Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli

by Marie Corelli

  “for help to climb

  Beyond the highest peaks of time.”

  Now I should like, if I could do so, to explain clearly the effect of this satyr-songster upon my mind, — for I believe there are many women to whom his works have been deadlier than the deadliest poison, and far more soul-corrupting than any book of Zola’s or the most pernicious of modern French writers. At first I read the poems quickly, with a certain pleasure in the musical swing and jangle of rhythm, and without paying much attention to the subject-matter of the verse, — but presently, as though a lurid blaze of lightning had stripped a fair tree of its adorning leaves, my senses suddenly perceived the cruelty and sensuality concealed under the ornate language and persuasive rhymes, — and for a moment I paused in my reading, and closed my eyes, shuddering and sick at heart. Was human nature as base and abandoned as this man declared it to be? Was there no God but Lust? Were men and women lower and more depraved in their passions and appetites than the very beasts? I mused and dreamed, — I pored over the ‘Laus Veneris’— ‘Faustine’ and ‘Anactoria,’ till I felt myself being dragged down to the level of the mind that conceived such outrages to decency, — I drank in the poet’s own fiendish contempt of God, and I read over and over again his verses ‘Before a Crucifix’ till I knew them by heart; — till they rang in my brain as persistently as any nursery jingle, and drove my thoughts into as haughty a scorn of Christ and His teachings, as any unbelieving Jew. It is nothing to me now, — now, when without hope, or faith or love, I am about to take the final plunge into eternal darkness and silence, — but for the sake of those who have the comfort of a religion I ask, why, in a so-called Christian country, is such a hideous blasphemy as ‘Before a Crucifix’ allowed to circulate among the people without so much as one reproof from those who elect themselves judges of literature? I have seen many noble writers condemned unheard, — many have been accused of blasphemy, whose works tend quite the other way, — but these lines are permitted to work their cruel mischief unchecked, and the writer of them is glorified as though he were a benefactor to mankind. I quote them here, from bitter memory, that I may not be deemed as exaggerating their nature —

  “So when our souls look back to thee,

  They sicken, seeing against thy side,

  Too foul to speak of or to see,

  The leprous likeness of a bride,

  Whose kissing lips through his lips grown

  Leave their God rotten to the bone.

  When we would see thee man, and know

  What heart thou had’st towards man indeed,

  Lo, thy blood-blackened altars; lo,

  The lips of priests that pray and feed,

  While their own hell’s worm curls and licks

  The poison of the crucifix.

  Thou bad’st the children come to thee, —

  What children now but curses come,

  What manhood in that God can be

  Who sees their worship and is dumb? —

  No soul that lived, loved, wