality. “The acts of selfishness in man,”
Mr. Haweis added, “are exhibited in the person of Geoffrey Tempest in a
garb that repels and with results that horrify; and the pure influence
of Mavis Clare is shown on the other side of the picture, bright and
attractive, the spirit of peace, contentment, and love in a glorious and
glorified conquest of the spirit of evil.”

Miss Corelli has suffered in a peculiar way from the deficiencies of the
law of copyright which allows perfect protection to a mechanical patent,
but which gives an author no adequate protection over rights such as the
dramatization of a book. “The Sorrows of Satan,” as everybody knows, was
dramatized, and this is how it came about: In the year of the
publication of “The Sorrows of Satan,” 1895, Mr. George Eric Mackay
introduced to his stepsister a lady of his acquaintance, a sculptress,
who, so he said, was anxious to make a study of his head. This lady, in
her turn, introduced Captain Woodgate, who expressed his enthusiastic
admiration for “The Sorrows of Satan” to Miss Corelli, and said it would
make a very fine play, and followed up his praise by asking whether he
might try his hand at dramatizing it, as he had already had some
experience in the writing of plays. Miss Corelli replied that she had
not thought of it at all as a play, but that she had no objection to his
trying, on condition that nothing was produced without her authorization
and permission. Captain Woodgate readily consented to this, but the
whole subject was talked of so casually that (so Miss Corelli declares)
she did not think he really meant to undertake it.

Miss Corelli was very ill at the time, and went to Scotland for her
health. During her absence, Captain Woodgate went to work, and called in
the assistance of Mr. Paul Berton. Between them they wrote a play, and
“The Grosvenor Syndicate” was formed for the purposes of its production.

Miss Corelli was then invited to hear the play read in the Shaftesbury
Theatre green-room. Miss Evelyn Millard, selected to play the part of
“Lady Sibyl,” was present. After the first act had been read by Mr. Paul
Berton, Miss Corelli informs us that she very decidedly expressed her
objection to it, and said that it would never do. Mr. Eric Mackay, who
was also present, said that, on the contrary, he thought it “admirable.”
Miss Corelli, hearing this, remained silent while the second act was
proceeded with by Mr. Berton, to her increasing distaste. Her feelings
in the matter (so Miss Corelli declares) met with complete sympathy from
Miss Evelyn Millard, who, rising from her place, begged Miss Corelli to
give her a few words in private. Miss Corelli followed her out of the
room, and Miss Millard then said: “My dear Miss Corelli, I was ready and
glad to think of playing your character of ‘Lady Sibyl Elton’ in ‘The
Sorrows of Satan,’ but I cannot possibly consent to act in this.”

Miss Corelli thanked Miss Millard very heartily for her plain speaking
and her decision, and then, informing the joint authors that she would
have nothing whatever to do with the play, the meeting at the
Shaftesbury broke up. Mr. Lewis Waller, who had been selected for the
part of “Lucio Rimânez,” wrote a letter to Miss Corelli in which he
cordially sympathized with her on the treatment her work had received.

“The Grosvenor Syndicate” paid her five hundred pounds for the use of
her name, but this sum she offered to promptly return if they would as
promptly withdraw the play. Upon this the shareholders met together at
the office of Miss Corelli’s lawyer to discuss the matter, and Miss
Corelli again proposed to give them back at once the five hundred
pounds, and to write a play on her book herself. It may be added that,
if she had been allowed to do this, Mr. Beerbohm Tree would have been
ready and glad to consider the part of Prince Lucio. She said to those
who had invested their money in the syndicate: “Gentlemen, if you will
withdraw this work, I will guarantee to write you a play which shall be
a success.” They, however, after consideration, refused, saying that
shares were issued and they could not go back. Miss Corelli, therefore,
withdrew her “authorization” altogether, and only allowed the simple use
of her name on the programmes to this effect: “Dramatized from the novel
of that name by Marie Corelli.” The play was therefore produced for the
first time at the Shaftesbury Theatre on the evening of January 9th,
1897, in the presence of H. R. H. the Duke of Cambridge and suite, the
Duke, audibly expressing agreement with Miss Corelli’s views of the
work. She herself was not present. She was lying ill in bed, suffering
acute pain, having that very day gone through a trying ordeal of
surgical examination by Sir John Williams, who had bluntly informed her
that she had not, perhaps, six months to live unless she went through a
grave operation. It will be owned that this was a singular situation for
any author, as she herself says, “to have the work of her brain dealt
with in a way to which she took obvious exception, and herself
threatened with death both on the same day.”

The play of _The Sorrows of Satan_ was produced, Mr. Lewis Waller
playing the part of Lucio. Miss Millard remained staunch to her opinion,
and wrote to Miss Corelli, saying how sincerely sorry she was that the
play had been brought out, notwithstanding the protest. Since that time
several dramatic versions of the book have been played, including Mr. C.
W. Somerset’s version, which Miss Corelli has described as a combination
of her novel and the late George Augustus Sala’s “Margaret Foster.” Mr.
Somerset is himself the author of this production, and we are told that
he informed Miss Corelli that he put the two books together in this work
“to strengthen both!”

Miss Corelli would much like to put a stop to the various stage
renderings of “The Sorrows of Satan” if the law would give her the power
to do so; and she would greatly like to see the law altered so as to
give her and other authors such power. As it is, she now, to secure her
titles, whenever she writes a book, has a play, bearing the title of her
book, produced before a paying audience.

In order to secure such dramatic copyright, authors have to pay to have
their “sham” play performed before a “sham” audience with “sham” actors!
And the law compels it!

CHAPTER X

“THE MIGHTY ATOM” AND “BOY”

Marie Corelli never writes without a purpose--never solely to excite or
entertain the reader who regards books as pleasant things provided for
his regalement just as ices, pantomimes, and balloon ascents are.

The greatest of novelists have generally told their stories with an
object other than mere story-telling. Charles Reade brought about asylum
reform by publishing “Hard Cash,” while in “Foul Play” he made clear the
injustice of preventing a prisoner from giving evidence in his own
behalf--a state of things which has been only recently remedied; Dickens
showed up villainous schoolmasters, receivers of stolen goods, the
delays of the Law, Bumbledom, emigration frauds, and a hundred other
abuses; Thackeray preached against cant; Wilkie Collins broke a lance
with the vivisectionists; and Clark Russell, in “The Wreck of the
_Grosvenor_,” told a harrowing story of the rotten food provided for the
helpless merchant sailor.

Miss Corelli has grappled with human wrongs just as great, even though
they may not be amenable to jurisdiction.

In the two books before us she deals, in hard-hitting,
thought-compelling terms, with the criminally mistaken up-bringing of
children. Her object in writing “The Mighty Atom” she tersely explains
in her dedicatory note to “those self-styled ‘progressivists’” who
support the cause of education without religion. The short and pathetic
history of Lionel Valliscourt is placed before us as typical of the fate
which so often befalls the overwrought child-brain: the horrible end to
the young life is depicted with the idea of manifesting in what the
absence of religion even from a boy’s mind may result. Had Lionel
learned to say his prayers at his mother’s knee; had he trotted off to
Church every Sunday morning, his hand within his father’s, and at
eventide listened to the sweet old Bible-stories which so appeal to a
child’s imagination, the Christian precepts thus implanted in his heart
would surely have stayed his hand when he conceived the idea of taking
his own life.

This most sad story fully brings home to the reader the evils attendant
on the entirely godless teaching bestowed on a young and exceptionally
bright boy, who has an instinctive yearning for that “knowledge and
love of God” of which our authoress is the strenuous champion.

Lionel, the small centre of the picture, is introduced as a boy who
“might have been a bank clerk or an experienced accountant in a London
merchant’s office, from his serious old-fashioned manner, instead of a
child barely eleven years of age; indeed, as a matter of fact, there was
an almost appalling expression of premature wisdom on his pale wistful
features;--the ‘thinking furrow’ already marked his forehead,--and what
should still have been the babyish upper curve of his sensitive little
mouth was almost, though not quite, obliterated by a severe line of
constantly practiced self-restraint.”

Mr. Valliscourt has hired tutor after tutor to assist him in forcing
Lionel’s intellect: by turns each tutor has thrown up his task in
disgust. At last comes William Montrose, B. A., a breezy Oxonian, who
refuses point-blank to go through the “schedule of tuition” which Mr.
Valliscourt “formulates” for his son’s holiday tasks. Montrose is
angrily dismissed, and Professor Cadman-Gore, “the dark-lantern of
learning and obscure glory of university _poseurs_,” is engaged in his
place to squeeze the juice out of poor little Lionel’s already wearied
brains.

Very early in his holiday term of coaching the Professor has to submit
to some cross-examination from Lionel on the subject of the Atom. “Where
is it?--that wonderful little First Atom, which, without knowing in the
least what it was about, and with nobody to guide it, and having no
reason, judgment, sight, or sense of its own, produced such beautiful
creations? And then, if you are able to tell me where it is, will you
also tell me where it came from?”

It appears that Lionel has imbibed atheistic principles not only from
his father, but from a former tutor, and he is determined to thrash the
matter out with the Professor, whom he takes to be the cleverest man in
the world. The Professor’s replies, however, are unsatisfactory, and
Lionel goes on wondering.

The work continues, and he grows yet wearier. Manfully he struggles to
accomplish his allotted tasks, each effort sapping his strength still
further and adding to the pains which fill his head and drive sleep from
his tired eyes. The Professor, acting according to orders, continues to
grind the young brains to powder.

At last the crisis arrives. Under dishonorable circumstances Lionel’s
mother leaves her husband: over-work, sorrow, too little exercise--all
these combined bring about Lionel’s collapse. The plain-spoken village
doctor orders him away for rest, and so the Professor and his young
charge go to Clovelly, where they spend some bewilderingly delightful
weeks of absolute idleness. The Professor’s eyes have been somewhat
opened by Lionel’s break-down to the real state of the child, whom
thereafter he treats with a certain rough kindness which wins him the
boy’s whole heart. Lionel cannot quite make it out--but he is grateful.

“He used to show his gratitude,” we are told, “in odd little ways of his
own, which had a curious and softening effect on the mind of the learned
Cadman-Gore. He would carefully brush the ugly hat of the great man and
bring it to him,--he would pull out and smooth the large sticky fingers
of his loose leather gloves and lay them side by side on a table ready
for him to wear,--he would energetically polish the top of his big
silver-knobbed stick,--and he would invariably make a ‘buttonhole’ of
the prettiest flowers he could find for him to put in his coat at
dinner.”

One can imagine the grim old gentleman being by turns astonished and
touched by such attentions: the Professor indeed warms to the lad, and,
when they return to Combmartin, bids him go and play instead of
returning to his investigation of “The Advance of Positivism and Pure
Reason,” which formed part of that schedule of study which his father
had previously insisted upon.

Before his illness Lionel had become close friends with the village
sexton, Reuben Dale, and that worthy’s little daughter, Jessamine. It
had been the boy’s keenest joy to romp and talk with Jessamine, and so,
on being afforded a holiday by the Professor’s thoughtfulness, he
proceeds with a light heart in search of his former playmate. He finds
Reuben at work in the churchyard, and “the significant hollow in the
ground was shaped slowly in a small dark square, to the length of a
little child.”

The old man’s sobs betray the truth--during Lionel’s absence his baby
sweetheart has fallen a prey to diphtheria. The boy’s anguish is
terrible: the sexton’s simple faith in God’s way being the best way has
no comfort for the helpless little pagan who has been taught that such
faith as this is sheer nonsense. “No, no!” he cries; “there is no God;
you have not read,--you have not studied things, and you do not
know,--but you are all wrong. There is no God,--there is only the Atom
which does not care.”

Distracted with grief, Lionel tears away into the woods, his bewildered
and weary head full of strange thoughts. At last a firm resolve takes
possession of him. “I know!--I know the best way to discover the real
secret,--I _must_ find it out!--and I will!”

And he does. With the cool deliberation that is often a distinguishing
attribute of one bent on self-destruction, he goes to bed in the usual
way. When the house is quite still, and all its other inmates are
slumbering, he steals down to his schoolroom, where he carefully pens
some letters--one to his father, another to the Professor, and a third
to Mr. Montrose. This done, he falls upon his knees by the open window
and prays to that Being whom he feels “must be a God, really and truly,”
in spite of the many learned theories to the contrary by which his
child-mind has been distracted.

A little later “there came a heavy stillness, ... and a sudden sense of
cold in the air, as of the swift passing of the Shadow of Death.”

One may reasonably contend that such passages as these are unnecessarily
distressing, and certainly there are several of Miss Corelli’s works
which should not be left in the way of weak-minded persons. The
authoress, it is clear, wishes to drive home her arguments in a manner
that will be remembered. Chapter XIV. of “The Mighty Atom” is not one
that is ever likely to be forgotten by those who have read this book.

People who object to such methods as Miss Corelli employs in “The Mighty
Atom” must bear in mind that the motive underlying each of her stories
is to show up a certain evil and suggest remedial measures, themselves
as powerful as the disease requiring their application.

The lesson taught so startlingly in “The Mighty Atom” must have brought
home the truths of its straightforward doctrines to a multitude of
readers. Thus can a book drop seed which is destined to flourish
abundantly for a great length of time and in widely separated places. If
a book be good, it will have a long life: living, its effects will be
felt by more than one generation of readers. Such is the power of
literature--such the strength of a mere pen when wielded by one whose
principal stock-in-trade is knowledge combined with sincerity and a
determination to speak out for the general weal at all hazards, critics
notwithstanding.

* * * * *

“Boy,” a book about equal in length to “The Mighty Atom,” is less
picturesque in its setting than the latter, but, on the other hand, is
lightened by considerable humor and happy characterization. It is a
sermon to parents. The boy, as we know, is father of the man;
consequently, if you bring a boy up badly, the complete growth of him
when he reaches man’s estate is hardly likely to be satisfactory.

“It is a dangerous fallacy,” says the author of “Boy,” “to aver that
every man has the making of his destiny in his own hands: to a certain
extent he has, no doubt, and with education and firm resolve, he can do
much to keep down the Beast and develop the Angel; but a terrific
responsibility rests upon those often voluntarily reckless beings, his
parents, who, without taking thought, use God’s privilege of giving
life, while utterly failing to perceive the means offered to them for
developing and preserving that life under the wisest and most harmonious
conditions.”

The career of the particular “boy” under notice is traced from the time
when, a crawling babe, he gravely surveys his father’s drunken antics
and ascribes them to attacks of illness. Hence his frequent references
to the “poo’ sing” whose too close attentions to the bottle have earned
him this mistaken infantile sympathy. “Boy’s” especial admirer is a
maiden lady of ample means, who has an ardent desire to adopt him, but
whose wishes are invariably thwarted by “Boy’s” mother, a “large, lazy,
and unintelligent” woman with limited and peculiar ideas on the rearing
and educating of children. The maiden lady herself has a devoted
cavalier, in the shape of an elderly Major, who proposes to her
regularly, only to be met with a gentle but steady negative. The lady’s
heart is buried with a former lover, who, years before, went to India
and died there; and although the Major knows that the object of his
attachment is burning perpetual candles before a worthless shrine--for
the dead man was a sad rascal in his day, and was, moreover, false to
her--he prefers to let her live with her illusion rather than profit by
acquainting her with the true facts of the case.

As the Major is generally in attendance on Miss Letitia Leslie we see a
good deal of the bluff old soldier, for “Boy” is occasionally allowed to
go and stay with “Miss Letty.” These are the golden periods of the good
maiden lady’s life--and, too, of “Boy’s,” for while Miss Leslie cares
for him properly, his mother exploits her ideas of motherhood by feeding
the little fellow “on sloppy food which frequently did not agree with
him, in dosing him with medicine when he was out of sorts, in dressing
him anyhow, and in allowing him to amuse himself as he liked wherever he
could, however he could, at all times, and in all places, dirty or
clean.”

Meantime, Captain the Honorable D’Arcy Muir rolls in and out of the
house--more often than not in that state of drunken combativeness which
finds a vent in assaulting mantelpiece ornaments and the lighter
articles of furniture--and Mrs. D’Arcy Muir reads novels, or, studying
personal ease before appearance, slouches about the house in soft felt
slippers and loosely fitting garments which frequently lack a
sufficiency of buttons and hooks.

In spite of such surroundings “Boy” remains a very lovable little fellow
until he goes to school. Then Miss Letty and the Major lose sight of him
for a long period, for he is sent to a school in Brittany. The Major
deplores the fact: “You must say good-bye to ‘Boy’ forever!... Don’t you
see? The child has gone--and he’ll never come back. _A_ boy will come
back, but not the boy _you_ knew. The boy you knew is practically
dead.... The poor little chap had enough against him in his home
surroundings, God knows!--but a cheap foreign school is the last straw
on the camel’s back. Whatever is good in his nature will go to waste;
whatever is bad will grow and flourish!”

As it happens, “Boy” stays in France only a year, but during that period
Miss Letty, the Major, and the Major’s niece go to America and settle
down there for a time. “Boy” reappears at the age of sixteen, when he is
being educated at an English military school. One of the best-written
scenes in the book describes the meeting of “Boy” with Miss Letty, who
returns from America about this time. “Boy” has grown into a slim,
awkward youth, getting on to six feet in height, callous, listless, and
cynical. He has lost his old frankness; he is not, as the Major
predicted, the “boy” that Miss Letty knew in the days gone by.

The description of the luncheon party when the four sides of the table
are occupied respectively by Miss Letty, the Major, the latter’s niece,
and “Boy,” is exceedingly well done, “Boy’s” stolid, _blasé_ replies to
the many questions he is asked being exceedingly diverting, although one
feels sorry to see into what an automaton he has grown.

“Are you glad you are going to be a soldier?” the Major asks him. “Oh, I
don’t mind it!” says “Boy.” “Are you fond of flowers?” the girl demands
of him a little later. “I don’t mind them much!” replies “Boy”
indifferently. “Well, what _do_ you mind? Anything?” puts in the Major.
“Boy” laughed. “I don’t know.”

This scene--from which we have merely extracted a few remarks--is in its
way an excellent bit of comedy, but on behalf of public schoolboys
generally we must say that we don’t think “Boy” would have put his hat
on--as he is reported to have done--while still in the room with the
ladies.

“Boy” passes into Sandhurst, but is expelled therefrom for drunkenness;
he gets a clerkship, incurs card debts, alters the amount on a check
which Miss Letty has sent him, repents of the fraud, returns the whole
amount, with a manly apology, to Miss Letty, enlists, and is killed by
the Boers. That, then, is the sad end of “Boy.”

In addition to the characters mentioned there are others of subsidiary
importance, and there is, threading in and out of the “Boy” episodes, a
love-story which ends tragically, at the time, for the Major’s niece,
though she eventually meets the man Fate has decreed she shall marry, on
a South African battle-field.

In no other book has Miss Corelli favored us with so many
smile-provoking passages. There is, for instance, a good deal of grim
humor about “Rattling Jack”--the salt-dried veteran of whom “Boy” makes
a friend when the D’Arcy Muirs move from their London home in Hereford
Square to cheaper quarters on the coast.

Rattling Jack doesn’t sympathize with the elementary methods of the
young student of natural history. He doesn’t see why beetles and
butterflies should be trapped and carried home for the “museum.” One
day “Boy” brings for the old sailor’s inspection a beautiful
rose-colored sea-anemone which he had managed to detach from the rocks
and carry off in his tin pail.

“There y’are, you see!” cries Rattling Jack. “Now ye’ve made a
fellow-creature miserable, y’are as ’appy as the day is long! Eh,
eh--why for mussy’s sake didn’t ye leave it on the rocks in the sun
with the sea a-washin’ it an’ the blessin’ of the Lord A’mighty on
it? They things are jes’ like human souls--there they stick on a
rock o’ faith and hope maybe, jes’ wantin’ nothin’ but to be let
alone; and then by and by some one comes along that begins to poke
at ’em, and pull ’em about, and wake up all their
sensitiveness-like--’urt ’em as much as possible, that’s the
way!--and then they pulls ’em off their rocks and carries ’em off
in a mean little tin pail! Ay, ay, ye may call a tin pail whatever
ye please--a pile o’ money or a pile o’ love--it’s nought but a tin
pail--not a rock with the sun shinin’ upon it. And o’ coorse they
dies--there ain’t no sense in livin’ in a tin pail.”

This weary-wise old fellow must be credited to Miss Corelli as one of
her best portraits in miniature. His observations are full of sage and
seasoning, and we could do with more of him.

Did Miss Corelli’s themes allow of it, we might have been treated to a
good deal more humor in her works, but she is too good an artist to
intrude comic relief when such relief would merely be an annoying
interruption. But various passages in her books show her to be the
possessor of a considerable sense of the laughable, and it is to be
hoped that she will some day find time to write a story dealing with the
lighter side of existence.

CHAPTER XI

“THE MURDER OF DELICIA” AND “ZISKA”[C]

In the former of these works Marie Corelli has much to say about men
that is very disagreeable and, as it appears to us, only partially true.
It would seem that the novelist is too prone to seize upon a particular
instance of “man’s ingratitude,” laziness, cruelty, and general
worthlessness, and set it up as a frequently occurring type.

In “The Murder of Delicia,” for example, a handsome guardsman, nicknamed
by his fellow-officers “Beauty Carlyon,” marries a lady novelist who is
equally gifted in brain and person, and, after spending her money for a
considerable period, finally breaks her heart--in short, “murders”
her--by his neglect and infidelity.

The keynote of the story--which is, we are assured by its writer, a true
one--may be found in an introductory note, which contains the following:
“_To put it plainly and bluntly, a great majority of the men of the
present day want women to keep them._”

Now surely this is an over-statement which will not strengthen Marie
Corelli’s case. We grant that a certain number of men marry for money,
and that the women they so marry are only too glad to be married on
those or any terms; but the social conditions of this era have not
become so cankered as to lead the “great majority of men” to seek a
livelihood at the altar steps! Would it not be altogether more
reasonable to substitute “a certain minority” for “a great majority”? In
fairness to the novelist, we must add that her remarks on this subject
apply principally to the aristocracy. The worthy lover or husband of the
middle classes may therefore breathe again.

Nevertheless, we will venture to present the other aspect of this matter
of marrying for money. It is well-known that many a wealthy woman
languishes in virgin solitude on account of those very shekels of gold
and shekels of silver which she possesseth, while her penniless
girl-friends are donning their marital veils and going through the sweet
old business of marrying and being given in marriage. This applies to
the upper as well as to the lower ranks of society.

Many a man--aye, many a guardsman--would now be a happy Benedict had a
certain girl of “once upon a time” been possessed of no riches save the
inestimable wealth of a loving heart, no diamonds except those shining
in her eyes, no pearls but what one might see when her lips parted in
shy smile or merry laughter.

For the average man--be his rank high or low--loves a woman, as the
saying is, for herself. While recognizing the value and usefulness of
money, while raising no objection should his father-in-law allow the
young wife pin-money, the average man who marries in the ordinary way
sets little store on what his bride brings him in the shape of earthly
dross.

It is, however, incumbent on a writer of contemporary biography to be in
the main courteous and commendatory, else we might apply a harsher
criticism to “The Murder of Delicia” than a mere statement to the effect
that this book is the least worthy of all the books Marie Corelli has
written. It is far too full of railing against men; it is far too
one-sided and far too bitter. Granted that a novelist must put his or
her case strongly, in order to drive conviction home to the reader’s
mind--granted this, it must be at the same time pointed out that there
are generally two sides to every question. Given that a certain number
of men marry for money--for money and nothing else--it must be
recollected that there are at the present moment thousands of
Englishwomen devoting whatever powers of mental arithmetic they may be
endowed with to reckoning up exactly what pecuniary advantages shall
accrue to them if they marry Jack Jones, or, failing Jack Jones, John
Smith! And a cross-Channel _père de famille_ would tell you that they
are quite right to do this, that, indeed, if they were his daughters, he
would do it for them, and have the whole thing put down in black and
white at a notary’s office.

But--thank heaven!--we are a little more sentimental on this side of the
narrow strip of silver sea. We still believe in the love marriage, and
so an approving Dame Nature gives us healthy sons and daughters for the
regular renewal of the nation’s strength. Whereas in la belle France,
with her businesslike matrimonial alliances, they have to offer prizes
for babies! Truly a pathetic endeavor to stem a national decay!

“The Murder of Delicia” is a short story, soon told. Lord Carlyon takes
a strong fancy to Delicia Vaughan, the popular and beautiful
lady-novelist, and his liking is returned tenfold. They marry, and
Delicia supplies him with money for his clothes, club expenses, cabs,
and card games. Were it not that we are aware that even the wisest of
women may, in spite of their wisdom, love unwisely, we should marvel at
a woman of Delicia Vaughan’s intellectual gifts (which were coupled, we
may presume, with the keen insight into human nature that a novelist
should possess) marrying a man of the Lord Carlyon type--a big, handsome
animal, whose conversation must have afforded her very little
entertainment. She loved him because to her (to quote the book) he was a
“strong, splendid, bold, athletic, masterful creature who was hers--hers
only!” Is it possible that a woman of Delicia Vaughan’s alleged
intelligence would have fallen so completely in love with a man who “was
absolutely devoid of all ambition, save a desire to have his surname
pronounced correctly”? Truly, a dull dog--yet Delicia worshiped him. She
disregarded the apostolic command to little children not to take unto
themselves idols. She doted on this man of inches. She housed and fed
him, pampered him, showered money on him, and he repaid her by indulging
in a low intrigue with a music-hall dancer.

Marie Corelli almost laughs at her heroine. But, even while the smile
hovers on her lips, she explains poor Delicia’s phantasy. It was “the
rare and beautiful blindness of perfect love”--squandered on an entirely
worthless object. And this is quite a true touch, for even
lady-novelists are only human.

Delicia had to pay the penalty of her passion. Her eyes were opened all
in good time, and from showering the wealth of her hand and all the
treasures of her heart upon Carlyon, she came, in the end, to
threatening him with a revolver when he would have healed their
differences with a kiss.

The book, as its title implies, ends sadly. How sadly, those who have
read it will know, and those who may read it hereafter will soon
discover, for it is quite a little book, and its price but a florin.

* * * * *

“These are the people,” writes Marie Corelli in “Ziska,” alluding to the
tourists assembled in Cairo, “who usually leave England on the plea of
being unable to stand the cheery, frosty, and in every respect healthy
winter of their native country--

“that winter, which with its wild winds, its sparkling frost and
snow, its holly trees bright with scarlet berries, its merry
hunters galloping over field and moor during daylight hours, and
its great log fires roaring up the chimneys at evening, was
sufficiently good for their forefathers to thrive upon and live
through contentedly up to a hale and hearty old age in the times
when the fever of traveling from place to place was an unknown
disease, and home was indeed ‘sweet home.’ Infected by strange
maladies of the blood and nerves, to which even scientific
physicians find it hard to give suitable names, they shudder at the
first whiff of cold, and, filling huge trunks with a thousand
foolish

[Illustration: "KILLIECRANKIE COTTAGE” WHERE “ZISKA” WAS FINISHED]

[Illustration: "AVON CROFT” WHERE “THE MASTER CHRISTIAN” WAS FINISHED]

things which have, through luxurious habit, become necessities to
their pallid existences, they hastily depart to the Land of the
Sun, carrying with them their nameless languors, discontents, and
incurable illnesses, for which Heaven itself, much less Egypt,
could provide no remedy.”

Be that as it may, the tourists assembled at the Gezireh Palace Hotel
one winter were treated to a vision of loveliness which for a time made
them momentarily forget their nameless languors in spells of admiration
and envy, according to the sex which claimed them, the vision in
question taking an apparently human shape in the person of the Princess
Ziska.

Reputedly a Russian lady, Ziska was in reality the flesh-clad ghost of
Ziska-Charmazel, the favorite of the harem of a great Egyptian warrior,
described in forgotten histories as “The Mighty Araxes.” Visiting Egypt
at the same time as the Princess was Armand Gervase, a French painter of
great renown, and the interest of the story may be imagined when it is
explained that Armand was the nineteenth-century incarnation of Araxes,
who, it must be understood, had, in the dim long-ago, slain
Ziska-Charmazel because she stood in the way of his ambition.

The modern Araxes is quickly enslaved by Ziska’s loveliness, but the
passion that consumes him is a decidedly uncanny one, as the following
passage will show. Armand is speaking to Helen Murray, the sister of his
great friend, Denzil Murray. In Scotland during the previous summer
Armand had paid Helen some attentions, and Helen does not fail to note
that the charms of Ziska have dissipated any tender feeling which Armand
might have once entertained for the Scottish girl. “How was I to know,”
cries Armand, “that this horrible thing would happen?” “What horrible
thing?” enquires Helen.

“This,” he answers: “the close and pernicious enthralment of a
woman I never met till the night before last; a woman whose face
haunts me; a woman who drags me to her side with the force of a
magnet, there to grovel like a brain-sick fool and plead with her
for a love which I already know is poison to my soul! Helen, Helen!
You do not understand--you will never understand! Here, in the very
air I breathe, I fancy I can trace the perfume she shakes from her
garments as she moves; something indescribably fascinating yet
terrible attracts me to her; it is an evil attraction, I know, but
I cannot resist it. There is something wicked in every man’s
nature; I am conscious enough that there is something detestably
wicked in mine, and I have not sufficient goodness to overbalance
it. And this woman,--this silent, gliding, glittering-eyed creature
that has suddenly taken possession of my fancy--she overcomes me in
spite of myself; she makes havoc of all the good intentions of my
life. I admit--I confess it!”

Unfortunately, the painter’s very good friend, Denzil Murray, also
becomes inspired with a passion for Ziska, and the lad’s temper is
roused when Armand openly admits that his intentions with regard to the
Princess are strictly dishonorable. Murray suggests that it were well
Ziska should know this, but Armand laughs at the other’s idea that the
bringing of such tidings to Ziska’s ears would lower him one jot in that
lovely lady’s estimation:

“My good boy, do you not know that there is something very
marvelous in the attraction we call love? It is a preordained
destiny,--and if one soul is so constituted that it must meet and
mix with another, nothing can hinder the operation. So that,
believe me, I am quite indifferent as to what you say of me to
Madame la Princesse or to any one else. It will not be for either
my looks or my character that she will love me, if, indeed, she
ever does love me; it will be for something indistinct,
indefinable, but resistless in us both, which no one on earth can
explain.”

The hot-headed young Highlander, however, will not be put off with any
such reasoning, and the rivalry might have resulted awkwardly at an
early date of its upspringing had not Armand steadfastly refused to
quarrel.

There is one person at the hotel who makes a shrewd guess at the
spiritual identity of both Ziska and Armand--an old _savant_ named Dr.
Dean, who is visiting Egypt for the purpose of studying its hieroglyphs
and other matters possessing interest for an antiquarian. A knowing
fellow is this Doctor, and a fine little character, whose good-humored
personality and quiet, shrewd observations present a soothing contrast
to the passionate utterances of Murray and Armand, and the dramatic
outbursts of Ziska when she scornfully taunts the painter with his
vileness.

In conversation with the Doctor, Gervase Armand admits that there is
something about Ziska which has struck him as being familiar. “The tone
of her voice and the peculiar cadence of her laughter” affect him
peculiarly. When he wonders whether he has ever come across her before
as a model either in Paris or Rome, the Doctor shakes his head. “Think
again,” he says. “You are now a man in the prime of life, Monsieur
Gervase, but look back to your early youth,--the period when young men
do wild, reckless, and often wicked things,--did you ever in that
thoughtless time break a woman’s heart?”

Armand admits that he may have done so, and the Doctor propounds his
theory:

“Suppose that you, in your boyhood, had wronged some woman, and
suppose that woman had died. You might imagine that you had got rid
of that woman. But if her love was very strong and her sense of
outrage very bitter, I must tell you that you have not got rid of
her by any means; moreover, you never will get rid of her. And why?
Because her Soul, like all Souls, is imperishable. Now, putting it
as a mere supposition, and for the sake of the argument, that you
feel a certain admiration for the Princess Ziska, an admiration
which might possibly deepen into something more than platonic,
...”--here Denzil Murray looked up, his eyes glowing with an angry
pain as he fixed them on Gervase,--“why, then the Soul of the other
woman you once wronged might come between you and the face of the
new attraction and cause you to unconsciously paint the tortured
look of the injured and unforgiving Spirit on the countenance of
the lovely fascinator whose charms are just beginning to ensnare
you. I repeat, I have known such cases.”

For it should be explained that, when Ziska gave the celebrated painter
a sitting, he could produce nothing on his canvas, in spite of his
genius, but a strange and awful face distorted with passion and pain,
agony in every line of the features--“agony in which the traces of a
divine beauty lingered only to render the whole countenance more
repellent and terrific.”

Dr. Dean quickly comes to the conclusion, and very reasonably, that this
is the most interesting problem he has ever had a chance of studying.
It could be only one case out of thousands, he decides.

“Great heavens! Among what terrific unseen forces we live! And in
exact proportion to every man’s arrogant denial of the ‘Divinity
that shapes our ends,’ so will be measured out to him the
revelation of the invisible. Strange that the human race has never
entirely realized as yet the depth of the meaning in the words
describing hell: ‘Where the worm dieth not, and where the flame is
never quenched.’ The ‘worm’ is Retribution, the ‘flame’ is the
immortal Spirit,--and the two are forever striving to escape from
the other. Horrible! And yet there are men who believe in neither
one thing nor the other, and reject the Redemption that does away
with both! God forgive us all our sins--and especially the sins of
pride and presumption!”

Other of the Doctor’s thoughtful utterances are well worth quoting. “To
the wise student of things there is no time and no distance. All history
from the very beginning is like a wonderful chain in which no link is
ever really broken, and in which every part fits closely to the other
part,--though why the chain should exist at all is a mystery we cannot
solve. Yet, I am quite certain that even our late friend Araxes has his
connection with the present, if only for the reason that he lived in the
past.”

Armand asks him how he argues out that theory, and the Doctor replies:

“The question is, how can you argue at all about anything that is
so plain and demonstrated a fact? The doctrine of evolution proves
it. Everything that we were once has its part in us now. Suppose,
if you like, that we were originally no more than shells on the
shore,--some remnant of the nature of the shell must be in us at
this moment. Nothing is lost,--nothing is wasted,--not even a
thought. I carry my theories very far indeed, especially in regard
to matters of love. I maintain that if it is decreed that the soul
of a man and the soul of a woman must meet,--must rush
together,--not all the forces of the universe can hinder them; aye,
even if they were, for some conventional cause or circumstance,
themselves reluctant to consummate their destiny, it would,
nevertheless, despite them, be consummated. For mark you,--in some
form or other they have rushed together before! Whether as flames
in the air, or twining leaves on a tree, or flowers in a field,
they have felt the sweetness and fitness of each other’s being in
former lives,--and the craving sense of that sweetness and fitness
can never be done away with,--never! Not as long as this present
universe lasts! It is a terrible thing,” continued the Doctor in a
lower tone, “a terrible fatality,--the desire of love. In some
cases it is a curse; in others, a divine and priceless blessing.
The results depend entirely on the temperaments of the human
creatures possessed by its fever. When it kindles, rises, and burns
towards Heaven in a steady flame of ever-brightening purity and
faith, then it makes marriage the most perfect union on earth,--the
sweetest and most blessed companionship; but when it is a mere gust
of fire, bright and fierce as the sudden leaping light of a
volcano, then it withers everything at a touch,--faith, honor,
truth,--and dies into dull ashes in which no spark remains to warm
or inspire man’s higher nature. Better death than such a
love,--for it works misery on earth; but who can tell what horrors
it may not create Hereafter!”

When the Princess Ziska betakes herself to the Mena House Hotel, near
the Pyramids, Dr. Dean, Gervase Armand, and Denzil Murray follow her.
She entertains them at dinner, and after dinner, while the Doctor and
Armand are strolling without, Murray puts his fate to the touch, with
results as might have been expected, for the Princess has displayed
little emotion in respect to anybody save Armand, and in his case it is
clear that her interest has a malignant foundation.

Armand comes after him, and, in a passionate scene, audaciously proposes
to “play the part of Araxes over again.” Ziska promises to give him her
answer on the morrow, and on the morrow Armand receives it.

The last scene of this “Problem of a Wicked Soul” takes place beneath
the Great Pyramid. Why and how the modern Araxes and the modern
Ziska-Charmazel come together in the end in this strangest of
meeting-places, we will leave the reader to discover for him or herself.

But we may at least record our admiration for the feat of imagination of
which “Ziska” is the result, and indicate the lesson that is to be
learned from its pages. “Ziska” teaches that sin shall not escape
punishment, that a man shall not play fast and loose with women’s hearts
and yet go scotfree. “Ziska” shows how the mutilated soul of the
beautiful dancer arises after many centuries and exacts vengeance from
its enemy; and again “Ziska” shows how, when Araxes, in his modern
painter guise, cries for pardon, the eyes of his one-time victim soften
and flash with love and tenderness.

Truly a fragrant passage is this, wherein the old story is once again
told of man’s repentance and woman’s sweet forgiveness.

CHAPTER XII

“THE MASTER CHRISTIAN”--IF CHRIST CAME TO ROME!

There had been a considerable pause in the writings of Miss Corelli, for
reasons which have already been discussed, when, in August, 1900, “The
Master Christian” appeared.

Miss Corelli commenced “The Master Christian” at Brighton on All Saints’
Day, 1897, in the hope that she would get through it before the terrible
illness she had been suffering from for seven years reached an acute
stage. The novelist, however, was almost dying on Christmas Eve of the
same year, and on December 29th the surgeons took her in hand. She was
dangerously ill during January, February, and March, 1898. In April and
May Miss Corelli was just beginning to recover when the shock occasioned
by her stepbrother’s death on June 2d produced a relapse, and she very
nearly died from grief and weakness combined. She was ill all the rest
of the year, and, a long period of convalescence following, she did not
resume “The Master Christian” till the spring of 1899.

“The Master Christian” is Marie Corelli’s longest work, containing, as
it does, over six hundred and thirty-four closely printed pages. While
occupied upon it, the novelist had also to fulfil a long-standing
engagement with Messrs. Hutchinson & Co. “Boy” and “The Master
Christian” were, therefore, claiming her attention practically at the
same time.

The writing of the two books under the circumstances was a stupendous
undertaking. The effort required was so great that she often had to lay
down her pen and lean back in her chair almost fainting from nervous
exhaustion caused by the severity of the work and its effect upon her in
her still weak condition.

It is a painfully interesting proceeding to read “The Master Christian”
and then a large number of the reviews of the book which appeared. The
conclusion is forced upon one that many of the critics had not taken the
trouble to perform the obvious duty of reading a book that was to be
“slated,” but had merely glanced at a page here, and quoted a passage,
without the context, there. Either this was what happened or there was
misconception of the book through ignorance or deliberate
misrepresentation. It is really astounding to realize the manner in
which Miss Corelli has been “criticised,” and one notable incident of
many within our experience will serve to indicate what is a too
frequent sin.

It was at the dinner of a well-known literary club, and ladies had been
invited. One lady sat beside a gentleman who, years ago, was editor of a
great daily newspaper, whose name is familiar to all as a notable and
experienced journalist and critic, and who has arrived at an age when
discretion, if not fairness, should be practiced. The lady was a friend
of Marie Corelli’s, and upon the works of the novelist, who was also at
the dinner, the conversation turned. The critic expressed the utmost
contempt for her books, and used language so bitterly sarcastic and so
grossly unfair that the lady gently asked: “Have you really ever read
any of her works?” The question was natural. The answer was astonishing:
it was the bald admission, “No.” Surely comment is unnecessary.

A somewhat similar incident may be quoted in connection with “Boy.” Sir
Francis (then Mr.) Burnand, as the “Baron de Bookworms,” in _Punch_,
said that he considered “Boy” “a work of genius.” Several critics took
his article up, and declared that he had never done anything better in
the way of _satire_. Miss Corelli thereupon wrote to Burnand and asked
him if he had really _meant_ his apparently generous praise.

He wrote back:

“I said it; I wrote it; I meant it, every word of it. ‘Press
cuttings’ be blowed!

“Yours, F. C. BURNAND.”

One writer in the _Sunday Sun_ observed that as Burnand had fallen so
low as to praise a work of Marie Corelli’s, he had “no other remedy but
to take a bag of stones and break Mr. Punch’s windows!” He added that
“he had not read ‘Boy’ and _didn’t intend to_.” Again, comment would be
superfluous. The facts speak for themselves and show our contention to
be correct, _i.e._, that condemnatory criticisms of Marie Corelli’s
books are written at times by those who do not even read them.

One of the critics who does read what he comments upon in the way of
books, but who, though a deep thinker, is sometimes trivial,
superficial, and even frivolous in his treatment of a subject, is Mr. W.
T. Stead. He is as amazing to others as others very often are to him. He
must, we think, have been smiling pretty broadly when he wrote: “If any
one wants to know what ‘The Master Christian’ is like, _without reading
its six hundred and thirty pages_, he will not have much difficulty if
he takes Sheldon’s ‘In His Steps,’ Zola’s ‘Rome,’ and any of Marie
Corelli’s previous novels in equal proportion.” A strange suggestion,
that! “In His Steps,” Zola’s “Rome,” and an equal proportion of, say,
_either_ “Vendetta” or “The Sorrows of Satan!” Reading the book itself
seems to be so much more simple--and just.

Again, Mr. Stead referred to “The Master Christian” and to Mrs. Humphrey
Ward’s “Robert Elsmere,” and speaking of their great success, he wrote:
“The phenomenal sale of such works is perhaps much more worthy of
consideration than anything that is to be found within the covers of the
books themselves.” Now the matter for consideration raised in “The
Master Christian” is whether Christians, and more especially the Pope of
Rome and the priests of the Romish Church, obey the commands and attempt
to fulfil the behests of Jesus Christ. We should have thought Mr. Stead
would have regarded that question, at any rate, as more important than
the mere numerical sale of a book. Mr. Stead also said that as a book
the chief fault of “The Master Christian” was its lack of sympathy. Yet
the whole teaching of the work is a Divine charity. “If any man hear my
words and believe not, I judge him not; for I came not to judge the
world, but to save the world.” The chief figure in the book is Manuel,
Christ once more in the world in the form of a child, and if his
utterances show a “lack of sympathy,”--with lies and superstitious
idolatry,--yet he speaks largely from the words of Christ and the
Apostles. Well may it be doubted, with the author, whether, if Christ
came once more to earth, He would be welcome.

It is said again that “The Master Christian” is a bitter attack upon the
Roman Catholic Faith. It is nothing of the kind. After Manuel, the
child-Christ, the chief character is that of Cardinal Bonpré, who is
devoted to the Church of Rome but who also believes in Christ, and the
two things, unhappily, are not always akin. If the man-made portion of
the Roman Catholic dogma has hidden the teachings of Christ on which
that Church was founded, that is the fault and the misfortune of the
Church of Rome, and not of Marie Corelli, who is bold enough to speak
the truth about the matter. That faith in God which is her standby is
what she would wish to see in the ministry of the Roman Catholic Church,
instead of, as she fears, a mere degenerate, priest-built, superstitious
reliance upon symbolic shams.

Marie Corelli’s personal views may be taken to be those to which one of
her characters, Aubrey Leigh, gives expression: “I never denied the
beauty, romance, or mysticism of the Roman Catholic Faith. If it were
purified from the accumulated superstition of ages, and freed from
intolerance and bigotry, it would perhaps be the grandest form of
Christianity in the world. But the rats are in the house, and the rooms
want cleaning.” She attacks neither the Roman Catholic Faith nor even
the Church. She makes a terrible onslaught upon the rats.

“The Master Christian” is both a novel and a sermon. The story of the
book is intensely interesting, in “plot” clever and original. It is one
of the refreshing features of Miss Corelli’s books that the plots always
are original. She does not go to the British Museum or to the
productions of Continental novelists to find her themes. Wherever, in
“The Master Christian,” the mission of the book can best be emphasized,
even though what critics call the “art of the story”--as to which we
should like something in the nature of a clear definition--gives way to
it, she pursues the mission. After all, we have an idea that if
literature possesses merit, it is rather because it is followed as a
means of influencing men’s minds than as an attempt to write a story,
the lines of which fall together as harmoniously as do the notes of a
perfect string band. Such a book if produced

[Illustration: "HALL’S CROFT” WHERE MARIE CORELLI WROTE HALF OF “THE
MASTER CHRISTIAN"]

would, we fancy, be so harmonious that it would have no influence to
raise men and women to think.

With “The Master Christian” the reader has to think all the time. It is
a sermon of great power, and the text of it is supplied, as it should
be, by the fair preacher. It will be remembered that in the year 1900
the late Dr. St. George Mivart, a priest of the Church of Rome, was
inhibited by His Eminence Cardinal Vaughan, on account of certain
scientific works which were displeasing to the Church. Shortly
afterwards Dr. Mivart died and the Romish Church even denied him
religious rites of burial. In an “In Memoriam” note appended to her
“Open letter to Cardinal Vaughan” on this subject, Marie Corelli wrote:
“In the name of the all-loving and merciful Christ, whose teachings we,
as Christians, profess to follow, it is necessary to enter a strong
protest against this barbarous act in a civilized age, and to set it
down beside the blind stupidity which arraigned glorious Galileo, and
the fiendish cruelty which supported Torquemada. For the words of the
Divine Master are a command to Churches as well as to individuals: ‘If
ye forgive not men their trespasses, neither will your Father forgive
you your trespasses!’”

We wonder if that saying of Christ’s was remembered when the ban of
excommunication was pronounced by the Greek Church against Count Leo
Tolstoy! We wonder if that saying of Christ’s is remembered at Rome when
any ban of excommunication is passed, when religious rites of burial are
denied to any man! And if the reply be that the words do not apply
because the Pope and his priests commit no trespasses, we can only
wonder what Christ would say if He came to Rome; and, further, we
believe that He would say much that the child-Christ Manuel utters in
“The Master Christian.”

The text of the book is that charity and forgiveness--the carrying out
of Christ’s commands in the spirit of the Saviour--should guide mankind
to-day, that they apply to-day as they did in the days of Christ’s
sojourn on earth, and that the conditions of the world to-day are such
as render it possible for Christians to walk in His steps. In the “open
letter” to Cardinal Vaughan, already referred to, we find in some of the
passages a true insight into the spirit of and the aims with which “The
Master Christian” was written.

“My Lord Cardinal,” she says, “there are certain of us in the world
who, overwhelmed by the desperate difficulties of life and the
confusion arising from numerous doctrines, forms, and ceremonies
instituted by divers Churches and Sects, are fain to fall back from
the general hurly-burly, and turn for help and refuge to the
original Founder of the Christian Faith. He, with that grand
simplicity which expresses Divinity, expounded ‘the Way, the Truth,
and the Life,’ in words of such plain and uninvolved meaning, that
the poorest and least educated of us all cannot but understand Him.
Gracious, tender, and always patient and pardoning, was every
utterance of the God amongst us; and among all His wise and
consoling sayings, none are, perhaps, more widely tolerant than
this: ‘If any man hear My words and believe not, I judge him not;
for I came not to judge the world, but to save the world.’ My Lord
Cardinal, there are many at this time of day who have so gained in
a reasonable conception of faith, that when they hear the words of
Christ delivered to them simply as first uttered, they are willing
to believe, but hearing the edicts of the Church contrasted with
those words, they ‘believe not.’ The teachings of Christ--Christ
only--are so true that they cannot be denied; so beautiful that
they command our reverence; and the Creed of Christ, if honestly
followed, would make a fair and happy world for us all.”

And again,

“We are somewhat bewildered when we discover, by reference to the
Gospel, that the Church commands us frequently to do precisely what
the founder of our Faith commanded us _not_ to do. And what, we may
ask, is the Will of this great Father which is in Heaven? Is it to
swear to what our own conscience and reason declare to be false? Is
it to look in the face of Science, the great Heaven-sent Teacher
of our time, and say, ‘You who have taught me, mere pigmy man, to
press the lightning into my service, to take the weight and
measurement of stars, to send my trifling messages of weal or woe
on the eternal currents of electric force--You, who daily unfold
for me the mysteries of God’s glorious creation--You who teach me
that the soul of man, immortal and progressive, is capable of
infinite enlightenment and increasing power--You, who expound the
majesty, the beneficence, the care, the love, the supporting
influence of the Creator, and bring me to my knees in devout
adoration--am I to say to You who teach me all this that You are a
Lie? Am I rather to believe that a statue made by hands, and set in
a grotto at Lourdes or elsewhere, is a worthier object for my
prayer and my praise? Am I doing God’s will by believing that my
base coin, paid for sundry masses in churches, will sway the
Creator of the Universe to give peace to the departed spirits of my
dead?’”

Marie Corelli, by the words of Manuel, as we think it is recognized,
gives a truer interpretation of the Divine Will. Even the title page
contains a quotation from St. Luke that is a protest against many of the
practices of the Romish and other Churches: “Why call ye Me, Lord, Lord,
and do not the things which I say?”

* * * * *

The story of “The Master Christian” opens in Rouen, where a Roman
Catholic prelate, Cardinal Felix Bonpré, is seen in the Cathedral of
Notre Dame. This Cardinal is a pious and true man who has for many
years contented himself with the administration of his diocese and the
performance of good work. His Rouen visit is a portion of a tour of
several months taken for purposes of health, and with the object of
judging for himself how the great world, of which he has seen little, is
faring, “whether on the downward road to destruction and death, or up to
the high ascents of progress and life.” The farther he travels the more
depressed he becomes by the results of his observations. Within Rouen
Cathedral Cardinal Bonpré hears singularly soothing music, though whence
it comes he is unable to perceive. He is impressed with a peculiar sense
of some divine declaration of God’s absolute omniscience, and a question
seems to be whispered in his ears:

“When the Son of Man cometh, think ye He shall find faith on earth?”

With his growing experience of the confusion and trouble of the world,
the Cardinal is forced to the conclusion that there is an increasing
lack of faith in God and a Hereafter; and of the reason for it he
thinks: “We have failed to follow the Master’s teaching in its true
perfection. We have planted in ourselves a seed of corruption, and we
have permitted--nay, some of us have encouraged--its poisonous growth
till it now threatens to contaminate the whole field of labor.”

Cast down by these reflections, the good Cardinal proceeds to the Hotel
Poitiers, a modest hostelry preferred by him to the Palace of the
Archbishop of Rouen, another “Prince of the Church,” a term which
Cardinal Bonpré--like Miss Corelli--finds particularly detestable,
especially when used in connection with a Christian Church wherein she
thinks distinctive ranks are a mistake and even Anti-Christian.

At the inn a striking picture is drawn by the novelist of the evil
effect upon the children of France brought about by the removal of
religious instruction from the schools. The two charmingly precocious
children of Jean and Madame Patoux are quite old in agnostic views and
doubts. There also Bonpré has his first serious religious argument with
the Archbishop of Rouen, whom he astonishes by declaring that the Church
herself is responsible for the increase of ungodliness.

“If our Divine faith were lived Divinely there would be no room for
heresy or atheism. The Church itself supplies the loophole for
apostasy.... In the leading points of creed I am very steadfastly
convinced;--namely, that Christ was Divine, and that the following
of His Gospel is the saving of the immortal soul. But if you ask
me whether I think that we (the Church of Rome) do truly follow
that Gospel, I must own that I have doubts upon the matter.”

We are informed here, also, through Cardinal Bonpré, of what Marie
Corelli means by Paulism. Ministers of religion, he declares, should
literally obey all Christ’s commands:

“The Church is a system,--but whether it is as much founded on the
teaching of our Lord, who was Divine, as on the teaching of St.
Paul, who was not divine, is a question to me of much
perplexity.... I do not decry St. Paul. He was a gifted and clever
man, but he was a Man--he was not God-in-Man. Christ’s doctrine
leaves no place for differing sects; St. Paul’s method of applying
that doctrine serves as authority for the establishment of any and
every quarrelsome sect ever known.... I do not think we fit the
Church system to the needs of modern civilization ... we only offer
vague hopes and dubious promises to those who thirst for the living
waters of salvation and immortality.”

Cardinal Bonpré that night has a vision of the end of the world, and in
his agony at the spectacle he cries: “Have patience yet, Thou outraged
and blasphemed Creator! Break once again Thy silence as of old, and
speak to us! Pity us once again, ere Thou slay us utterly! Come to us
even as Thou camest in Judea, and surely we will receive Thee and obey
Thee, and reject Thy love no more.” And a divine voice replies: “Thy
prayer is heard, and once again the silence shall be broken.
Nevertheless, remember that the light shineth in Darkness, and the
Darkness comprehendeth it not.” At this juncture a plaintive cry falls
on his ears, and he goes out into the night to discover the cause. He
proceeds to the Cathedral, and there, in the deeply hollowed portal,
discovers the slight shrinking figure of a child--

“A boy’s desolate little figure,--with uplifted hands clasped
appealingly and laid against the shut cathedral door, and face
hidden and pressed hard upon those hands, as though in mute and
inconsolable despair....

‘My poor child, what troubles you? Why are you here all alone, and
weeping at this late hour? Have you no home?--no parents?’

“Slowly the boy turned round, still resting his small delicate
hands against the oaken door of the Cathedral, and with the tears
yet wet upon his cheeks, smiled. What a sad face he had!--worn and
weary, yet beautiful!--what eyes, heavy with the dews of sorrow,
yet tender even in pain! Startled by the mingled purity and grief
on so young a countenance, the Cardinal retreated for a moment in
amaze,--then, approaching more closely, he repeated his former
question with increased interest and tenderness--

‘Why are you weeping here alone?’

‘Because I am left alone to weep!’ said the boy, answering in a
soft voice of vibrating and musical melancholy. ‘For me, the world
is empty!... I should have rested here within,--but it is closed
against me!’

‘The doors are always locked at night, my child,’ returned the
Cardinal, ‘but I can give you shelter. Will you come with me?’

‘Will I come with you? Nay, but I see you are a Cardinal of the
Church, and it is I should ask ‘will you receive me?’ You do not
know who I am--nor where I came from, and I, alas! may not tell
you! I am alone; all--all alone,--for no one knows me in the
world;--I am quite poor and friendless, and have nothing wherewith
to pay you for your kindly shelter--I can only bless you!’”

Thus the second coming of Christ, according to Marie Corelli.

Manuel is then taken entirely under the protection of Cardinal Bonpré,
and the two become inseparable. At all times the lad talks with
wonderful eloquence and power--as Marie Corelli thinks Christ would talk
if He were a child amongst us, and as He did talk when astonishing the
learned doctors of law in Jerusalem. Before he and the Cardinal leave
the Hotel Poitiers a miracle is performed. In Rouen there is a lad,
Fabien Doucet, who has a bent spine and a useless leg. The unbelieving
Patoux youngsters bring little Fabien to the Cardinal, and ask him to
cure the lad. Beside the Cardinal stands Manuel. The incident is
introduced by Marie Corelli in order to emphasize her own belief in the
power of prayer--prayer that is sincere, the expression of faith that
is true. The story of the miracle is very beautiful, especially for the
spirit in which the good Cardinal performs the duty that the children
ask of him. He addresses Fabien:

“My poor child, I want you to understand quite clearly how sorry I
am for you, and how willingly I would do anything in the world to
make you a strong, well, and happy boy. But you must not fancy that
I can cure you. I told your little friends yesterday that I was not
a saint, such as you read about in story-books,--and that I could
not work miracles, because I am not worthy to be so filled with the
Divine Spirit as to heal with a touch like the better servants of
our Blessed Lord. Nevertheless I firmly believe that if God saw
that it was good for you to be strong and well, He would find ways
to make you so. Sometimes sickness and sorrow are sent to us for
our advantage,--sometimes even death comes to us for our larger
benefit, though we may not understand how it is so till afterwards.
But in heaven everything will be made clear; and even our griefs
will be turned into joys,--do you understand?”

“Yes,” murmured Fabien gravely, but two large tears welled up in
his plaintive eyes as the faint glimmer of hope he had encouraged
as to the possibility of his being miraculously cured by the touch
of a saintly Cardinal, expired in the lonely darkness of his little
afflicted soul.

“That is well,” continued the Cardinal kindly--“And now, since it
is so difficult for you to kneel, you shall stay where you are in
my arms,--so!--” and he set him on his knee in a position of even
greater comfort than before. “You shall simply shut your eyes, and
clasp your little hands together, as I put them here,”--and as he
spoke he crossed the child’s hands on his silver crucifix--“And I
will ask our Lord to come and make you well,--for of myself I can
do nothing.”

At these words Henri and Babette glanced at each other
questioningly, and then, as if simultaneously moved by some
inexplicable emotion, dropped on their knees,--their mother, too
stout and unwieldy to do this with either noiselessness or
satisfaction to herself, was contented to bend her head as low as
she could get it. Manuel remained standing. Leaning against the
Cardinal’s chair, his eyes fixed on the crippled Fabien, he had the
aspect of a young angel of compassion, whose sole immortal desire
was to lift the burden of sorrow and pain from the lives of
suffering humanity. And after a minute or two passed in silent
meditation, the Cardinal laid his hands tenderly on Fabien’s fair
curly head and prayed aloud.

“Oh merciful Christ! Most pitying and gentle Redeemer!--to Whom in
the days of Thy sacred life on earth, the sick and suffering and
lame and blind were brought, and never sent away unhealed or
uncomforted; consider, we beseech Thee, the sufferings of this Thy
little child, deprived of all the joys which Thou hast made so
sweet for those who are strong and straight in their youth, and who
have no ailment to depress their courage or to quench the ardor of
their aspiring souls. Look compassionately upon him, oh gentle King
and Master of all such children!--and even as Thou wert a child
Thyself, be pleased to heal him of his sad infirmity. For, if Thou
wilt, Thou canst make this bent body straight and these withered
muscles strong,--from death itself Thou canst ordain life, and
nothing is impossible to Thee! But above all things, gracious
Saviour, we do pray Thee so to lift and strengthen this child’s
soul, that if it is destined he should still be called upon to
bear his present pain and trouble, grant to him such perfection in
his inward spirit that he may prove worthy to be counted among Thy
angels in the bright Hereafter. To Thy care, and to Thy comfort,
and to Thy healing, great Master, we commend him, trusting him
entirely to Thy mercy, with perfect resignation to Thy Divine Will.
For the sake and memory of Thy most holy childhood, mercifully help
and bless this child! Amen!”

As Fabien Doucet hobbles away at the conclusion of this prayer, the
Cardinal, speaking from his heart, declares that if the giving of his
own life could make the lad strong he would willingly sacrifice it. Then
Manuel moves from his place near the Cardinal’s chair, approaches the
little cripple, and, putting his arms round him, kisses him on the
forehead.

“Good-bye, dear little brother!” he said, smiling--“Do not be sad!
Have patience! In all the universe, among all the millions and
millions of worlds, there is never a pure and unselfish prayer that
the great good God does not answer! Be sure of that! Take courage,
dear little brother! You will soon be well!”

Sweet assurance, truly, for the afflicted one. Shortly afterwards the
Cardinal and Manuel depart from Rouen. They have not been long gone when
there comes the startling announcement from Fabien Doucet’s mother that
the boy is cured, and, to prove it, little Fabien, the former cripple,
speeds gaily to the home of the Patoux family, strong and well.

Unconscious of the remarkable cure that has awed and amazed the
townsfolk of Rouen, the Cardinal, accompanied by Manuel, proceeds to
Paris and to the residence of his niece, Angela Sovrani, an artist
famous throughout Europe. In Paris many interesting persons are brought
together, mainly in Angela Sovrani’s studio. One remarkable character is
the Abbé Vergniaud, a brilliant preacher, witty, eloquent, and
sarcastic, but an atheist for all that. In his conversations with Angela
he endeavors to justify his position, but the girl insists upon the
depressing and wretched nature of his soulless creed. Vergniaud frankly
admits his unbelief to Cardinal Bonpré. He also makes a confession and a
declaration. In his early days, twenty-five years before, he had
betrayed and deserted a woman, long since dead. Her son, however, has
grown to manhood with the determination to avenge the mother’s wrong,
and the Abbé goes in daily fear of assassination at his hands. Yet the
Abbé Vergniaud shows that he is far from being a wholly evil man. He
declares his determination to retrieve the past so far as he can and to
clear his son’s soul from the thirst for vengeance that is consuming it.

On one occasion Vergniaud declares that Paris is hopelessly pagan, that
Christ is there made the subject of public caricature, that His reign is
over--in Paris at least.

“If these things be true,” Cardinal Bonpré indignantly cries, “then
shame upon you and upon all the clergy of this unhappy city to
stand by and let such disgrace to yourselves, and blasphemy to our
Master, exist without protest.”

The Abbé is inclined to resent the rebuke, but only for a moment. The
next, abashed, he admits its justice, and craves pardon. The incident is
the turning point in Vergniaud’s life. He shortly afterwards writes to
the Cardinal that he is moved to say things that he has never said
before, and that it is possible he may astonish and perchance scandalize
Paris.

“What inspires me I do not know,--perhaps your well-deserved
reproach of the other day,--perhaps the beautiful smile of the
angel that dwells in Donna Sovrani’s eyes,--perhaps the chance
meeting with your Rouen foundling on the stairs as I was flying
away from your just wrath.”

He concludes by requesting the Cardinal to come two days later to hear
him preach at Notre Dame de Lorette.

In his letter to the Cardinal, the Abbé Vergniaud mentions that Manuel
has given him a rose, and the mention of this to the child-Christ gives
us a charming fancy as to the floral beauties of Heaven.

“Flowers,” said the Cardinal, commenting on the gift, “are like
visible messages from God. Messages written in all the brightest
and loveliest colors! I never gather one without finding out that
it has something to say to me.”

“There is a legend,” said Manuel, “that tells how a poor girl who
has lost every human creature she loved on earth, had a rose-tree
she was fond of, and every day she found upon it just one bloom.
And though she longed to gather the flower for herself she would
not do so, but always placed it before the picture of the Christ.
And God saw her do this, as He sees everything. At last, quite
suddenly, she died, and when she found herself in heaven, there
were such crowds and crowds of angels about her that she was
bewildered, and could not find her way. All at once she saw a
pathway edged with roses before her, and one of the angels said,
‘there are all the roses you gave to our Lord on earth, and He has
made them into a pathway for you which will lead you straight to
those you love!’ And so with great joy she followed the windings of
the path, seeing her roses blossoming all the way, and she found
all those whom she had loved and lost on earth waiting to welcome
her at the end!”

Here is another sweet thought which Marie Corelli gives us in the words
of Manuel:

“You know now,” he tells Angela Sovrani, “because your wise men
are beginning to prove it, that you can in very truth send a
message to heaven. Heaven is composed of millions of worlds. ‘In My
Father’s house are many mansions!’ And from all worlds to all
worlds, and from mansion to mansion, the messages flash! And there
are those who receive them, with such directness as can admit of no
error! And your wise men might have known this long ago if they had
believed their Master’s word, ‘Whatsoever is whispered in secret
shall be proclaimed on the housetops.’ But you will all find out
soon that it is true, and that everything you say, and that every
prayer you utter, God hears.”

“My mother is in Heaven,” said Angela wistfully, “I wish I could
send her a message!”

“Your very wish has reached her now!” said Manuel. “How is it
possible that you, in the spirit, could wish to communicate with
one so beloved and she not know it? Love would be no use then, and
there would be a grave flaw in God’s perfect creation.”

“Then you think we never lose those we love? And that they see us
and hear us always?”

“They must do so,” said Manuel, “otherwise there would be cruelty
in creating the grace of love at all. But God Himself is Love.
Those who love truly can never be parted--death has no power over
their souls. If one is on earth and one in heaven, what does it
matter? If they were in separate countries of the world they could
hear news of each other from time to time,--and so they can when
apparent death has divided them.”

“How?” asked Angela with quick interest.

“Your wise men must tell you,” said Manuel, with a grave little
smile, “I know no more than what Christ has said,--and He told us
plainly that not even a sparrow shall fall to the ground without
our Father’s knowledge. ‘Fear not,’ He said, ‘Ye are more than
many sparrows.’ So, as there is nothing which is useless, and
nothing which is wasted, it is very certain that love, which is the
greatest of all things, cannot lose what it loves!”

It is worthy of note that, on account of “The Master Christian,” in
spite of the teachings in it such as we have quoted, the author has been
labeled an “atheist.”

CHAPTER. XIII

“THE MASTER CHRISTIAN”--(_Continued_)

Of many interesting incidents which mark the Cardinal’s stay in Paris,
the most sensational is the sermon of the Abbé Vergniaud and the
extraordinary scene at its close.

Marie Corelli gives a wonderfully realistic word-picture of the scene in
the famous church on a notable occasion. The Abbé’s sermon, which
appears in its entirety, is scathingly sarcastic. In it he bitterly
denounces the hypocrisy alike of people and of churches, especially the
Roman Catholic Church, which he attacks for the ban it places upon many
things, even discussion; he declares that all the intellectual force of
the country is arrayed against priestcraft, and that the spirit of an
insolent, witty, domineering atheism and materialism rules us all. “But
what I specially wish to advise you--taking myself as an example--is,
that none of you, whether inclined to virtue or to vice, should remain
such arrant fools as to imagine that your sins will not find you out.”

And then the Abbé makes open confession, before the congregation, of his
past life.

“I was a priest of the Romish Church as I am now; it would never
have done for a priest to be a social sinner! I therefore took
every precaution to hide my fault;--but out of my lie springs a
living condemnation; from my carefully concealed hypocrisy comes a
blazonry of truth, and from my secret sin comes an open
vengeance....”

The report of a pistol shot sounds through the church as the last words
are uttered. A young man has fired at the preacher. It is the son
seeking his vengeance at last. Manuel prevents the bullet from reaching
Vergniaud, who immediately announces to the astonished congregation that
he will not make a charge: “I decline to prosecute my own flesh and
blood. I will be answerable for his future conduct,--I am entirely
answerable for his past! He is my son!”

It is upon the persecution of Cardinal Bonpré in consequence of the
attitude he adopts towards the Abbé Vergniaud after this sensational
incident that Marie Corelli builds her chief indictment of the Vatican
executive. An agent of the Vatican, then in Paris, is Monsignor Moretti.
He calls at the Sovrani Palace. There he has an interview with the
Cardinal, the Abbé, and the latter’s son Cyrillon. Moretti upbraids
Vergniaud for his conduct, correctly describing him as a faithless son
of the church, and meets with the retort, “The attack on the Church I
admit. I am not the only preacher in the world who has so attacked it.
Christ Himself would attack it if He were to visit this earth again!”
The remark is characterized as blasphemy, but, on the Cardinal being
appealed to, the good Bonpré states his failure to perceive the alleged
blasphemy of “our unhappy and repentant brother.”

“In his address to his congregation to-day he denounced social
hypocrisy, and also pointed out certain failings in the Church
which may possibly need consideration and reform; but against the
Gospel of Christ or against the Founder of our Faith I heard no
word that could be judged ill-fitting. As for the conclusion which
so very nearly ended in disaster and crime, there is nothing to be
said beyond the fact that both the persons concerned are profoundly
sorry for their sins.... Surely we must believe the words of our
Blessed Lord, ‘There is more joy in Heaven over one sinner that
repenteth, than over ninety-and-nine just persons which have no
need of repentance.’”

This forgiveness of sin which Christ preached and which Marie Corelli
claims that the Romish Church does not practice, is the basis of the
differences of Cardinal Bonpré with Moretti, and afterwards with the
Pope. Vergniaud, still unrebuked by Cardinal Bonpré, declares to Moretti
that there is a movement in the world which all the powers of Rome are
unable to cope with, the movement of an ever-advancing and resistless
force called Truth, and that God will shake down Rome rather than that
the voice of Truth should be silenced.

The Abbé’s declarations, as the Vatican emissary points out, mean his
expulsion from the Church. Before the interview closes there comes the
declaration by Cyrillon Vergniaud, the son of the Abbé, that he is “Gys
Grandit,” a powerful writer of essays that are the creed of a “Christian
Democratic” party--that advocate of Truth to which the Abbé had
referred. The announcement is startling to all three clerics, the more
so as the young man proceeds to utter his views, a stern denunciation of
the Church’s practices, with such rebukes as: “Does not the glittering
of the world’s wealth piled into the Vatican,--useless wealth lying idle
in the midst of hideous beggary and starvation,--proclaim with no
uncertain voice, ‘_I know not the Man_’?” with the added declaration
that there is no true representative of Christ in this world--either
within or without the Romish Church--though even sceptics, while denying
Christ’s Divinity, are forced to own that His life and His actions were
more Divine than those of any other creature in human shape that has
ever walked the earth!

In the further argumentative passes between Moretti and Gys Grandit,
the former holds that the Church of Rome is a system of moral
government, and that it is proper to thrust out of salvation heretics
who are excommunicate, and that if our Lord’s commands were to be obeyed
to the letter it would be necessary to find another world to live in.
These propositions the Christian Democrat absolutely denies, and urges,
on the other hand, that it may be possible that we may be forced to obey
Christ’s commands _to the letter_ or perish for refusing to do so. For
permitting such remarks to go unreproved, Moretti, as the interview
closes, intimates that, in reporting the matter to the Pope, the
attitude of Cardinal Bonpré will be explained. Further offense is given
by the appearance of Manuel upon the scene, and by some remarks the lad
makes upon the subject under discussion.

Clouds are gathering heavily over the horizon of the saintly Bonpré,
who, accompanied by Manuel, proceeds to Rome after this most
unpropitious preliminary to an audience at the Vatican. He is further
troubled, immediately after his arrival at the palace of his
brother-in-law, Prince Sovrani, by being informed of the “miracle” of
Rouen--the recovery of Fabien Doucet, of which he now hears for the
first time, though all Rome has been talking loudly of it. Bonpré is
decidedly in bad repute at the Vatican, and it is determined that he
shall be made to suffer for his defense of Vergniaud. He adds to his
offenses by denying all knowledge of the Rouen lad’s cure.

Manuel and Bonpré visit St. Peter’s, which does not please them, and at
last they are received by the Pope. Here all Marie Corelli’s criticism
of the Romish Church is concentrated in the appeal which is made by the
child-Christ to His Holiness. He asks him why he stops at the Vatican
all alone.

“You must be very unhappy!... To be here all alone, and a whole
world outside waiting to be comforted! To have vast wealth lying
about you unused, with millions and millions of poor, starving,
struggling dying creatures, near at hand, cursing the God whom they
have never been taught to know or to bless!...

“Come out with me!” continued Manuel, his accents vibrating with a
strange compelling sweetness, “come out and see the poor lying at
the great gates of St. Peter’s--the lame, the halt, the blind--come
and heal them by a touch, a prayer! You can, you must, you shall
heal them!--if you will! Pour money into the thin hands of the
starving!--come with me into the miserable places of the
world--come and give comfort! Come freely into the courts of kings,
and see how the brows ache under the crowns!--how the hearts break
beneath the folds of velvet and ermine! Why stand in the way of
happiness, or deny even emperors peace when they crave it? Your
mission is to comfort, not to condemn! You need no throne! You want
no kingdom!--no settled place--no temporal power! Enough for you
to work and live as the poorest of all Christ’s ministers,--without
pomp, without ostentation or public ceremonial, but simply clothed
in pure holiness! So shall God love you more! So shall you pass
unscathed through the thick of battle, and command Brotherhood in
place of Murder! Go out and welcome Progress!--take Science by the
hand!--encourage Intellect!--for all these things are of God, and
are God’s gifts divine! Live as Christ lived, teaching the people
personally and openly;--loving them, pitying them, sharing their
joys and sorrows, blessing their little children! Deny yourself to
no man;--and make of this cold temple in which you now dwell
self-imprisoned, a home and refuge for the friendless and the poor!
Come out with me!

“Come out with me and minister with your own hands to the aged and
the dying!” pursued Manuel, “and so shall you grow young! Command
that the great pictures, the tapestries, the jewels, the world’s
trash of St. Peter’s, be sold to the rich, who can afford to place
them in free and open galleries where all the poorest may possess
them! But do not You retain them! You do not need them--your
treasure must be sympathy for all the world! Not one section of the
world,--not one form of creed,--but for all!--if you are truly the
Dispenser of Christ’s Message to the earth! Come--unprotected, save
by the Cross! Come with no weapon of defense--‘heal the sick,
cleanse the lepers, raise the dead, cast out devils! Freely ye have
received, freely give! Provide neither gold nor silver nor brass in
your purse,’--come, and by your patience--your gentleness--your
pardon--your love to all men, show that ‘the Kingdom of Heaven is
at hand!’ Walk fearless in the thick of battles, and your very
presence shall engender peace! For the Holy Spirit shall surround
and encompass you; the fiercest warriors shall bend before you, as
they never would if you assumed a world’s throne or a world’s
sovereignty! Come, uncrowned, defenseless;--but strong in the
Spirit of God! Think of all the evil which has served as the
foundation for this palace in which you dwell! Can you not hear in
the silence of the night, the shrieks of the tortured and dying of
the Inquisition? Do you never think of the dark days, ten and
twelve hundred years after Christ, when no virtue seemed left upon
the earth?--when the way to this very throne was paved by poison
and cold steel?--when those who then reigned here, and occupied
Your place, led such infamous lives that the very dogs might have
been ashamed to follow in their footsteps!--when they professed to
be able to sell the Power of the Holy Ghost for so much gold and
silver? Remember the words, ‘Whoso shall blaspheme against the Holy
Ghost it shall not be forgiven him, either in this world or in the
world to come.’ Look back upon the Past--and look out upon the
Present! Try to understand the suffering of the forsaken
people!--the pain--the bewilderment--the groping for life in
death!--and come out with me! Come and preach Christ as He lived
and died, and _was_, and _is_!

“Come out with me ... for there are wonderful things in the world
to-day!--wonderful, beautiful, and terrible! Take your share in
them, and find God in every glory! For with all the wisdom and the
splendor,--with all the flashing light of Heaven poured out upon
the darkness of the Sorrowful Star, its people are weary,--they are
lost in the confusion and clamor of their own desires--they would
fain serve God, but know not where to find Him, because a thousand,
ay a million churches stand in the way! Churches, which are like a
forest of dark trees, blocking out the radiance of the Sun! God,
who manifests His power and tenderness in the making of the
simplest leaf, the smallest bird, is lost to the understanding and
affection of humanity in the multitude of Creeds! Come out with
me,--simple and pure, gentle and strong! Tell all the lost and the
wandering that there never was, and never will be but one God
supreme and perfect, whose name is Love, whose work is Love!--and
whose Messenger, Christ, pronounced the New Commandment Love,
instead of Hate! Come out with me while it is yet day, for the
night cometh when no man can work! Come and lift up the world by
your very coming! Stretch out your hands in benediction over kings
and beggars alike!--there are other roses to give than Golden ones
to Queens! There are poor women who share half they earn with those
still poorer--there are obscure lives which in their very
obscurity, are forming the angel-nature, and weaving the angel’s
crown,--look for these in the world--give _them_ your Golden Roses!
Leave rulers and governments alone, for you should be above and
beyond all rulers and governments! You should be the Herald of
peace, the Pardoner of sin, the Rescuer of the fallen, and the
Refuge of the distressed! Come out with me, and be all this to the
world, so that when the Master comes He may truly find you working
in His vineyard!

“Come out with me ... or if you will not come,--then beware!...
beware of the evil days which are at hand! The people are wandering
to and fro, crossing all lands, struggling one against the other,
hoarding up useless gold, and fighting for supremacy!--but ‘the day
of the Lord shall come like a thief in the night, and blessed is he
who shall be found watching!’ Watch! The hour is growing dark and
full of menace!--the nations are as frightened children, losing
faith, losing hope, losing strength! Put away,--put away from you
the toys of time!--quench in your soul the thirst for gold, for of
this shall come nothing but corruption! Why trifle with the Spirit
of holy things? Why let your servants use the Name of the Most High
to cover hypocrisy? Why crave for the power of temporal things,
which passes away in the dust of destroyed kingdoms? For the Power
of the Spirit is greater than all! And so it shall be proved! The
Spirit shall work in ways where it has never been found before!--it
shall depart from the Churches which are unworthy of its Divine
inspiration!--it shall invest the paths of science!--it shall open
the doors of the locked stars! It shall display the worlds
invisible;--the secrets of men’s hearts, and of closed
graves!--there will be terror and loss and confusion and shame to
mankind,--and this world shall keep nothing of all its treasures
but the Cross of Christ! Rome, like Babylon, shall fall!--and the
Powers of the Church shall be judged as the Powers of Darkness
rather than of Light, because they have rejected the Word of their
Master, and ‘teach for doctrine the commandments of men’! Disaster
shall follow swift upon disaster, and the cup of trembling shall be
drained again to its last dregs, as in the olden days,
unless,--unless perchance--You will come out with Me!”

This address has such an effect on the Pope that at its conclusion he
falls senseless. Bonpré and Manuel, the former now without a friend left
at the Vatican, take their departure, and shortly afterwards it is
deemed expedient for them to leave Rome for shelter in England, the idea
being intimated that the authorities of the Church were determined to
make a prisoner of the Cardinal, and inflict upon him some undefined
evil.

So far as the book is concerned apart from its central theme, the
interest is held by the light touches of the loves of some charming
people, and also of a very frivolous roué, the Marquis Fontenelle. This
very “up-to-date” French nobleman is ultimately, to the relief of every
one and the regret of few, killed in a duel with his own brother, the
great actor Miraudin. To make this melodramatic incident as striking as
possible the author kills both the brothers. The Marquis is a character
who says and does what would seem to be impossible things.
Notwithstanding his immoral propensities he has a certain pleasing
fascination that almost inclines one to regard his faults with
tolerance. His faults are many, but let it be said to his credit at
least that he recognizes them. His views of men and women and love are
extraordinarily callous and cynical, yet it is an absolute fact that the
prototype of the Marquis Fontenelle exists, and holds and openly
expresses the views to which in this book he is made to give utterance.
And, evil as he is, he also is conquered at the last by the true
character of a sweet, pure, womanly woman. It is such who conquer all
evil.

The Comtesse Sylvie Hermenstein, an altogether delightful lady, marries
Aubrey Leigh and leaves the Church of Rome. The story of her doing so,
of the struggles of the Romish priesthood to retain her and her wealth,
and of the methods by which they endeavored to attain that end, is in
itself a stirring narrative.

Marie Corelli is altogether pleasing, not only to those who approve the
mission of her book, but to many of her most severe critics, in her
account of the life which Leigh in younger days had led in a Cornish
fishing village, working as one of themselves amongst the rugged,
true-hearted, brave men who with all their roughness of character are
perhaps stauncher in a simple faith in God than many of those who
ostentatiously worship in fine churches. She pens, too, many delightful,
humorous, and pathetic pictures of the French peasantry.

Quite another story is the love, or, rather, two loves, of Angela
Sovrani. When we first make her acquaintance--a woman, yet one of the
finest artists in the world--she is betrothed to Florian Varillo, a man
with a character of almost impossible evil. We wish we could regard the
character as _absolutely_ impossible. Varillo is also an artist,
handsome, unprincipled, egotistical to the worst degree, believing
himself great and holding the view--once generally held, but now to a
large extent exploded--that woman’s work cannot be equal to masculine
effort. Angela has for years been engaged upon a picture which she hopes
will be a masterpiece. No person--not even father or lover--has been
permitted to gaze upon the canvas. A date for the uncovering and
inspection of the picture is fixed. Alone in her studio the evening
before, Florian begs admittance in order that he may inspect the picture
that night, owing to a journey which he must take early on the morrow.
Angela consents. “Come and see.” The concealing curtain is removed and
Florian recoils with an involuntary cry, and then remains motionless and
silent, stricken dumb and stupid by the magnificent creation which
confronts him.

“The central glory of the whole picture was a figure of Christ....
Kingly and commanding.” Near by are seen the faces of many pre-eminent
in the history of the time. The Pope is shown fastening fetters of iron
round a beautiful youth called Science. The leader of the Jesuits is
counting gold. The forms of men representing every description of
Church-doctrine are beheld trampling underneath them other human
creatures.

“And over all this blackness and chaos the supernal figure of the
glorious Christ was aerially poised,--one Hand was extended, and to
this a Woman clung--a woman with a beautiful face made piteous in
its beauty by long grief and patient endurance. In her other arm
she held a sleeping child--and mother and child were linked
together by a garland of flowers partially broken and faded. Her
entreating attitude,--the sleeping child’s helplessness--her worn
face,--the perishing roses of earth’s hope and joy,--all expressed
their meaning simply yet tragically; and as the Divine Hand
supported and drew her up out of the universal chaos below, the
hope of a new world, a better world, a wiser world, a holier world,
seemed to be distantly conveyed. But the eyes of the Christ were
full of reproach, and were bent on the Representative of St. Peter
binding the laurel-crowned youth, and dragging him into
darkness,--and the words written across the golden mount of the
picture, in clear black letters, seemed to be actually spoken aloud
from the vivid color and movement of the painting. ‘Many in that
day will call upon Me and say, Lord, Lord, have we not prophesied
in Thy name, and in Thy name cast out devils, and done many
wonderful works?’

“‘Then will I say to them, I never knew you! Depart from Me all ye
that work iniquity!’”

And what of Angela and Florian? Painter and sweetheart regard the work.
Varillo’s first remark is, “Did you do it all yourself?” That is the
first verbal stab. Others follow, killing the joy of Angela. And the
verbal stabs are but the prelude to one with steel; for Varillo,
maddened by jealousy, determines to kill Angela and then to persuade
the world that _he_ has painted the picture. Angela, happily, is not
killed. Varillo, who escapes, enters into a conspiracy to declare and
maintain that the great picture is his. He is got out of the world and
out of the book by perishing in a fire at a monastery to which he had
been taken. Such treachery it is almost impossible to conceive. Yet
those who condemn the incident should remember some of Marie Corelli’s
own personal experiences, with which the world has now to some extent
become acquainted. Angela subsequently marries Gys Grandit.

Throughout the book there are a good many discourses by Aubrey Leigh and
Gys Grandit on the subject of Christian Democracy. What seems to be the
main desire of this party is “a purified Church--a House of Praise to
God, without any superstition or Dogma.” We must confess, however, that
we recognize the truth of the remark made by Gherardi--one of the Roman
prelates--“You must have Dogma. You must formulate something out of a
chaos of opinion”; and neither through Manuel, Aubrey Leigh, nor Gys
Grandit does Marie Corelli tell us how she would build up this simple
universal church of which she speaks so much. We may, however, expect in
a further book to have Miss Corelli’s constructive conceptions on the
subject. The basis of it all is, at any rate, that the main feature of
all worship should be praise of the Almighty and His Divine Son; and, as
a true believer and an artist, she would have the churches not only
essentially houses of Praise, but buildings worthy of the high purpose
for which they are erected. In “The Master Christian” she gives us her
stepfather’s poem as indicating Aubrey Leigh’s ideal on the subject:

If thou’rt a Christian in deed and thought,
Loving thy neighbor as Jesus taught,--
Living all days in the sight of Heaven,
And not _one_ only out of seven,--
Sharing thy wealth with the suffering poor,
Helping all sorrow that Hope can cure,--
Making religion a truth in the heart,
And not a cloak to be wore in the mart,
Or in high cathedrals and chapels and fanes,
Where priests are traders and count the gains,--
All God’s angels will say, “Well done!”
Whenever thy mortal race is run.
White and forgiven,
Thou’lt enter heaven,
And pass, unchallenged, the Golden Gate,
Where welcoming spirits watch and wait
To hail thy coming with sweet accord
To the Holy City of God the Lord!

If Peace is thy prompter, and Love is thy guide,
And white-robed Charity walks by thy side,--
If thou tellest the truth without oath to bind,
Doing thy duty to all mankind,--
Raising the lowly, cheering the sad,
Finding some goodness e’en in the bad,
And owning with sadness if badness there be,
There might have been badness in thine and in thee,
If Conscience the warder that keeps thee whole
Had uttered no voice to thy slumbering soul,--
All God’s angels will say, “Well done!”
Whenever thy mortal race is run.
White and forgiven,
Thou’lt enter heaven,
And pass, unchallenged, the Golden Gate,
Where welcoming spirits watch and wait
To hail thy coming with sweet accord
To the Holy City of God the Lord!

If thou art humble and wilt not scorn,
However wretched, a brother forlorn,--
If thy purse is open to misery’s call,
And the God thou lovest is God of all,
Whatever their color, clime or creed,
Blood of thy blood, in their sorest need,--
If every cause that is good and true,
And needs assistance to dare and do,
Thou helpest on through good and ill,
With trust in heaven, and God’s good-will,--
All God’s angels will say, “Well done!”
Whenever thy mortal race is run.
White and forgiven,
Thou’lt enter heaven,
And pass, unchallenged, the Golden Gate,
Where welcoming spirits watch and wait
To hail thy coming with sweet accord
To the Holy City of God the Lord!

In the closing of the story we find Cardinal Bonpré threatened by the
Pope with severe punishment unless he parts with Manuel, and the
Cardinal’s dignified and argumentative reply. The two part, but it is
not at the bidding of the Pope. There is a beautiful description of the
last night on earth of the Cardinal and of a vision beheld by him--a
Dream of Angels, “Of thousands of dazzling faces, that shone like stars
or were fair as flowers!”

* * * * *

So the Cardinal passes away to his eternal rest:

“And when the morning sun shone through the windows ... its wintry
beams encircled the peaceful form of the dead Cardinal with a pale
halo of gold,--and when they came and found him there, and turned
his face to the light--it was as the face of a glorified saint,
whom God had greatly loved!”

* * * * *

And of the “Cardinal’s foundling”--what of Him? Many wondered and
sought to trace Him, but no one ever heard where he had gone....
Some say He has never disappeared,--but that in some form or
manifestation of wisdom, He is ever with us, watching to see
whether His work is well or ill done,--whether His flocks are fed,
or led astray to be devoured by wolves--whether His straight and
simple commands are fulfilled or disobeyed. And the days grow dark
and threatening--and life is more and more beset with difficulty
and disaster--and the world is moving more and more swiftly on to
its predestined end--and the Churches are as stagnant pools, from
whence Death is far more often born than Life. And may we not ask
ourselves often in these days the question,--

“When the Son of Man cometh, think ye He shall find faith on
earth?”

That is the question that Marie Corelli asks the world through “The
Master Christian.”

CHAPTER XIV

“TEMPORAL POWER”

This, Marie Corelli’s latest work, appeared on August 28th, 1902, the
first edition totalling up to the unprecedented number of 120,000
copies. We understand that, since the primary issue, a further 30,000
copies have been printed. Thus it comes about that in spite of all the
newspaper invective of which she has been the victim and the verbal
floodgates that have been opened upon her, Marie Corelli has with her
latest production broken the bookselling record for a six-shilling
volume on its first appearance.

“Temporal Power” is not an inviting name. As a schoolmiss would say, “It
sounds dry.” It has not the mystery-suggesting flavor of “The House on
the Marsh” or the thrilling and adventuresome qualities of a title like
“Twenty Thousand Leagues under the Sea”; yet “Temporal Power,” despite
its appellation, is, at the time of writing, the most-talked-about book
in the world.

“For,” to quote Marie Corelli, “it must be borne in mind that ‘Temporal
Power’ are the two dazzling words which forever fascinate the Pope, and
are the key-notes of every attempt at supremacy. ‘Temporal Power’ is the
desire of kings, as of commoners. There is nothing really prosaic about
such a title, unless the thing itself be deemed prosaic, which, if this
were proved, would make out that all the work of the world was useless
and that nothing whatever need be done except fold one’s hands and sit
down in unambitious contentment.”

“Temporal Power” was not issued to the Press for review, but no less
than three hundred and fifty journals--big and little--paid Miss Corelli
the compliment of purchasing the book in order to comment on its plot
and characteristics. Conning the mass of critical matter which is the
outcome of this action on the part of the newspapers, it would seem that
the attitude of the Press towards the authoress is growing less hostile
than of yore, for quite a number of the reviews are couched in
distinctly favorable language.

From _Lloyd’s Weekly Newspaper_, September 21st, 1902, we cull the
following notice, which will serve as a brief _resumé_ of the plot--no
doubt already familiar to the majority of our readers--and at the same
time as an example of how an entire stranger to the novelist--as the
author of this article was--can disregard the prejudice which has arisen
with respect to our subject, and write as he thinks, combining, as it
appears to us, a happy knack of lucid expression with a calm and
temperate judgment.

A text from St. Paul as follows, “For we wrestle not against flesh
and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the
rulers of the darkness of this world, against spiritual wickedness
in high places,” prefaces and in a measure explains this very
remarkable book. The hero of the story is a king reigning in these
latter days over a Christian country that never once throughout the
book receives a name. The omission, however, is not likely to be
very early noticed by the reader, so intense is the interest
aroused by the narrative, so rapid and sustained is its action. The
king, married to a beautiful but cold consort who has borne him
three sons, suddenly awakes to the fact that he is not doing his
duty to his people, and resolves to go amongst them to see things
for himself. He accordingly does so in disguise, and actually joins
a society of Socialists. Hearing what is said about his Ministers
he tests them and vetoes a declaration of war which is being
brought about in the interests of certain capitalists and through
the agency of a corrupt Press. Another conspiracy he contends with
and defeats is a Jesuit one, during which an attempt is made upon
his life, an attempt foiled by a beautiful woman of the people, who
receives the knife-thrust in his place. One of the main themes of
the book is the love of the king’s eldest son Humphry for Gloria, a
poor but beautiful girl. He has secretly wedded her, and the fact
coming to the king’s knowledge he upbraids his son and tells him
that, the marriage with Gloria being of necessity morganatic, he
must make a speedy alliance with a princess of a neighboring state.
Then ensues a fine scene in which the young prince firmly refuses
to abandon Gloria, or to commit bigamy by another marriage. It is
one of those scenes in which Miss Corelli is seen at her best.
There is deep scorn in the prince’s utterance when he declines the
other marriage: “Three or four Royal sinners of this class I know
of who for all their pains have not succeeded in winning the
attachment of their people, either for themselves or their heirs.”
He further emphatically assures his royal father that he will, if
needful, “make it a test case, and appeal to the law of the realm.
If that law tolerates a crime in princes which it would punish in
commoners, then I shall ask the People to judge me!” The whole book
throughout is so arranged that Miss Corelli is everywhere enabled
to give utterance to the views of life she holds, and to attack the
things she considers wrong. This she does in every instance with
eloquent vehemence, and there will be many who must feel that she
usually has right on her side. “Of things temporal there shall be
no duration--neither Sovereignty nor Supremacy, nor Power; only
Love, which makes weak the strongest, and governs the proudest.”
The end of the book is the abdication and death of the king, his
son and Gloria sailing to happier climes, rejoicing in a pure love.
In its scope and imagination this is one of the most striking
volumes Miss Corelli has given us.

From this exceedingly able summing-up of the work we will now turn to
the article on “Temporal Power” which was published in _The Review of
Reviews_.

To begin with, it needs to be explained that Mr. Stead first of all
wrote a private letter to Miss Corelli telling her that it was “by far
the strongest book she had yet written.” He then went on to suggest that
she meant her characters for certain living Royalties and celebrities.
Miss Corelli wrote back to him at once, stating that he was entirely in
error. He having made the suggestion that she had described Queen
Alexandra as the cold and irresponsive Queen of “Temporal Power,” Miss
Corelli referred him to her “Christmas Greeting,” published at the end
of the previous year, for the description of the Queen as seen in “The
Soul of Queen Alexandra.” The general tone of Mr. Stead’s review was to
accuse Miss Corelli of “disloyalty” (though he himself, Miss Corelli
complains, had long expressed views that were distinctly Pro-Boer), and
to inquire sarcastically how it happened that she was invited to the
Coronation? It may be stated that she was invited to the Coronation
because the King knows her personally, and, knowing her, is perfectly
aware that he has no more loyal subject--a conviction that is not likely
to be disturbed by the casual statement even of an experienced reviewer
like Mr. Stead. From certain letters and messages Miss Marie Corelli has
received from both the King and Queen (if she cared to make them
public), it is very evident that she is thoroughly appreciated by the
Royal Family, and that they are the last people in the world to believe
the numerous adverse statements circulated about her merely on account
of her brilliant success.

It was in the September (1902) _Review of Reviews_ that Mr. Stead
devoted four pages to his criticism of “Temporal Power,” which was
described as “a tract for the guidance of the King.”

“The fact” (continued Mr. Stead) “that her pages reflect as in a glass
darkly, in an exaggerated and somewhat distorted shape, the leading
personages in the English Court, and in contemporary politics, _may_ be
one of those extraordinary coincidences which occur without any
intention on the part of the authoress of the book.”

The King and the Queen are then described, and attention is drawn to the
position of the Heir Apparent after he has contracted what is known as a
morganatic marriage.

The King and Queen (proceeds the review) insist upon ignoring the
marriage, and try to compel their son to commit bigamy by marrying
a woman of the royal caste. The Prince, however--and in this Marie
Corelli departs from the old legend which appears to have suggested
this episode--has an unconquerable repugnance to the demand that he
should commit bigamy for the good of the State.

The King, at the time when the story opens, has as his Prime
Minister an aged Marquis, who is a dark, heavy man of intellectual
aspect, whose manner is profoundly discouraging to all who seek to
win his sympathy, and whose ascendancy in his own Cabinet is
overshadowed by that of a Secretary of State, who bears an
extraordinary resemblance to a certain Secretary of State who shall
be nameless. This “honorable statesman” is hand-in-glove with an
alien journalist, who is described here and there in terms which
fit more or less loosely to one or two proprietors of journals of
very large circulations in London town. With the aid of this
supreme embodiment of the mercenary journalism of our latter day,
the Secretary of State conceives the idea of working up a war for
the annexation of a small State, whose conquest was certain to
increase the value of various shares in which the Secretary and his
friends had largely speculated, and further, to extricate them from
various political difficulties in which they had found themselves
involved.

We have Miss Corelli’s authority for stating, with all possible
emphasis, that “Temporal Power” was written without the least intention
on the part of the author to introduce living personalities under a
romantic disguise. As touching the character of the defaulting Secretary
of State, Carl Perousse, with which a large number of writers (including
Mr. Stead) have sought to identify Mr. Joseph Chamberlain, it may be
pointed out that if the author had any prominent European statesman at
all in view, it was a well-known Italian minister, now deceased, as any
one with judgment and knowledge of Italian affairs could
testify--though Perousse is made tall and thin in the book, with the
express object that he shall escape association with the said Italian
minister, who was short and fat. Nothing has astonished the novelist
more than the numerous letters she has received from members of Mr.
Chamberlain’s party in which it is stated that the villainous Perousse
is “exactly like” their leader. We have only to refer such
correspondents to Miss Corelli’s public speeches in Edinburgh and
Glasgow to prove that she has always spoken in high praise of the
Colonial Secretary.

The King of the book is no more intended to be a suggested picture of
Edward the Seventh than of Haroun Alraschid. The performances of the
latter potentate are certainly “impossible” and “outrageous”--to quote
press diatribes on “Temporal Power”--but they _live_, and their
forgotten writer is not branded with _lèse-majestè_. This romance of
Marie Corelli’s was written to show how a King, in spite of modern
surroundings, can still be a hero. Marie Corelli’s king is the best man
in the whole story, and is represented as winning the love of all his
people.

The authoress readily admits that an attack on Jesuitism is contained in
the book, nor is she the only one who has waylaid that persuasion. She
is strenuously opposed to the political and educational system of
Jesuitry, and believes that the whole civilized world is with her.

The much-discussed question of “royal bigamy” as condemned by the action
of Miss Corelli’s young Prince Humphry and his love for “Gloria,” is a
matter that has nothing to do with one Royal Family more than another.
Our author’s ideas are, that if any crime is a crime in commoners, it
should not be excused in persons of Royal birth; moreover, she thinks
that many a Royal Prince has been made hopelessly miserable, and the
springs of his life poisoned at their very fount, by his being forced to
wed where he does not love, merely for “Reasons of State.” The Pope has
quite recently condemned Royal alliances between cousins; and as all
Royal Families are at the present day very closely allied, Miss Corelli
thinks it will soon be necessary for heirs to thrones to enjoy the same
honest freedom of purpose in their loves and marriages as the simplest
gentlemen in the land.

The novelist has been told that she has made enemies among the
“extra-loyal” and “Imperialistic” party. She presumes the “extra-loyal”
means the “extra-toadies.” If the “Imperialistic” party is a party which
seeks to curtail and restrict the rights of the People, then she goes
with the People against all political parties whatsoever. But she takes
no side in party politics: she is a stickler for Justice and Right for
the great majority.

Two apparent attempts in journals catering specially for the book trade,
were made to quash the success of the novel. One of these journals
plainly stated that “Temporal Power” had not obtained the triumph
claimed for it. The publishers, Messrs. Methuen and Co., instantly taxed
the paper in question with having misstated the case, with the result
that the following retractation was published: “With reference to our
statement last month, regarding the sales of ‘Temporal Power,’ we learn
that, so far from the repeat orders not comparing favorably with those
of ‘The Master Christian,’ they have established a record even in the
gigantic sales of Marie Corelli’s novels. Up to the present, during the
same period, the sales of ‘Temporal Power’ have exceeded those of ‘The
Master Christian,’ by over twenty thousand, and some idea of the demand
for the book, even after the first rush, may be obtained from the fact
that all the retail book-sellers, with one exception, in Brighton, sent
large repeat orders within a few weeks of publication, while a single
repeat order from one retail bookseller alone in another part of the
country was for seven hundred and twenty-eight copies.”

The other periodical, after making one or two attempts to stem the great
wave of “Temporal Power,” printed the following somewhat halfhearted
comment: “Although few reviewers have spoken kindly of this novel, its
sale has reached a figure which it is unnecessary to repeat here;
whether its merits deserve such popularity we must refrain from
discussing.”

In some quarters it has been boldly alleged that “Temporal Power” is
like “The Eternal City.” There are absolutely no points of resemblance.
Miss Corelli has never read “The Eternal City” or any of Mr. Hall
Caine’s books except “The Christian.” She declares, however, that she
searched in vain for a real follower of Christ in that work. It is
interesting to note, by the way, that although the two novelists met
years ago at a social function, they are practically strangers to one
another, and are probably content to remain so.

From a book containing scores of powerful passages which would well bear
reproduction independently of the context, we only propose to make a
single quotation. The following extract concerns one of the most
touching events of the story, _i. e._, the rejection of the King’s
offered love by “Lotys,” woman of the people:

“Lotys!” he said; “Are you so cold, so frozen in an icewall of
conventionality that you cannot warm to passion--not even to that
passion which every pulse of you is ready to return? What do you
want of me? Lover’s oaths? Vows of constancy? Oh, beloved woman as
you are, do you not understand that you have entered into my very
heart of hearts--that you hold my whole life in your possession?
You--not I--are the ruling power of this country! What you say,
that I will do! What you command, that will I obey! While you live,
I will live--when you die, I will die! Through you I have learned
the value of sovereignty,--the good that can be done to a country
by honest work in kingship,--through you I have won back my
disaffected subjects to loyalty;--it is all you--only you! And if
you blamed me once as a worthless king, you shall never have cause
to so blame me again! But you must help me,--you must help me with
your love!”

She strove to control the beating of her heart, as she looked upon
him and listened to his pleading. She resolutely shut her soul to
the persuasive music of his voice, the light of his eyes, the
tenderness of his smile.

“What of the Queen?” she said.

He started back, as though he had been stung.

“The Queen!” he repeated mechanically--“The Queen!”

“Ay, the Queen!” said Lotys. “She is your wife--the mother of your
sons! She has never loved you, you would say,--you have never loved
her. But you are her husband! Would you make me your mistress?”

Her voice was calm. She put the plain question point-blank,
without a note of hesitation. His face paled suddenly.

“Lotys!” he said, and stretched out his hands towards her; “Lotys,
I love you!”

A change passed over her,--rapid and transfiguring as a sudden
radiance from heaven. With an impulsive gesture, beautiful in its
wild abandonment, she cast herself at his feet.

“And I love you!” she said. “I love you with every breath of my
body, every pulse of my heart! I love you with the entire passion
of my life! I love you with all the love pent up in my poor starved
soul since childhood until now!--I love you more than woman ever
loved either lover or husband! I love you, my lord and King!--but
even as I love you, I honor you! No selfish thought of mine shall
ever tarnish the smallest jewel in your Crown! Oh, my beloved! My
Royal soul of courage! What do you take me for? Should I be worthy
of your thought if I dragged you down? Should I be Lotys,--if, like
some light woman who can be bought for a few jewels,--I gave myself
to you in that fever of desire which men mistake for love? Ah,
no!--ten thousand times no! I love you! Look at me,--can you not
see how my soul cries out for you? How my lips hunger for your
kisses--how I long, ah, God! for all the tenderness which I know is
in your heart for me,--I, so lonely, weary, and robbed of all the
dearest joys of life!--but I will not shame you by my love, my best
and dearest! I will not set you one degree lower in the thoughts of
the People, who now idolize you and know you as the brave, true man
you are! My love for you would be poor indeed, if I could not
sacrifice myself altogether for your sake,--you, who are my King!”

He heard her,--his whole soul was shaken by the passion of her
words.

“Lotys!” he said,--and again--“Lotys!”

He drew her up from her kneeling attitude, and gathering her close
in his arms, kissed her tenderly, reverently--as a man might kiss
the lips of the dead.

“Must it be so, Lotys?” he whispered; “Must we dwell always apart?”

Her eyes, beautiful with a passion of the highest and holiest love,
looked full into his.

“Always apart, yet always together, my beloved!” she answered;
“Together in thought, in soul, in aspiration!--in the hope and
confidence that God sees us, and knows that we seek to live purely
in His sight! Oh, my King, you would not have it otherwise! You
would not have our love defiled! How common and easy it would be
for me to give myself to you!--as other women are only too ready to
give themselves,--to take your tenderness, your care, your
admiration,--to demand your constant attendance on my lightest
humor!--to bring you shame by my persistent companionship!--to
cause an open slander, and allow the finger of scorn to be pointed
at you!--to see your honor made a mockery of, by base persons who
would judge you as one, who, notwithstanding his brave espousal of
the People’s Cause, was yet a slave to the caprice of a woman!
Think something more of me than this! Do not put me on the level of
such women as once brought your name into contempt! They did not
love you!--they loved themselves. But I--I love you! Oh, my dearest
lord, if self were concerned at all in this great love of my heart,
I would not suffer your arms to rest about me now!--I would not let
your lips touch mine!--but it is for the last time, beloved!--the
last time! And so I put my hands here on your heart--I kiss your
lips--I say with all my soul in the prayer--God bless you!--God
keep you!--God save you, my King! Though I shall live apart from
you all my days, my spirit is one with yours! God will know that
truth when we meet--on the other side of Death!”

Her tears fell fast, and he bent over her, torn by a tempest of
conflicting emotions, and kissing the soft hair that lay loosely
ruffled against his breast.

“Then it shall be so, Lotys!” he murmured at last. “Your wish is my
law!--it shall be as you command! I will fulfil such duties as I
must in this world,--and the knowledge of your love for me,--your
trust in me, shall keep me high in the People’s honor! Old follies
shall be swept away--old sins atoned for;--and when we meet, as you
say, on the other side of Death, God will perchance give us all
that we have longed for in this world--all that we have lost!”

His voice shook,--he could not further rely on his self-control.

“I will not tempt you, Lotys!” he whispered--“I dare not tempt
myself! God bless you!”

He put her gently from him, and stood for a moment irresolute. All
the hope he had indulged in of a sweeter joy than any he had ever
known, was lost,--and yet--he knew he had no right to press upon
her a love which, to her, could only mean dishonor.

“Good-bye, Lotys!” he said huskily; “My one love in this world and
the next! Good-bye!”

She gazed at him with her whole soul in her eyes,--then suddenly,
and with the tenderest grace in the world, dropped on her knees and
kissed his hand.

“God save your Majesty!” she said, with a poor little effort at
smiling through her tears; “For many and many a long and happy
year, when Lotys is no more!”

This beautiful passage alone is a literary _tour-de-force_. “Temporal
Power,” in short, shows no abatement of Marie Corelli’s energetic and
varied genius, and the public will await her next work with all possible
interest.

CHAPTER XV

SPEECHES AND LECTURES

Miss Marie Corelli’s career as a public speaker has been a short one,
but, so far as it has gone, full of promise. She has a good enunciation
and a sweet, penetrating voice; she takes the platform with the whole of
her address clearly mapped out in her mind, her only aids to memory
being a few notes scribbled on slips of paper, which at first glance
look like a number of broad spills. Consulting these occasionally by way
of mental refreshment, she says what she has to say with easy
self-possession, never hesitating for lack of a suitable word or phrase.

The novelist’s first speech in public was made in connection with a
bazaar at Henley-in-Arden, Warwickshire, in July, 1899. The announcement
that Miss Corelli was to open the proceedings attracted a large number
of people to this picturesque little town, which is situated some eight
miles from Stratford-on-Avon, on the high road to Birmingham.

When Miss Corelli had mounted the improvised platform, she first thanked
the organizers of the bazaar for the compliment that had been paid her
in their invitation, and then proceeded as follows:

“I think we all know very well what a bazaar is. It is peculiar and
distinctive; it is a way of charming the money out of our pockets.
We wish it to be charmed to-day, because we always know when such
money is obtained it is for a good purpose. Sometimes it is for a
hospital, frequently it is for the restoration of a parish church.
That is our object this afternoon. Now, there are some people who
say that a parish church does not always require repair, but in
this special case you cannot possibly offer that as an excuse for
not spending your money. The parish church of Henley-in-Arden is in
a very sad state; indeed, there are holes in the wooden floor
through which rats and mice, quite uninvited, may come to prayers.
Also the pavement of the central aisle is so broken up that it has
literally risen in wrath, and become divided against itself. I hope
this day you will come forward with your money and make the parish
church a thing of beauty and a joy forever. It is a very old
building. It is, I believe, five or six hundred years old, and all
that time it has been a place of prayer and praise. I am sure you
will not allow it to suffer, or fall into neglect and ruin at your
hands. Now, I want you to set your hearts to the tune of generosity
this afternoon, and I want you to spend regardless of expense; I
want you to be absolutely extravagant and reckless. The bazaar is
full of very pretty things, some useful, some not useful, but all
ornamental; and I can only recommend you to buy everything in the
place. In the words of the Immortal Bard, whose very spirit
permeates the whole of your beautiful county,

Leave not a wrack behind!

Set your hearts to the task, your wills to the deed, spend your
money, and make the whole thing a great and triumphant success.
Ladies and gentlemen, may your purses to-day be like this bazaar,
which I have now the honor to declare open!”

An excellent example of what an address to workingmen should be, was
delivered by Miss Corelli, at Stratford-on-Avon on January 6th, 1901.
The lecture was entitled, “The Secret of Happiness.” After some
preliminary observations on the birth of the New Century, Miss Corelli
said:

“The twentieth century finds us all on the same old search, asking
the same old question: How to be happy? Some of the distinguished
persons who have written in the newspapers on this subject declare
we have lost the art of being happy in the old simple ways, and
that all the brightness and mirth which used to make our England
‘Merry England’ have gone forever. I think there is some little
truth in these statements, and the reason is not very far distant.
We think too much of ourselves and too little of our neighbors.
There is nothing so depressing as a constant contemplation of one’s
self, and the greatest moral cowardice in the world’s opinion comes
from consulting one’s own personal convenience. It is just as if a
man were asked to look at a beautiful garden full of flowers, and,
instead of accepting the invitation, sat down with the Röntgen rays
to look at his own bones. His bones concern no one but himself, and
are a dull entertainment at best. To be truly happy we must set
ourselves on one side, and think of all the good we can do, all the
love we can show to our neighbors. This is our work and our
business, and, by performing that work thoroughly well, we shall
not lose the secret of happiness; we shall find it. The harming,
the slandering, the over-reaching, the plucking down of our
neighbors is not our business, and if we indulge in that kind of
thing we shall never be happy. It is to a great extent true, as
some of the newspapers tell us, that the twentieth century still
finds us very far from the best ideals and hopes. War still hangs
like a cloud across the country. Drink is still a curse, and large
sections of trade are being taken from us by American and foreign
rivals. This, if it goes on, will mean much ruin and misery and
want to many of our English artisans and workmen, and this brings
me to another point in the secret of happiness, which is Work. Not
what we call scamp work; not work which drops its tools at the
first sound of the dinner bell and runs across to the public-house,
but good, conscientious, thorough work, of which the workman
himself may be justly proud. Why should Americans take work which
Englishmen, if they like, can do infinitely better? Simply because
they are smart, cute, up to time, and take less early closing and
fewer bank holidays. I am a very hard worker myself, and I am not
speaking without knowing what I am talking about, and I say from my
own experience--and I have worked ever since I reached my sixteenth
year--that work is happiness. No one can take my work from me and
therefore no one can take my happiness from me. I defy any one to
upset, worry, or put me out in the least so long as I have my work
to do. Take away my work, and I am lost. Show me a lazy, loafing
person, man or woman, and I will show you a discontented grumbler,
who is a misery in his or her home, and a misery to him or her
self. Nothing is idle in God’s universe; the smallest observation
will prove that. If there were early closing up there (_pointing
upwards_) there would soon be an end to us all. The flower works,
as it pushes its way through the soil to bud and blossom; the tree
works as it breaks into beautiful foliage; the whole earth works
incessantly to produce its fruits. The sun works; it never rests;
it rises and sets with perfect regularity. In fact, everything we
see about us in nature is in constant, steady, splendid, perfect
work. The idle person is, therefore, out of tune with the plan of
God’s creation and action. A great millionaire whom I know said to
his son: ‘If you can’t find anything to do I will disinherit you,
so that you may work as hard as I did. That will make a man of
you.’ In this beautiful world, with a thousand opportunities of
doing good every day and all day, and with the light of the
Christian faith spread about us like perpetual sunshine, no one
should be really unhappy. To your society, which has done so much
good already, which is doing so much good, and will continue to do
so much good, I would say, if I may be permitted to offer any
advice: Cultivate among yourselves a spirit of cheerfulness,
light-heartedness, and content, which shall spread the influence of
moral and mental sunshine all through this dear little town in
which you dwell. Let those who don’t belong to your society see
that you can be merry and wise without needing any other stimulant
than your own cheery natures, and that the Christian faith is to
you a healthy and active working daily principle, the heart, life,
and soul. Show all your friends--and enemies too--that you have the
secret of happiness by holding up a firm faith in the goodness of
God; by keeping the welfare of others always in sight, and loving
your neighbor not only as yourself, but even more than yourself;
and by carrying out whatever you have to do, no matter how trivial
it be, so thoroughly and so perfectly that you can feel proud of
it. Such pride is true pride, and thoroughly justifiable, and the
independence that comes from work thoroughly well done is a noble
independence. I would not change such independence as that to be a
king and be waited on by courtiers all day long. To me the honest
workman is a thousand times better than the king. The king can do
no work. It is all done for him,--poor king! He can hardly call his
soul his own. He is not allowed to put his own coat on, and do you
call him an independent man! I call him a slave! I would rather
have a man here in Stratford, who could do something of his own
accord, turn out a piece of work, perfect--carving, finishing, or
anything of that sort--and say, ‘That is mine! The king can’t do
that, but I can!’ Money is nothing; pride, independence, and
self-respect are everything; and money gained by bad work is bad
money. You can’t make it anything else. Good work always commands
good money, and good money brings a blessing with it. We are told
that the danger of the twentieth century is greed of gold. Our
upper classes are all craving for yet still more money, and as much
money is spent in a single night on a dinner in London as would
keep nearly all Stratford. We are told that England will lose her
prestige through the money-craving mania of her people. More than
one great empire has fallen from an excessive love of luxury and
self-indulgence, but we will hope that no such mischief will come
to our beloved England. At any rate, in this little corner of
it--Shakespeare’s greenwood--where the greatest of thinkers,
philosophers, and poets was born, and to which he was content to
return, when he had made sufficient means, and die among his own
people--here, I say, let us try and keep up high ideals of mutual
help, love, and labor. Let us keep them up to their highest spirit.
The secret of happiness is to hold fast to such simple,
old-fashioned virtues as love of home, a life of simplicity, and
appreciation of all the beautiful things of Nature, which are so
richly strewn about us in Warwickshire, and never to lose sight of
the best of all things--the great lesson of the pure Christian
faith, the lesson which teaches us how the Divine sacrifice of self
for the sake of others was sufficient to redeem the world! A happy
New Year and a century of hope and good to all of you.”

In November, 1901, Miss Corelli delivered her first lecture in Scotland.
It was called “The Vanishing Gift: an address on the Decay of the
Imagination,” and was listened to with the greatest appreciation by a
crowded audience of the members of the Edinburgh Philosophical
Institution, and their friends, numbering some four thousand persons.

Scotland has ever been a more literary country than England. A novel
that fails in England often sells well in Scotland. Scotch people are
very loyal to the magazines they like, and they always display a keen
interest in literary ventures. Thackeray was a great favorite up there.
“I have had three per cent. of the whole population here,” he wrote from
Edinburgh in November, 1856, “If I could but get three per cent. of
London!” Both Dickens and Thackeray received tangible tokens of regard
from Edinburgh people, Thackeray’s taking the form of a silver
statuette of “Mr. Punch,” designed as an inkstand.

It would seem that to-day, as then, Edinburgh is anxious to give
substantial proof of its appreciation, for, a few days after Miss
Corelli delivered her lecture, whilst ill-health detained her at the
Royal Hotel, a deputation from the Philosophical Institution called and
presented her with a massive silver rose-bowl.

The Chairman of the deputation, in asking her to accept the gift, made a
very eloquent little speech, in which he laid emphasis on the fact that
the last time a similar token of appreciation had been presented by the
Philosophical Institution to any novelist had been in the case of
Charles Dickens. Since then, no one, save Miss Corelli, had received the
unanimous vote of the Committee as meriting such a tribute. The
rose-bowl bears the following inscription:--

“_Presented to Miss Marie Corelli by the Edinburgh Philosophical
Institution, in grateful recognition of the Brilliant Address
delivered by her on 19th November, 1901._”

It is worthy of note that the leading journal of Edinburgh, _The
Scotsman_, made no allusion whatever to this presentation. The omission
caused considerable annoyance to the Committee of the Philosophical
Institution, and the Secretary made inquiry as to why their special
compliment to Miss Marie Corelli had been passed over. The reply was
that they “did not think it was necessary to mention it”; a particularly
lame and inadequate answer, seeing that if such a handsome presentation
on the part of a great Institution had been made to any well-known male
author, the probabilities are that considerable importance would have
been attached to the incident. As it was, _The Scotsman_ was judged to
have committed itself to a singular error of prejudice in the omission,
as also by stating that Miss Corelli’s crowded audience at the Queen’s
Hall were “mostly women,” a perfectly erroneous statement, as by far the
larger half of the assembly was composed of the sterner sex.

Miss Corelli, in the course of the lecture referred to, attributed the
gradual dwindling of Imagination to the feverish unrest and agitation of
the age in which we live. The hurry-skurry of modern life, the morbid
craving for incessant excitement, breed a disinclination to think. Where
there is no time to think, there is less time to imagine; and when there
is neither thought nor imagination, creative work of a high and lasting
quality is not possible. In the world’s earlier days, conceptions of
art were of the loftiest and purest order.

“The thoughts of the ‘old world’ period are written in well-nigh
indelible characters. The colossal architecture of the temples of
ancient Egypt, and that marvelous imaginative creation, the Sphinx,
with its immutable face of mingled scorn and pity; the beautiful
classic forms of old Greece and Rome,--these are all visible
evidences of spiritual aspiration and endeavor; moreover, they are
the expression of a broad, reposeful strength--a dignified
consciousness of power. The glorious poetry of the Hebrew
Scriptures, the swing and rush of Homer’s ‘Iliad,’ the stately
simplicity and profundity of Plato--these also belong to what we
know of the youth of the world. And they are still a part of the
world’s most precious possessions. We, in our day, can do nothing
so great. We have neither the imagination to conceive such work,
nor the calm force necessary to execute it. The artists of a former
time labored with sustained and passionate, yet tranquil, energy;
we can only produce imitations of the greater models with a vast
amount of spasmodic hurry and clamor. So, perchance, we shall leave
to future generations little more than an echo of ‘much ado about
nothing.’ For truly we live at present under a veritable scourge of
mere noise. No king, no statesman, no general, no thinker, no
writer is allowed to follow the course of his duty or work without
the shrieking comment of all sorts and conditions of uninstructed
and misguided persons....”

Imagination is an artist’s first necessary. The poet, the painter, the
sculptor, or the musician must be able to make a world of his own, and
live in it, before he can make one for others. When he has evolved such
a world out of his individual consciousness, and has peopled it with the
creations of his fancy, he can turn its “airy substance” into reality
for all time.

“Shakespeare’s world is real; so real that there are not wanting
certain literary impostors who grudge him its reality, and strive
to dispossess him of his own. Walter Scott’s world is real; so real
that you have built him a shrine here in Edinburgh, crowded with
sculptured figures of men and women, most of whom never existed
save in his teeming fancy. What a tribute to the power of
Imagination is that beautiful monument in the centre of Princes
Street, with all the forms evoked from one great mind, lifted high
above us, who consider ourselves ‘real’ people!”

The lecturer proceeded to deplore acts of vandalism such as that which
caused “the pitiful ruin of Loch Katrine” in supplying Glasgow with
water. Further on she lamented the gradual disappearance of “that
idealistic and romantic spirit” which has helped to make Scotland’s
history such a brilliant chronicle of heroism and honor.

In her powerful peroration the novelist graphically told of modern
wonders which were imagined when the world was young.

“What, after all, is Imagination? It is a great many things. It is
a sense of beauty and harmony; it is an instinct of poetry and
prophecy. A Persian poet describes it as an immortal sense of
memory which is always striving to recall the beautiful things the
soul has lost. Another fancy, also from the East, is that it is ‘an
instructive premonition of beautiful things to come.’ Another,
which is perhaps the most accurate description of all, is that it
is ‘the sundial of the soul, on which God flashes the true time of
day.’ This is true, if we bear in mind that Imagination is always
ahead of science, pointing out in advance the great discovery to
come. Shakespeare foretold the whole science of geology in three
words--‘sermons in stones’; and the whole business of the electric
telegram in one line--‘I’ll put a girdle round the earth in forty
minutes.’ One of the Hebrew prophets ‘imagined’ the phonograph when
he wrote, ‘Declare unto me the image of a voice.’ As we all know,
the marks on the wax cylinder in a phonograph are ‘the image of a
voice.’ The airship may prove a very marvelous invention, but the
imagination which saw Aladdin’s palace flying from one country to
another was long before it. All the genii in the ‘Arabian Nights’
stories were only the symbols of the elements which man might
control if he but rubbed the lamp of his intelligence smartly
enough. Every fairy-tale has a meaning; every legend a lesson. The
submarine boat in perfection has been ‘imagined’ by Jules Verne.
Wireless telegraphy appears to have been known in the very remote
days of Egypt, for in a very old book called ‘The History of the
Pyramids,’ translated from the Arabic, and published in France in
1672, we find an account of a certain high priest of Memphis, named
Saurid, who, so says the ancient Arabian chronicler, ‘prepared for
himself a casket, wherein he put magic fire, and, shutting himself
up with the casket, he sent messages with the fire day and night,
over land and sea to all those priests over whom he had command, so
that all the people should be made subject to his will. And he
received answers to his messages without stop or stay, and none
could hold or see the running fire, so that all the land was in
fear by reason of the knowledge of Saurid.’ In the same volume we
find that a priestess, named Borsa, evidently used the telephone;
for, according to her history, ‘she applied her mouth and ears unto
pipes in the wall of her dwelling, and so heard and answered the
requests of the people in the distant city.’

“Thus it would seem that there is nothing new under the sun to that
‘dainty Ariel’ of the mind--Imagination.”

Early in 1902 Miss Corelli again gave an address in Scotland--this time
at Glasgow, where one of the largest audiences ever known in that city
assembled to hear her lecture on “Signs of the Times.” Every seat was
occupied, and up to the last moment numbers were clamoring for only
standing room. All reserved seats had been booked for nearly three weeks
beforehand, and the extraordinary number of applications received proved
that double the accommodation available could have been taken up.

The Address was undeniably daring and spirited, touching on various
social aspects of the hour. The apathy of Parliament on certain pressing
matters of home interest, the new rules of Procedure in the House, the
inrush of undesirable aliens, the traitorous attitude of the pro-Boers,
the crowding out of British industries by an excess of foreign
competition, the German slanders upon our army, the change in the
British uniform to the German model, and the flattering attentions of
Germany towards America, were all touched upon by the novelist with a
force and satire that were entirely new and unexpected. One of her best
points was made in alluding to the words uttered by the Prince of Wales,
on his return from his Colonial tour, in the course of his famous speech
at the Mansion House, _i. e._, “The old country must wake up if she
intends to maintain her old position of pre-eminence in her Colonial
trade against foreign competition.”

She continued:

“I believe it is the first time in all the annals of English
History that any Prince of Wales has deemed it necessary to tell
the old country, which gave him his birth and heir-apparency, to
‘wake up’! It has been called a ‘statesmanlike utterance’ in many
quarters of our own always courteous Press, but by our Continental
neighbors it has been simply taken as a royal and official
statement of British incompetency. It has even been said that no
Prince of Wales should ever have admitted any possible likelihood
of weakness in his own country. We must remember, however, that the
warning of his Royal Highness was directed against foreign
competition, and may have been intended to prepare British trade
for the impending commercial designs of Germany upon South
Africa.... If the British Lion is indeed sleeping, it is time to
wake, but to some of us the Great Creature seems never to have
slept, but to have been caught unsuspectingly in a trap of
restrictive legislation and vested interests, and so bound hand and
foot unawares. The Lion is a generous animal, but in certain old
fables he is represented as being no match for the Fox. If, as the
Prince of Wales says, the old country is to maintain her position
of pre-eminence against foreign competition, she has some right to
demand that she be not swamped and throttled by it under the very
shelter of her own sea wall.”

Referring to what she satirically termed the evidence of our “love” for
Germany, she pointed out that though Germans were guilty of one of the
grossest insults ever recorded in history against our brave army, we,
nevertheless, had clothed that army in the German uniform, and had made
free and independent Tommy Atkins turn himself into a copy of his Teuton
conscript brother. Not only that, we have accepted a German design for
the new postage stamps. She also alluded to the rumor that the
Coronation medal was to be struck from a German design.

Miss Corelli concluded with the following words:--

“The greatest, strongest, most splendid and hopeful ‘sign of the
times’ is the advancing and resistless tide of Truth, which is
approaching steadily--which cannot be kept back, and which in the
first breaking of its great wave shall engulf a whole shore of
weedy shams. A desire for Truth is in the hearts of the people:
Truth in religion, Truth in Life, Truth in work. We are all aiming
for it, pushing towards it, and breaking down obstacles on the way.
And, because God is on the side of Truth, we shall obtain it; more
speedily, perhaps, than we think--especially if we are not too
weakly ready to be led away by the first Anti-Christ of religious,
political, or social example.

“‘Truth, like the sun in the morning skies,
Shall clear the clouds from the days to be;
“Each for himself” is a Gospel of Lies,
That never was issued by God’s decree.’”

Such are a few examples of Miss Corelli’s utterances in public. It is
hardly necessary to add that these speeches were liberally punctuated
with applause by those who had the privilege of listening to them.

If those who condemn the novelist so readily will only take the trouble
to study what she has said, they cannot, if they wish to be regarded as
honest men, deny her possession of many of the qualities that make for
greatness. There are people who fear and dislike this lady because the
attitude she takes up, on many questions, is significant of Battle. She
hits very hard; her enemies wince beneath her blows, and revile her in
wholesale terms because they cannot overcome her in fair combat. But
newspaper sneers will do little to affect the judgment of the Public,
which is, after all, the critic whose opinion is abiding and final.

CHAPTER XVI

MARIE CORELLI’S VIEWS ON MARRIAGE

Marie Corelli seems to think that the present generation is one in which
hypocrisy cumbers the face of the globe. “Never,” she says, “was the
earth so oppressed with the weight of polite lying, never were there
such crowds of evil masqueraders, cultured tricksters, and social
humbugs, who, though admirable as tricksters and humbugs, are wholly
contemptible as men and women. Truth is at a discount, and if one should
utter it the reproachful faces of one’s so-called ‘friends’ show how
shocked they are at meeting with anything honest.” That is a very
sweeping assertion for which Marie Corelli has been abused. If the world
had in it more sincerity than sham, the truth of her condemnation of
present systems and practices would have been frankly admitted. Because
what she says is true to an unhappy degree. The authoress is severe in
her criticisms of the marriage “bargains” which are, we think, mainly
the possession of what she would call “smart” society. The Divorce
Court record is certainly a proof that a good many of the weddings that
are “arranged” are certainly not made in Heaven. Marie Corelli thinks,
indeed, that many women have forgotten what marriage is, and she
declares it to be an absolute grim fact that in England many women of
the upper classes are not to-day married, but merely bought for a price.

“Marriage is not the church, the ritual, the blessing of clergymen,
or the ratifying and approving presence of one’s friends and
relations at the ceremony; still less is it a matter of settlements
and expensive millinery. It is the taking of a solemn vow before
the throne of the Eternal--a vow which declares that the man and
woman concerned have discovered in each other his or her true mate;
that they feel life is alone valuable and worth living in each
other’s company; that they are prepared to endure trouble, poverty,
pain, sickness, death itself, provided that they may only be
together; and that all the world is a mere grain of dust in worth
as compared to the exalted passion which fills their souls and
moves them to become one in flesh as well as in spirit. Nothing can
make marriage an absolutely sacred thing except the great love,
combined with the pure and faithful intention of the vow involved.”

Amongst all classes a very large number of marriages mean all that.
Amongst the poorer classes--not the lowest classes--the proportion is
probably the largest, and amongst the middle and higher classes it is
so to a large though diminishing degree. Nevertheless, Marie Corelli
states, and we agree, that it is the cash-box that governs the actions
of far too many in entering upon the most serious duty of life; and if
the man and wife do not realize the importance and sacredness of the
tie, the result must be, as the novelist says, that the man and wife
will drag down rather than uplift each other.

In a magazine article which Marie Corelli wrote some time ago, she drew
a delightful picture of an artist and his wife in Capri who live on £100
a year in perfect bliss. When one views the picture she draws of their
life it is easy to think one has found something like the lost paradise.
Still, if we all tried love on £100 a year in Capri the housing problem
would soon become as serious a matter there as it is to-day in our great
cities. Love on £100 a year, or less or more, must be tried by most of
us under less favorable geographical circumstances; but under whatever
circumstances true it is, as Miss Corelli insists, that God’s law of
love will make of marriage a successful and happy undertaking.

Marriage on very moderate means is not attractive. And why? According to
Marie Corelli, because Love is not sufficient for the average girl;
because in the rush of our time we are trampling sweet emotions and true
passion under foot, marriages being too seldom the result of affection
nowadays. They are too often merely the carrying out of a settled scheme
of business. Mothers teach their daughters to marry for a “suitable
establishment”; fathers, rendered desperate as to what they are to do
with their sons in the increasing struggle for life and the incessant
demand for luxuries which are not by any means actually necessary to
that life, say: “Look out for a woman with money.” The heir to a great
name and title sells his birthright for a mess of American
dollar-pottage;--and it is a very common, every-day business to see some
Christian virgin sacrificed on the altar of matrimony to a
money-lending, money-grubbing son of Israel. Bargain and sale,--sale and
bargain,--it is the whole _raison d’être_ of the “season,”--the balls,
the dinners, the suppers, the parties to Hurlingham and Ascot,--even on
the dear old Thames, with its delicious nooks fitted for pure romance
and heart betrothal, the clatter of Gunter’s luncheon-dishes and the
popping of Benoist’s champagne-corks remind the hungry gypsies who
linger near such scenes of river revelry that there is not much
sentiment about,--only plenty of money being wasted. Marie Corelli well
says that there can be nothing more hideous--more like a foretaste of
hell itself--than the life position of a man and woman who have been
hustled into matrimony, and who, when the wedding fuss is over and the
feminine pictorial papers have done gushing about the millinery of the
occasion, find themselves alone together, without a single sympathy in
common, with nothing but the chink of gold and the rustle of the
bank-notes for their heart music, and with a barrier of steadily
increasing repulsion and disgust rising between them every day.

We have seen something of such a picture in Marie Corelli’s character of
“Sybil Elton”; that it is no more nor less than a crime to enter upon
marriage without that mutual supreme attraction and deep love which
makes the union sacred, may be, in fact, allowed. The question is, how
to avoid such evils? Marie Corelli gives the answer in this advice: “In
a woman’s life _one_ love should suffice. She cannot, constituted as she
is, honestly give herself to more than one man. And she should be
certain--absolutely, sacredly, solemnly certain, that one man is indeed
her preelected lover, her chosen mate; that never could she care for any
other hand than his to caress her beauty, never for any other kiss than
his to rest upon her lips, and that without him life is but a
half-circle waiting completion.... Love is the last of all the mythical
gods to be tempted or cajolled by lawyers and settlements, wedding-cake,
and perishable millinery. His domain is nature and the heart of
humanity,--and the gifts he can bestow on those who meet him in the true
spirit are marvelous and priceless indeed. The exquisite joys he can
teach,--the fine sympathies,--the delicate emotions,--the singular
method in which he will play upon two lives like separate harps, and
bring them into resounding tune and harmony, so that all the world shall
seem full of luscious song,--this is one way of Love’s system of
education. But this is not all--he can so mould the character, temper
the will, and strengthen the heart, as to make his elected disciples
endure the bitterest sorrows bravely,--perform acts of heroic
self-sacrifice and attain the most glorious heights of ambition,--for,
as the venerable Thomas à Kempis tells us,--‘Love is a great thing, yes,
a great and thorough good; by itself it makes everything that is heavy,
light--and it bears evenly all that is uneven. For it carries a burden
which is no burden, and makes everything that is bitter sweet and
tasteful. Though weary it is not tired,--though pressed it is not
straightened,--though alarmed it is not confounded, but as a lively
flame and burning torch it forces its way upward and securely passes
through all. Is not such divine happiness well worth attaining?’”

The answer to that rests with the women mainly, and to them Marie
Corelli says:

“I want you to refuse to make your bodies and souls the
traffickable material of vulgar huckstering,--I want you to _give_
yourselves, ungrudgingly, fearlessly, without a price or any
condition whatsoever, to the men you truly love, and abide by the
results. If love is love indeed, no regret can be possible. But be
sure it _is_ love,--the real passion, that elevates you above all
sordid and mean considerations of self,--that exalts you to noble
thoughts and nobler deeds,--that keeps you faithful to the one vow,
and moves you to take a glorious pride in preserving that vow’s
immaculate purity,--be sure it is all this,--for if it is not all
this you are making a mistake and you are ignorant of the very
beginnings of love. Try to fathom your own hearts on this vital
question--try to feel, to comprehend, to learn the responsibilities
invested in womanhood, and never stand before God’s altar to accept
a blessing on your marriage if you know in your inmost soul that it
is no marriage at all in the true sense of the word, but merely a
question of convenience and sale. To do such a deed is the vilest
blasphemy,--a blasphemy in which you involve the very priest who
pronounces the futile benediction. The saying ‘God will not be
mocked’ is a true one; and least of all will He consent to listen
to or ratify such a mockery as a marriage-vow sworn before Him in
utter falsification and misprisal of His chiefest
commandment,--Love. It is a wicked and wilful breaking of the
law,--and is never by any chance suffered to remain unpunished.”

Marie Corelli is a great friend of children, loving them and beloved of
them. It may be regarded as probable that the children of those who form
the ideal unions which the novelist so eloquently describes will be sure
to train their own offspring on good and intelligent lines. But there
are others--so many of them. There is much in the writings of Marie
Corelli that bears upon the question, and her text is the dedication of
the “Mighty Atom”--“To those self-styled ‘Progressivists’ who by precept
and example assist the infamous cause of education without religion, and
who, by promoting the idea, borrowed from French atheism, of denying to
the children in Board schools and elsewhere, the knowledge and love of
God, as the true foundation of noble living, are guilty of a worse crime
than murder.” That is her view. She regards the teaching of simple
Christian truths--the love of God, and the instruction which is the
basis of all Christian creeds, _i. e._, to do unto others as you would
be done by--as an essential element in the education of children. She
would regard it as the most heinous of crimes to take from our English
elementary schools that religious instruction which was agreed to in the
1870 Compromise, the Compromise which happily has survived a violent
attack made upon it not long since in the elementary educational
Parliament of London, the Metropolitan School Board.

Whatever be the general scheme of elementary, secondary, higher, and
technical education and training, Marie Corelli would have the people
insist, as for life itself, upon the children being taught “the
knowledge and love of God.”

She would have that knowledge imparted in the spirit of which Queen
Victoria wrote: “I am quite clear,” said the Queen, speaking of her
eldest daughter, then a child, “that she should be taught to have great
reverence for God and for religion, and that she should have the feeling
of devotion and love which our Heavenly Father encourages His earthly
children to have for Him, and not one of fear and trembling.” In “The
Master Christian” we see incidentally brought out the evil results of
the unhappy law of France which excludes religious education from the
schools, the consequence of which is the enormous increase of agnostic
thought in that country, and, built upon it, the views and practices
which are eating into the heart of that great nation like a foul
disease, weakening its numerical strength and its moral and intellectual
force. For the guidance of parents in this matter we would commend them
to those two most interesting books, “The Mighty Atom” and “Boy.” They
are volumes which all parents should read and study. They have already
given pause to many callous men and women who were neglecting to bestow
that thought on the children’s training which the subject demands. There
are many Christian parents who for want of thought neglect this matter
and sometimes have only themselves to thank for dissolute sons and
impure daughters. On the other hand, to their credit it is the fact that
many who are not Christians, who are careless and neglectful of
religion, or are even agnostics, insist upon their children receiving
that religious education which they themselves once received, with the
just and broad-minded idea that, though they have become careless,
cynical, or entirely agnostic, the children shall start as they did with
the same training and have the same opportunity of forming their own
judgment on these matters.

Parents will think deeply over “The Mighty Atom” and “Boy.” Different as
the two stories are, they deal essentially with this great question.
They both teach serious lessons to the fathers and the mothers of
English boyhood. The stories, as such, have been already dealt with.
Here we will just give a few of those lessons which it is the object of
the works in question to teach.

The author would have children’s bodies educated as well as their minds.
She regards the former as the more important for the reason that a
healthy body is the most suitable habitation for a healthy mind, and
that a keen intellect developed by ruining the physical strength is not
calculated to benefit either the individual, or the community to which
the individual belongs. Lionel Valliscourt, the little hero of “The
Mighty Atom,” has a father and also a tutor, one Montrose. The father is
an atheist and anxious to educate the son on a system, part of which is
the exclusion of religion from the curriculum. Montrose, a level-headed,
clear-brained Scotchman,--no “preacher,” but possessing a simple belief
in God--is dismissed from his position because he does not approve the
father’s system. This he describes as child-murder; and in the remarks
he addresses to the father at their last interview Marie Corelli’s
opinions about child-training are indicated:

“I will have no part in child-murder” (says Montrose), ...
“Child-murder! Take the phrase and think it over! You have only one
child,--a boy of a most lovable and intelligent
disposition,--quick-brained, too quick-brained by half!--You are
killing him with your hard and fast rules, and your pernicious
‘system’ of intellectual training. You deprive him of such pastimes
as are necessary to his health and growth,--you surround him with
petty tyrannies which make his young life a martyrdom,--you give
him no companions of his own age, and you are, as I say, murdering
him,--slowly perhaps, but none the less surely.”

Marie Corelli is absolutely opposed to “cram.” That was what was killing
little Lionel. At ten he was well advanced in mathematics, Latin and
Greek, history, and even science. No wonder he was often “tired,” or
that he felt as if, to use his own words, it wouldn’t be a bad thing to
belong to the hybernating species and go to sleep all the winter. Miss
Corelli detests cram--the regarding of the young human brain as a sort
of expanding bag or hold-all, to be filled with various bulky articles
of knowledge, useful or otherwise, till it shows signs of bursting. That
was the plan of little Lionel’s new coach, who, after the operation of
cramming a youngster’s brain, would then lock up the brain-bag and trust
to its carrying the owner through life. If the lock broke and the whole
bag gave way, so much the worse for the bag, that was all. That was what
happened with poor little Lionel, who hanged himself, tired of the
“cram,” and worried into insanity by the loss of his mother, the death
of his playmate, and the trouble of considering whether, if there be no
God, and death is mere negation, it was really worth while living at
all.

Healthy physical exercise, reasonable study, and religion as the basis
of that study: so Miss Corelli would train the children.

“Boy” teaches equally healthy lessons, though the story and the
circumstances are totally different. “Boy” might have been a fine
fellow. He had good qualities. That he became a thief and a forger was
the fault of the home circumstances and example. The father of “Boy” was
a drunkard and a blackguard, though a man of good family. The lad’s
mother was a silly-minded slattern. There was too much discipline
brought to bear upon Lionel Valliscourt; far too little was ever tried
on “Boy.” The latter, in his early childhood left to himself, or to mix
only with street lads, and with parents who, for a foolish “pride,”
refused him better training at the hands of others, developed by neglect
into a young ruffian, though he turned out well in the end.

Again, in conclusion, we commend these books to parents, and, indeed, to
all interested in or engaged in the education and upbringing of
children.

CHAPTER XVII

SOME PERSONAL ITEMS

It is pretty generally known that when Sir Theodore Martin desired, in
honor of Lady Martin’s memory, to place a Helen Faucit memorial in the
chancel of Trinity Church, Stratford-on-Avon, it was Miss Marie Corelli
who undertook a successful campaign against the project. Sir Theodore
Martin most ardently wished to execute his intention, and he had
progressed so far with the negotiations that his desires were on the
point of being carried out; and they would have been but for the active
intervention of Miss Corelli, who roused the whole town of Stratford
into energetic protest against the proposed invasion of Shakespeare’s
own particular shrine. It was Sir Theodore’s idea to place a bas-relief
of Helen Faucit immediately opposite the historical bust of the Poet, on
the other side of the chancel, but in an equally if not more prominent
position.

Miss Corelli began her campaign with a letter to the _Morning Post_
calling public attention to Sir Theodore’s plan, and the whole Press
backed up her efforts with hearty unanimity. The late Sir Arthur
Hodgson had taken the chief responsibility of supporting Sir Theodore
Martin, but in his haste and zeal had forgotten to ascertain whether he
could legally remove from the wall of the chancel two mural tablets
which occupied the intended site of the proposed Helen Faucit effigy.
The then Bishop of Worcester, Dr. Perowne, a great personal friend of
Sir Arthur’s, was persuaded to grant a “faculty” for their removal,
without due inquiry. Miss Corelli, however, discovered the descendants
of the very family those mural tablets belonged to, and found that their
permission had not been sought, or their existence considered. Whereupon
the law promptly stepped in, and Sir Theodore Martin was compelled to
withdraw. Otherwise the modern stone-mason would have gone to work in
the hallowed precincts of Shakespeare’s grave, and a piece of wholly
unecclesiastical sculpture would have overlooked the Poet’s place of
family sepulture, a place which Shakespeare himself purchased for his
own interment, and which all the world of literature rightly considers
should be left to his remains, uninvaded.

The bas-relief of Lady Martin, had it been put up, would have shown her
figure turned with its _back to the altar_, the medallion of
Shakespeare lying at her feet! The whole thing was out of place, and
out of tune with the national sentiment, as though Helen Faucit
was an eminent actress in her day, she had no connection with
Stratford-on-Avon; moreover, she was not British-born. Miss Corelli’s
fight was a hard one, for though Mr. Sidney Lee, who was entirely on her
side, wrote to Sir Theodore Martin himself to expostulate with him on
the mistaken idea he had taken up, nothing would have had any effect had
not Miss Corelli fortunately discovered the descendants of the family
whose mural tablets were about to be displaced without their permission.
When she at last won the day, the whole Press broke out unanimously in a
chorus of praise and congratulation, which must have been a singular
experience for her, so long inured to disparagement. She was bombarded
by telegrams from almost every quarter of the globe, particularly from
America, expressing the thanks of all lovers of Shakespeare.

It is a pity some one like Marie Corelli was not in Stratford-on-Avon at
the time Shakespeare’s own house, “New Place,” was demolished. Had there
been such an one, the chances are that the house would be still standing
as one of the world’s priceless treasures. Many precious shrines are
defaced, and many valuable mementoes lost for lack of some one to speak
out who is not afraid to give an opinion. Shakespeare’s townspeople are
grateful to the novelist who fought their Poet’s cause single-handed,
and won it in the face of powerful opposition.

* * * * *

Concerning the portraits of Miss Corelli, her experiences have not been
particularly pleasing. It will be remembered that a large oil painting
of the novelist was exhibited at Messrs. Graves’ Art Gallery, Pall Mall.
This portrait was painted for two reasons: first, because Miss Corelli
knew at the time of its execution that she was the victim of a serious
malady which might, it was then feared, shortly end her life; and
secondly, because she wished to leave some resemblance of herself to her
dearest friend, Miss Vyver.

Miss Donald-Smith painted the picture and also executed two “pastel”
portraits. Miss Corelli gave several sittings to the artist at a time
when her illness was causing her the acutest agony, and when the hours
thus spent in the studio were to her a perfect martyrdom. At Miss
Donald-Smith’s request she permitted her to send the large picture to
the Academy, where it was rejected. It was then exhibited by Messrs.
Graves, and was at once made the subject of personal and abusive
attacks, not on the artist, but on Marie Corelli herself for being
painted at all! Some journalists went so far as to accuse her of “taking
the gate-money” and “speculating in her own portrait.” As a matter of
fact, Miss Corelli received none of the percentage allowed on the
photogravures of the picture, and it may be added that she withdrew the
picture altogether from public view before it had been long on
exhibition.

Another portrait was painted by Mr. Ellis Roberts for himself. He asked
Marie Corelli to sit for him, having always been one of her greatest
admirers. He did not, of course, know that she consented to sit for the
same primary reason as for the other--namely, that she did not then
expect to live more than a few months--and that she wished to bequeathe
some “presentment” of herself to those who might care for it. Mr.
Roberts is probably not aware to this day that she was often almost
fainting when she left his studio after a prolonged “sitting.” He has
never seen her since she recovered her health and good spirits: if he
had, it is probable he would wish to make another sketch of her.

We may add that Miss Corelli still declines to allow a portrait of
herself to be published--a decision which we regret. For many are the
“surprises” that have been given to those expectant of meeting in the
novelist a severe literary woman with spectacles and a bilious
complexion. It may be truly said that Marie Corelli is very
light-hearted, always high-spirited, and full of fun; people who
represent her as morbid, brooding on her own “sorrows,” or grumbling at
the world in general, have never seen her, and can form no idea of her
disposition.

She is really a most charming lady, a most hospitable hostess, a
delightful _raconteur_, a brilliant musician, a woman of broad views and
large sympathies, a true and staunch friend, always glad to do a kindly
action.

* * * * *

After the record-breaking success of “The Master Christian” and the
world-wide discussions following the publication of that famous book,
the editor of a magazine addressed the following communication to Miss
Marie Corelli:

INDD
“DEAR MADAM,--

“I venture to ask whether you would kindly undertake for us a
review of Mr. Hall Caine’s new book, ‘The Eternal City’?

“Your own novel on a somewhat similar theme leads us to believe
that a criticism of Mr. Caine’s book from your pen would be of
great interest and of singular literary value. I suggest that it
might run to three or four thousand words, for which we would be
ready to pay an _honorarium_ of fifty guineas.”

Vastly entertained by this proposition, and seeing very clearly through
the evident “hole in a millstone,” the novelist replied promptly:

INDD
“DEAR SIR,--

“I cannot but admire the astute and businesslike character of your
request; but I do not write ‘reviews.’ Nothing would ever persuade
me to criticise the work of my contemporaries. Moreover, my book,
‘The Master Christian,’ is not at all on the same theme as ‘The
Eternal City.’ Mr. Hall Caine treats of Rome,--I, of the Christ.
The two are direct opposites.

“‘The Eternal City’ is recognizably inspired by and founded on
Zola’s ‘Rome,’ in which great work the ‘religious message’ of Mr.
Caine’s novel is fully set forth. The idea of a democratic Rome
under a democratic Pope is Zola’s ‘own original’ and belongs to
Zola alone. Wherefore, let me suggest that you should ask M. Zola
to review the work of his English _confrère_!”

* * * * *

When Sir Henry Drummond Wolff made Miss Corelli’s acquaintance he was
rather struck by the somewhat lonely and incessantly hard-working life
of the young novelist at the time of “Ardath"‘s publication. Her beloved
stepfather was dying by inches--failing gradually every day, and her
hours were consumed by anxiety, work, and watching. He asked her if he
could introduce her to any one in London she would like to know. After a
few moments’ reflection, of all people in the world she chose Henry
Labouchere! “I don’t want anything from him,” she said; “I’m not after a
notice in _Truth_. I want to know _him_, because I’m sure he is unlike
anybody else.”

The introduction was given, and the result of it was that she became
very intimate with the editor of _Truth_, with Mrs. Labouchere, and with
Miss Dora Labouchere. They were among those good friends who, with Miss
Vyver, helped to rouse her from the shock and nervous prostration
following on the sudden death of her stepbrother, George Eric Mackay.
Mr. Labouchere has never been known to try the satiric edge of his
tongue against his “little friend,” as he calls her; and she is always a
most welcome visitor to his house in Old Palace Yard.

* * * * *

Quite lately there has been a singular journalistic incident which must
be considered as particularly unfortunate, having regard to some of
Miss Marie Corelli’s previous experiences of newspapers. A “private and
confidential” letter, written by her to the editor of a ladies’ paper,
was published by that editor in his journal with the appendage of a very
discourteous reply. The incident arose out of the Highland gathering at
Braemar, at which place Miss Corelli had been staying for some weeks.
This gathering, which was honored by the presence of his Majesty, was
attended by Miss Corelli and a party of friends. Miss Corelli, as her
thousands of readers have no need to be told, did not require, or seek
for, a “mention in the papers” in consequence of her attendance at the
function. Had she done so she could easily have paid for it in the
“fashionable announcements.” She attends many gatherings in connection
with which her name is never mentioned, but she does not write
complaints--confidential or otherwise--on that score. Some people like
to suggest that Marie Corelli, whose circle of distinguished personal
friends is remarkably large, is more or less friendless and without
social surroundings, a suggestion that, pitiful as it is, is somewhat
amusing to those who are favored with her close acquaintance.

On the occasion in question Miss Corelli wrote a note marked “private
and confidential,” asking the editor of the ladies’ paper not “why her
name was not mentioned,” but “why it was omitted”--a distinction with a
difference in this case--for she happened to be the hostess of a party
whose names were included in the newspaper notice, and who were
surprised and indignant at the fact that, whilst their names were
mentioned, that of their notable hostess was left out. It was at the
suggestion of one of these that Miss Corelli wrote the “private and
confidential” letter which the editor, without consulting her, rushed
into print. The result of her harmless inquiry is well-known. The
publication of the communication brought a shoal of letters to the
famous author from men and women of “light and leading,” assuring her of
their sympathy in this outrage. Amongst the writers of these letters
were several very distinguished journalists, a fact which lends emphasis
to Miss Corelli’s knowledge that, notwithstanding her tilts with the
Press, the bulk of the journalists of the country do honor to their
profession and totally disapprove of such an act as the publication of a
“private and confidential” communication. We hear that printed slips
containing her letter to the editor in question, and the latter’s reply,
were sent by some one for circulation through the town of
Stratford-on-Avon. Such a proceeding, whoever

[Illustration: WINTER AT “MASON CROFT"]

was responsible, could have been followed with only the one object of
endeavoring to make Miss Corelli appear in an unfavorable light before
the neighbors and friends among whom she resides.

It is pleasant to learn that this precious campaign entirely failed. The
editor of the local journal, the _Stratford-on-Avon Herald_, duly
received his slips of this correspondence, the hope probably being that
he would reproduce them in his journal. He however took no notice of
these “hand-bills”; and the good citizens of Shakespeare’s town
generally are far too conscious of Miss Corelli’s affection for them and
unfailing sympathy in all their interests, to feel anything but
unmeasured contempt for any effort to injure her in their esteem. People
hastened to call at Mason Croft and express their indignation at the
treatment she had received, and they found her, as usual, busily
working, happy and unconcerned. To one friend, an M.P., who expressed
his views on the subject with considerable expletive, she said quietly,
“Oh, well, it really doesn’t matter! The editor has condemned himself by
his own action. My letter, asking merely why my name was omitted, was
quite a harmless epistle, surely? It scarcely merits an imprisonment in
the Tower!”

_The Daily Express_ acted somewhat curiously on this occasion. Having
copied the whole of the “private correspondence,” it was suggested that
this paper might possibly be laying itself open to penalties of the law
for “breach of copyright.” Whereupon haste was made to send the
following telegram to Miss Corelli: “Have asked our correspondent to
call upon you. We will print with pleasure any statement. Sorry our
article did not please you. Would like to make amends.--_Daily Express._

The desire, however, to “make amends” does not appear to have been very
hearty, because soon afterwards a second article on the subject appeared
in _The Daily Express_, stating that there was “no law to prevent the
publication of a private and confidential letter,” unless it bore a
legal “confidential stamp.” And at the same time Mr. Pearson wrote to
Miss Corelli to say that he thought the editor who had published her
“private and confidential” note was “perfectly justified” in his action!
But there can be no possible justification for publishing a letter of
confidence. Business would be impossible under such circumstances. The
mistake Miss Corelli has made in the past has been to condemn the Press
and pressmen for the shortcomings of individuals who represent only
themselves and not a profession. She has been misunderstood on the
matter, but her hearty good-will to journalists is well-known to many of
the craft who are proud to be within the pleasant circle of her intimate
friends.

* * * * *

A section of the Press finds pleasure in accusing Miss Corelli of
“self-advertisement.” If it were at all true that she has any
proclivities that way, she would surely accept the frequent and urgent
offers made to her to lecture in the United States, on almost fabulous
terms.

Again, a chance for “self-advertisement” offered itself to Miss Corelli
in the invitation of Edinburgh, last year, to open the Home Industries
Exhibition, in Waverley Market. People hoped for her coming, and urgent
letters were sent to her assuring her that she would receive a splendid
welcome. Miss Corelli, however, declined the tempting proposal, which,
if the “advertising” accusations were in any way well-founded, seems a
short-sighted waste of opportunity on her part. As a matter of fact, she
seldom takes the chances of notoriety that are so frequently offered to
her; but it would be easy to name a dozen or more periodicals which are
glad to make advertisements for themselves out of some specially
contrived attack upon her. The public, however, sees through this, and,
understanding the motives of action, are all the more loyal to Marie
Corelli and her work. Britishers are famed for their love of “fair
play,” and the spectacle of several able-bodied men engaged in steadily
“hounding” a woman who has made her way without their assistance by the
fuel of her own brain and energy, does not appeal to the majority. They
see no fun in it, but only an exhibition of cowardice.

While on this subject, it may be mentioned that as soon as certain
sections of the Press discovered that Marie Corelli was among the
favored few who had received an invitation from the King to be present
in the Abbey at the Coronation on August 9th, she was bombarded with
letters and telegrams from several newspapers entreating her to write
for them her “impressions” of the great ceremony. To all these
applications she gave no answer. Her silence on such an occasion rather
discounts her supposed “love of notoriety”! Truth to tell, her presence
at the Abbey, as a guest of the King, created in some quarters quite a
riot of fury.

“We hear,” said one paper, “that Miss Marie Corelli was among the King’s
guests in the Abbey! Marvelous! No doubt she wore a gown as gorgeous as
her love of self-advertisement could make it!” Poor Miss Corelli! In the
very simplest attire of white chiffon and lace, she was one of the most
unobtrusively dressed ladies present, as she wore no jewels, and had
nothing indeed about her costume that could attract the slightest
attention, though she was the “observed of all observers” at the
luncheon held in the House of Peers after the Abbey ceremonial, not for
her dress, but for her fame.

Another incident may be aptly quoted here. When the King was attacked by
his serious illness, the enterprising manager of a newspaper press
agency made haste to write to Miss Corelli saying that it was necessary
to “prepare for the worst,” and would she therefore write her
“impressions” of the King,--which meant, of course, an obituary notice!
To which the novelist replied with considerable warmth that she had too
much immediate concern for the dangerous condition of her Sovereign, as
well as too much honor for him, to “make trade” for the newspapers by
writing “obituary notices” of his life before he was dead! By the grace
of God, she said, he would be spared to the Throne for many good and
happy years to come. Such is the real spirit of the woman whom her more
than malicious enemies accuse of “disloyalty” and “desire for
advertisement.” It is a satisfaction to give a few truths of her real
disposition as opposed to the unfounded falsehoods that are circulated
about her. As a single example of her womanliness and womanly
sympathies, it may be mentioned that no one has yet written a tenderer
tribute to the virtues of the Queen than Marie Corelli in “The Soul of
Queen Alexandra,” published last year in her “Christmas Greeting.”

* * * * *

Two letters which were addressed to Miss Corelli by eminent preachers
who have since passed away are of interest. In explanation of their
inclusion it should be mentioned that Dr. Campbell, the successor of Dr.
Parker at the City Temple, was exceedingly anxious to persuade Miss
Corelli to open a great Nonconformist bazaar in the Dome during the
early part of last November. She would have been perfectly willing to do
so had there not been a great agitation just then in the press
concerning the Education Bill, for she judged that had she performed any
special ceremony in any prominent way for the Nonconformist cause, she
would again have been singled out for unfair attack.

For several days she hesitated, her whole inclination being to help the
charity so urgently and eloquently pleaded for by the Rev. Dr. Campbell.
During this time of indecision, however, she was made the subject of a
violent discourse from the pulpit of a Nonconformist minister in another
part of the country. This appears to have formulated her final resolve,
for she wrote to Dr. Campbell, regretting her inability to comply with
his request, and enclosing the “sermon” on herself from one of his own
persuasion, concerning which she said that under such circumstances her
opening of the Bazaar might do the cause more harm than good.

Dr. Campbell, disappointed, but not dismayed, renewed his persuasions
and prevailed upon several of his distinguished personal friends to
write to the novelist and urge her to alter her decision. Among those
who did so were Dr. Joseph Parker and the Rev. Hugh Price Hughes, to
both of whom the sermon against the novelist had been sent for perusal.
Dr. Parker wrote to Miss Corelli as follows:--

HAMPSTEAD,
_October 6th, 1902_.

DEAR MISS CORELLI,--

I have just received a letter from my friend Campbell, and though I
have to rise from my bed to write this note, I gladly make a very
great sacrifice. I do not know the preacher whose sermon you send.
I never even heard of him. Campbell I do know--refined, cultured,
high-minded. Let me entreat you to serve my true and good friend.
What need you care for such an attack? You do not live on the same
plane as that nameless man. I read your book[D] with inexpressible
delight; why not pay more attention to my praise than to another
man’s slander? Now do send me a wire or a card or a letter, and say
that you will open the Bazaar at Brighton.

Very tired,
Very dispirited,
Ever sincerely and hopefully yours,
JOSEPH PARKER.

The note from the Rev. Hugh Price Hughes ran thus:--

MEMORIAL HALL,
FARRINGDON STREET,

LONDON, E. C.
_October 6th, 1902_.

DEAR MADAM,--

I find that my friend, Mr. R. J. Campbell, of Brighton, has asked
you to open a Bazaar in the Dome. I take the liberty of expressing
a very earnest hope that you will be able to comply with Mr.
Campbell’s request. Mr. Campbell occupies a quite unique position
among us, and any kindness shown to him will be a kindness to us
all.

I am, dear Madam,
Yours sincerely,
HUGH PRICE HUGHES.

MISS MARIE CORELLI.

Miss Corelli, however, who was just at that time being made the subject
of some particularly venomous attacks concerning her romance, “Temporal
Power,” felt compelled to maintain her refusal, though much to her own
great disinclination and regret--a regret that we share, for we should
like to be able to record that she opened the bazaar after all.

* * * * *

The following letter, which deals with a critique on “Temporal Power,”
is most interesting from the point of view that it was written by one
lady-novelist in defense of another; it possesses all the more weight
seeing that Mrs. Rentoul Esler is an entire stranger to Miss Corelli.

THE ETHICS OF CRITICISM

_To the Editor of the “Sunday Sun"_

Sir,--When a new book appears there are only two points on which
the reading public requires enlightenment. These are the subject of
the book and the manner in which that subject is handled. All else
is apart from the best interests of literature, and the literary
life. When a book from Miss Marie Corelli is issued it seems the
fashion in press circles to discourse largely and loosely of the
writer and to say little or nothing of her work.

The abuse poured on this lady seems to do the sale of her books no
harm--it may even increase it--and the supposition is
suggestive--but as books and the making of them have an interest
apart from the commercial one, it seems time that a protest be made
against the unworthy treatment to which one individual is
habitually subjected. I have no personal acquaintance with Miss
Corelli, and her books give me no more pleasure and no less than do
those of Mr. George Meredith, whom your critic seems to place in
antithesis to her, this also being the fashion of the moment; it is
not in defense of a favorite writer that I wish to express an
opinion, but in defense of those qualities that render criticism an
honorable calling.

The heading of the critique in your issue of August 31st, and the
introductory section, were alike unworthy of a literary paper and
of the pen of a gentleman. The charges of self-advertisement are
insulting and untrue. There are few writers who owe as little to
the paragraphist as Miss Corelli, while the flouts and jibes flung
at her because her books sell extensively are merely stupid. The
size of an edition of any book depends on the publisher’s knowledge
of the demand that awaits it. It might be better, in the interests
of literature, to keep commerce and literary merit in separate
compartments, but as long as such critical organs as _The Bookman_
make a regular feature of tables of sales from Provincial and
Metropolitan book-sellers, it is neither logical nor brave to pour
vials of scorn on one writer because her publisher announces that
the first edition of her book will be large.

The subject of Miss Corelli’s book seems a legitimate one; “If I
were King” has appealed to the moralist, the fictionist, and the
dramatist time out of mind. When a biography of this popular writer
is called for, the critic may then be personal and impertinent if
it seem good to him, but in connection with the discussion of a
book personalities regarding its author are unfair and in the worst
possible taste.

As an interested reader of the critical opinions in the _Sunday
Sun_ since the first issue of that paper, I consider myself
entitled to protest when a journal of such eminence descends to
methods that are neither amusing, informative, nor well-bred. Even
a popular writer is entitled to fair treatment, and it is of the
utmost importance to every branch of literature that those who
undertake to form public opinion should remember that the rostrum
has obligations as well as privileges.

E. RENTOUL ESLER.

THE HEATH, DARTFORD.

Mrs. Rentoul Esler is herself a writer of distinction and power, and is
thus able to express herself with the vigor and lucidity which carry
conviction. Her letter is a clear call for that “Fair Play” which Marie
Corelli has been demanding for so long.

* * * * *

That the novelist is well able to retort upon unfriendly critics is
shown by a few verses addressed by her to _The Quarterly_ in her
“Christmas Greeting” (1901). A lacerating article concerning Miss
Corelli and her work had appeared in _The Quarterly_, and it drew from
her the following little epigram:--

TO THE QUARTERLY

WITH THE COMPLIMENTS OF THE SEASON

Greeting, old friend! A merry Christmas time
To you, who nothing merry ever see;--
Great Murderer of poets in their prime,--
Why have you struck at _me_?

With vengeful hooks of sharpened critic-steel
You tortured giants in the days gone by,--
And now upon your creaking, rusty wheel,
You’d break a Butterfly!

Alas! you’re far too cumbrous for such things!
Your heavy, clanking axle drags i’ the chase;--
The happy Insect has the use of wings,
And keeps its Sunshine-place!

CHAPTER XVIII

AT STRATFORD-ON-AVON

A review of Marie Corelli’s life from the time she left her
convent-school to the present day, shapes as a record of intellectual
activity rather than one of movement or incident of an anecdotal nature.
But although the novelist has never actually gone out of her way to
study local color, she has traveled all over Europe; as, during her
stepfather’s long illness and the constant strain of anxiety entailed
upon her by his condition, it was necessary for her to take at least one
month’s rest and change of air in the course of each year. These annual
holidays were spent in various parts of Europe--in France, Italy,
Holland, Switzerland, and Germany--and during her travels she was never
idle, but always at work recording notes of scenes, seasons, and events.
The _locale_ of Combmartin was carefully studied by her before she ever
wrote “The Mighty Atom”; and, as the many tourists who have visited the
neighborhood since on account of the story can testify, both that
village and Clovelly have been faithfully represented. But some of the
scenery in her other books, though correct in detail, has never been
visited by the novelist at all. “Thelma,” which is a frequent
companion-volume to travelers in Norway, has certain scenes depicted
which are now shown by local guides as associated with the novel, but
the writer herself has never visited Norway.

It may be remembered that in “Anne of Geirstein” Walter Scott gives an
exact description of Switzerland; but at the time he wrote the novel he
had never seen that country. We have already told how Sir Henry Drummond
Wolff, a great authority on Persia, called on Miss Corelli shortly after
the publication of “Ardath” to inquire personally where she had resided
in the East, to be so familiar with Eastern color and surroundings; and
he was very much surprised to learn that she had never visited the East
at all, nor had any idea of going there. In the same way, though
“Vendetta!” is an essentially Neapolitan story, she has never seen
Naples. Nor does she “read up” for her local color. When asked to
explain how she manages to convey herself in spirit to countries with
which she is entirely unacquainted, she replies: “I _imagine_ it must be
so, and I find it generally _is_ so.” As she stated in her lecture at
Edinburgh on “The Vanishing Gift,” she thinks Imagination is a decaying
faculty in the present day. “People seem unable to project themselves
into either the past or the future,” she says, “and yet that is the only
way to gauge the events of the present.”

Marie Corelli is a fair linguist, having a thorough knowledge of French
and Italian. She can read Balzac and Dante as readily as she can read
Walter Scott--these three, by the way, being particular favorites of
hers.

Marlowe describes a library as containing “infinite riches in a little
room.” Though no millionaire in her possession of this kind of wealth,
Marie Corelli has gathered about her a set of volumes which is
representative without being cumbersome. Her books are not stored in a
stately room that is held sacred to them and them alone, but they are
here, there, and everywhere, in drawing-room, working-den, and bedroom.
She is not a bookish woman--in the reading sense--but she reads
discreetly, and has many widely different friends between covers. Nor is
she a miser in this respect, for she gives and lends as readily as she
buys or borrows.

Many of those interested in the novelist’s movements have wondered what
attraction drew Miss Marie Corelli to Stratford-on-Avon so greatly as
to persuade her to settle there. The cause is a very simple one. From
her earliest childhood she had been encouraged by her adopted father,
Dr. Charles Mackay, to entertain a great adoration for the name and the
works of Shakespeare, and before she was nine years old she used to
recite, at his request, whole passages from the plays of the great
Master. When she returned from school, he promised to take her for a
“pilgrimage,” as he termed it, to all the places made notable by
Shakespeare’s association with them, and to this pilgrimage she had
looked forward with the greatest expectation. But it was never to be,
for Dr. Mackay’s illness came on and prevented all such plans of
pleasure from being fulfilled.

When the aged poet died, and his adopted child, broken-hearted at his
loss, and feeling herself utterly alone in the world, knew not how to
endure the weary days following immediately on his death, she suddenly
bethought herself of the “pilgrimage” she and the dear one she had loved
so well had arranged to make together. She determined to carry out the
plan, and her friend Miss Vyver (who lost her mother in the same year as
that of Dr. Mackay’s death) accompanied her, as did her stepbrother, Mr.
Eric Mackay. With sorrow as well as interest, she went over every scene
her early teaching had made her familiar with, and was so charmed with
Warwickshire, and Stratford in particular, that she was anxious to leave
London then at once, and take up her residence in Shakespeare’s town.
This was in 1890, when only four of her books had been published.

Her wishes in this respect, however, she subordinated to those of her
stepbrother, who preferred London; but from that time she always
cherished the memory of Stratford-on-Avon, and hoped she would be able
to return thither. Finally, in 1898, when Eric Mackay’s death deprived
her of her last remaining link with her childhood, save her
ever-faithful friend Miss Vyver, and when she was extremely ill from the
effects of long sickness, followed by the nervous shock of Eric’s sudden
end, she turned her thoughts to the old town again, and decided to take
a furnished house there, to see if the place agreed with her health. She
rented “Hall’s Croft” for a few months, then “Avon Croft” (where the
“Master-Christian” and “Boy” were finished), and, finding that the soft,
mild air did wonders for her, and gradually reestablished her strength,
she decided to remain.

The only house available in the town for a permanency was “Mason Croft,”
a very old place

[Illustration: THE ELIZABETHAN WATCH TOWER, MASON CROFT]

in a sad state of disrepair, its last “restoration” bearing the date of
1745, but, as it was all there was to be had, she risked taking it on
trial. Gradually improving and restoring it, she has now brought it back
to look something like it must have been in the fifteenth century, when
it was quite an important house, requiring a “watch-tower,” wherein a
watchman was set to guard the property, and which still stands in the
garden, having been transformed into a cozy summer “study” for the
novelist. Every month sees some new addition to the charming
oak-panelled rooms, which are essentially home-like, and Miss Corelli’s
love of flowers, which amounts to a passion, shows itself in the mass of
blossom which in winter, equally as in the summer, adorns her
“winter-garden,” leading out from the drawing-room.

She is very fond of the home she has made, and fond of the town in which
it stands, and her reason for living in Stratford arises simply out of
the old cherished sentiment of her childhood’s days when she was taught
to consider the little town as the real “Heart of England,” where the
greatest of poets had birth, and where her idolized stepfather had
promised to “pass many happy days with her.” She takes the keenest
interest in all the joys and sorrows of Stratford’s townspeople, and
grudges neither trouble nor expense in anything that may bring them
pleasure or good.

It is well-known that she thinks it regrettable that the Memorial
Theatre should be so little used, owing to the high fees asked for it,
and that good actors should find it impossible to risk going down to
perform there, unless their expenses are guaranteed, particularly as it
is the only “self-endowed” theatre in England! She possesses an
interesting letter from the late Charles Flower, who gave the largest
share of the money required to build the place, in which it is plainly
set forth that his idea of the theatre was to let it at a merely
“nominal fee,” in order that the best actors might go to Stratford and
play Shakespeare’s works, in the best manner, to the Stratford
townspeople, who were only to be asked “popular” prices for admission.
But, since that estimable benefactor’s death, things have not been
exactly on the footing he thus suggested, and for more than half the
year the theatre is empty and useless, which seems a pity. “How much
better,” says Miss Corelli, “it would be to see the theatre full, and
the public-houses empty!” In which most people will agree with her. But
though her opinions are very strong on these and other points concerning
some matters at Stratford, she never interferes or puts forward any
suggestions that she considers might be resented. The only time she did
put her foot down was when Sir Theodore Martin wanted to break into the
antique sanctity of Shakespeare’s resting-place in the Church of the
Holy Trinity, and in that campaign all the world was with her, as well
as Stratford itself. She does all the good she can in the neighborhood;
she has quite revivified the Choral Society; she gives short, simple
addresses to workmen and schoolchildren; she opens bazaars and sales of
work, and by her presence at such functions brings much-needed pecuniary
help to institutions which always feel, to a greater or less extent, the
pinch of poverty.

The desire to do good to one’s fellow-creatures must animate every
writer whose work is not solely the product of intellect. When there is
“heart” in a book, there must be a heart that can throb for others in
the author of it. Pass the lives of eminent authors before you in rapid
mental review, and you will find that most of these authors were
constantly performing kindly actions. The great souls of Dickens and
Thackeray--of the latter especially--prompted them to do many generous
things. It is said that when, as an editor, Thackeray found a letter
with a manuscript telling a tale of pathetic circumstances, he would
sometimes (when obliged to return the manuscript) scribble out a check
on his own account and send it back with the rejected story. Turning to
women writers, has not Mrs. Gaskell, in her touching life of Charlotte
Brontë, told us how she and the poor Yorkshire clergyman’s daughter paid
sundry afternoon calls in the Haworth district, and how welcome was the
novelist’s “quiet presence” in many humble homes? Ruskin’s kindness and
open-handed charity, as one who visited him has told us, were proverbial
in the Brantwood neighborhood. The history of Dr. Johnson’s home life
proves amply the tenderness which lay behind his pompous and dictatorial
manner. Poor Goldsmith’s generosity amounted almost to a vice, for he
would borrow a guinea to give to a friend in need and empty his pockets
for a whining mendicant. His philanthropy was wholesale, and quite
lacked any sense of proportion. Scott worked himself to death to pay off
the debts of the publishing firm in which he was concerned;--turn where
you will, you find that the men and women whose work in life has been
the making of songs and dramas and novels, have ever been keenly alive
to the distress prevalent among their fellow-creatures, and have seldom
been guilty of anything approaching selfishness.

It would not be meet in the present work to touch in any but the most
passing way on Miss Corelli’s practical philanthropy. But it is only
due to her, in a biographical work published mainly to explain what she
_is_--as opposed to what so many malicious paragraphists have declared
her to be--to pay a tribute to her consideration for others, and her
desire to make the best use of such worldly possessions as the extensive
sale of her works has naturally brought her.

Those, however, who accuse her of “self-advertisement” will do well to
remember that by such an absolutely false clamor they are depriving many
in need from assistance which they might obtain were the novelist
certain that her actions would not be misrepresented and misconstrued.
For nothing makes her happier than to see others happy. She has helped
many strugglers in the literary profession, too, and literary men and
women who disparage her may be surprised to hear that she has herself
never been known to say an injurious word with regard to any one of her
fellow-authors.

It may be asked--what is Marie Corelli’s life-programme? Most writers
have a definite object in view--this one to achieve immortality; that
one to make money. What is Marie Corelli’s?

Briefly, she writes,--has always written,--to reach the hearts and minds
of those thinking people of to-day who are striving to combat the
subtleties of the Agnostic and Atheist; to strengthen their faith in
the truth, the reality, the goodness of God and Christianity; the people
who have hearts that throb with tenderness, hope, love and sincerity.
She would purify society. She would exalt everything that is noble and
good. She would destroy the rule of unbelief and insincerity, and raise
in its place ideal characters and conditions strongly built upon a
foundation of faith and truth. Such is Marie Corelli’s programme.

The interest taken by the novelist in social questions has led her to
correspond with workingmen’s clubs in America and the colonies, and not
a few papers have been written by her to serve as subjects for
discussion in such institutions.

But what of that self of which so much has been heard? It is a
personality striking in its simplicity and in its power. Marie Corelli
is a woman of women, simple in her tastes, strong in her faiths and her
aims, with a heart full of sympathy for others, living a busy life that
from its productiveness in the world of literature is a constant
influence for good in the hearts and homes of thousands the world over,
and, in its private relationships, a source of help, inspiration, and
benefit to those with whom she comes in contact.

That she is not merely a lover of Shakespeare, but a Shakespeare
enthusiast, is known to all her friends; she would see the day come, if
possible, and help to speed its coming, when the whole town of
Stratford-on-Avon shall be a Shakespeare memorial. She would exclude
steam-launches and all similar misplaced modernities from the peaceful
Avon; she would have every new building that is erected in the
birthplace of Shakespeare constructed in accordance with the
architecture of the Master’s day; she would sacredly and lovingly guard
every old building and the form of all Stratford’s old streets; she
would have the storehouse, that exists there, of never explored
sixteenth-century records, thoroughly ransacked and reported upon, as it
should be, by competent and national authorities, and given an adequate
place and publicity. We should hear little more then, we venture to
assert, of Baconian theories. Miss Corelli would have, moreover (and
perhaps the statement may help to further the object), a great
development of the Shakespeare Festival at Stratford. She would like it
to be the Bayreuth of Literature. She would establish a central
Shakespearean Society, with branches all over the world, which would
circulate notes of interest among all Shakespeare lovers, and hold
annual conferences in connection with the April Shakespearean
celebrations.

Now, as to Marie Corelli’s “public.” The great sale of her works proves
it to be a vast one, and the fact that her publishers have not found it
advisable to issue her in sixpenny form is clear proof that she commands
the purses of those who are able to afford six shillings. And although
the possession of money is no guarantee of literary taste, yet it stands
to reason that the upper and middle classes, taken in the mass, are the
chief supporters of literature, and afford the best criterion of worth
in their selection of books owing to the fact that their education is
superior to that of people who are commonly designated as “poor.” But
for the latter there are the free libraries, and the Corelli novels are
in as constant demand wherever books are to be obtained for nothing, as
at railway bookstalls, where there is not a halfpenny abatement of the
full published price. Miss Corelli, then, being read by people of all
classes, may certainly be said to have won over a considerable majority
of the bookreading portion of the British race.

And it must not be forgotten that she is perhaps the most extensively
read of living novelists in Holland, Russia, Germany and Austria, where
translations of her books are always to be obtained, or that her
“Barabbas” and “A Romance of Two Worlds,” in their Hindustani
renderings, command a wide following among the native peoples of India.
She is extremely popular in Norway and Sweden, and “Vendetta!” in its
Italian translation is always the vogue in Italy, as is the French
version of “Absinthe” (“Wormwood”) in France. There is no country where
her name is unknown, and no European city, where, if she chances to pass
through, she is not besieged with visitors and waylaid with offerings of
flowers. Were she to visit Australia or New Zealand she would receive an
almost “royal” welcome, so great is the enthusiasm in the “New World”
for anything that comes from her pen.

Marie Corelli’s acquaintances are many in number, but her circle of
friends is a small and carefully selected one. Shakespeare’s “He that is
thy friend indeed” can be applied, even in the case of a popular
novelist, to but few persons. Where Miss Corelli is, there always is her
devoted friend Miss Vyver. Between these two there is perfect
understanding and absolute sympathy. It goes without saying that, until
the day of his death, Dr. Mackay held chief place in his adopted
daughter’s heart, and, though dead, holds it still. The kind old
publisher, George Bentley, was, perhaps, owing to his unceasing sympathy
and delicate appreciation of her nature, the best friend Marie Corelli
ever had outside her own family circle.

But many of the social and artistic world’s great personages are among
her most frequent guests and correspondents. The numerous letters she
has from famous men and women would almost make a journal of
contemporary history. Many eminent persons appear to set considerable
value on her opinions, judging from the questions they ask of her, and
the urgency with which they press for an answer.

During the South African War, representatives of all ranks at the front
kept her informed of all that was going on, batches of letters reaching
her from “fighting men” who were personally utter strangers to her, and
whose names she had never heard. The gallant Lord Dundonald, who has
long been a friend of hers, found time to write her one of the first
letters that left his pen after he entered Ladysmith. And this kind of
general confidence in her friendship runs all along the line. No one who
has known her once seems inclined to forget her, while those who have
really read her books become her friends without any personal knowledge
of her.

At Stratford this celebrated novelist lives a very quiet life. Of course
she cannot escape the attentions of the curious, for Fame has its
penalties; the Stratford cabmen, taking visitors round the old town,
often pull up opposite Mason Croft to allow

[Illustration: MISS CORELLI’S BOATMAN AND PUNT]

their fares to gaze upon the residence of the popular writer. Sometimes
her admirers, although absolute strangers, venture to call upon her; but
there is an astute and diplomatic butler at Mason Croft who takes very
good care that his mistress is not unnecessarily disturbed when she is
working.

It is this resolute working of hers that--coupled with her extraordinary
gifts--has made the name of Marie Corelli one to conjure with. Week in,
week out, she toils at her desk for several hours every morning, and it
is by such methods of regularity and application that she has succeeded
in writing such long, as well as such successful, novels.

The following sketch, contributed to the _Manchester Chronicle_ last
summer by the editor, Mr. J. Cuming Walters, affords a very complete
picture of Marie Corelli as she is to-day:--

In the old-world town of Stratford-on-Avon stands an Elizabethan
red-brick house, its windowsills brightened with flowers which hang
down in profusion and impart gaiety of aspect to the ancient and
time-worn edifice. Here, near the Guild Church and the school that
Shakespeare knew, in the quietest part of the town, dwells, with
her loyal companion and friend, Miss Marie Corelli.

What manner of woman is this most popular novelist of the hour, who
has the reading world at her feet, and who has conquered the hearts
of millions? Until lately she was thought to be a mystery. One has
only to know her to marvel why. For Marie Corelli does not shroud
herself in obscurity, does not affect the life of the recluse, does
not pretend to be other than she is--a winsome, warm-hearted,
sunny-natured woman, who enjoys life to the full, and would have
others enjoy theirs, who has ideals and tries to live up to them,
and who asks only to be freed from vulgar intrusion and the
slanderous shafts of unseen enemies. In her delightful Stratford
home she lives in a serene atmosphere; she regards the spot as
hallowed; she has the artist’s love of the beautiful Warwickshire
scenery, and the woman’s tenderness for all around her; the
cottagers know her charity, and all good causes enjoy her aid and
patronage. Here she dwells in a happy environment, and works with
ardor, for her day’s labor begins at sunrise; yet she has always a
spare hour for a friend, or a spare afternoon in which to act the
gracious hostess towards visitors.

What first strikes one on meeting Miss Corelli is her intensely
sympathetic nature. She will be found in all probability amid her
choice flowers in the spacious Winter Garden, and her face
irradiates as she advances to meet you with outstretched hands and
smiling lips. A small creature, with a mass of waving golden
hair--“pale gold such as the Tuscan’s early art prefers”--with
dimpled cheeks and expressive eyes, almost childlike at first
glance but with immense reserves of energy--that is Marie Corelli;
but her chief charm is perhaps the liquid softness of her voice.
She began life as a singer and musician, and as one hears her speak
it is easy to understand that had she not been a force in
literature she might have been a controlling influence in the world
of song. In the hall her harp still stands, but more often her
fingers stray over the notes of a piano, perchance making the
instrument give forth a melody of her own composing.

A visitor is soon quite at ease. Formality is dispensed with. The
keynote in Miss Corelli’s house is Sincerity. She is a brilliant
conversationalist, but a good listener too. She talks freely and
without conscious effort, and one’s faith in her is speedily
inspired. What does she talk about? Just enough about herself to
make her auditor wish for more; yet, with a condescension that is
all grace, she is eager to hear all that her visitor has to say on
the subjects nearest his own heart. Particularly does she like the
theme to be the old loved authors, and whatever one has to tell of
Dickens, or Thackeray, or Tennyson--and even if one should have a
theory about Shakespeare--in Miss Corelli he will find not only the
ardent listener but a woman whose quick and well-stored mind
enables her to take up readily a debatable point, to help to
resolve some doubt or mystery, or to add profitably to one’s own
stock of knowledge. No one can converse with her for an hour and
come away unenriched.

Yes, she not only writes enchantingly, but she herself enchants. In
her presence you are under a spell. “There’s witchcraft in it.” Her
youth and her artlessness disarm you--you are left wondering how
this fair young creature could have fought her way alone in the
world (her life has been a battle), how she could have conquered
opposition, and how she could have attained to her present
supremacy. It may verge upon extravagance to say it, but there is
something to marvel at in the fact that at an age long before that
at which George Eliot had written her first story Miss Corelli had
given us a dozen remarkable and original romances of world-wide
fame, and there is no guessing what achievements yet lie before her
and what position she may gain. Her powers are waxing rather than
waning, and a month or two ago when the last two chapters of
“Temporal Power” were in her hand, we heard her say she hoped that
in this book she had reached a higher stage than in any she had
previously written.

But it is not only as a writer, as a necromancer with a magic pen,
that one may admire Marie Corelli. She is a very woman, too, with a
woman’s likes and dislikes, a woman’s feelings, a woman’s impulses,
a woman’s preferences and prejudices--and she is quite frank
concerning all. You like her the better for being so purely human.
She is never happier than when arranging a maypole dance for the
children or organizing Christmas festivities for the poor and
helpless. Look round her charming rooms, and behold the evidence of
the feminine hand there. Observe the taste of her dress--dress, by
the way, which, with all its elegance, does not come from France,
is not the “creation” or the “confection” of a Paris costumer, but
is English in every detail. For there is no truer, more loyal, more
patriotic soul than Marie Corelli, and she will tell you, with a
touch of quiet pride, that every servant she has about her is
English, that the cloth she wears is English, that the furniture of
her rooms is English, and that she will endure none but an English
workingman about her house. “England for the English” is her motto,
and she lives up to it herself, and loses no opportunity of trying
to get others to adopt it.

There are some who imagine that Miss Corelli is nothing if not
caustic and critical, and they imagine that she is always running
atilt against some person or other. Never was a greater delusion.
Her chief fault is that she is too generous and her good nature too
easily imposed upon. She will spend an afternoon in writing her
name for the autograph-hunters; she will gladly address a gathering
at a Pleasant Sunday Afternoon service; she will distribute prizes
to children and make a felicitous speech; she will open a Flower
Show; or she will lecture a huge throng in a public building on
questions of the day. Yet she does these things at some sacrifice,
too, for wondrously calm as she may be at the critical moment of
action, her nerves are sorely shaken both before and afterwards.
She taxes her memory greatly also. It may perhaps scarcely be
credited that the address she delivered at Glasgow, which occupied
an hour and a half, was learned off by heart and spoken without a
slip.

But it is not our intention to reveal further of her private life;
we know full well it would be displeasing to herself if we did so,
and an unwarrantable breach of confidence. She is no
notoriety-hunter. She does not cultivate the personal paragraph,
and would no more tolerate the prying busybody than she does the
camera-fiend who waylays her in the hope of obtaining snapshots.
Why, she asks, should the veil be lifted merely to satisfy a vulgar
and idle curiosity? Her private life is as sacred as that of any
other person, and it is merely pandering to a depraved modern taste
to lay bare “the poet’s house,” as Browning put it.

Outside should suffice for evidence:
And whoso desires to penetrate
Deeper, must dive by the spirit-sense.

One remark only need be added: Miss Corelli has been the victim of
much misunderstanding in the past, of some injustice, and--alas,
that it should have to be said--of deliberate malevolence. Those
who are privileged to enjoy her friendship best know her admirable
qualities, and entertain none but the kindest sentiments towards
her and the best wishes for her continued triumphs. Her influence
is vast and far-reaching. She writes with a purpose, she has used
her gifts as she best knows how, and her fiery crusade, stern and
determined as that of John Knox, against social evils and human
follies, must make for lasting good. May this valiant woman,
standing alone, battling for the right, yet add to her conquests!

Here, then, let us leave her, with the parting benediction which fell
from the lips of Mr. Gladstone: “It is a wonderful gift you have, and I
do not think you will abuse it. There is a magnetism in your pen which
will influence many. Take care always to do your best. As a woman, you
are pretty and good; as a writer, be brave and true. God bless you, my
dear child! Be brave! You’ve got a great future before you. Don’t lose
heart on the way!”

THE END

FOOTNOTES:

[A] Meaning, what terms for a new edition.

[B] As this was obvious the remark was unnecessary.

[C] The former of these works is published by Mr. Arrowsmith, and the
latter by Messrs. Skeffington.

[D] “Temporal Power.”

*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Marie Corelli - The Writer and the Woman" ***

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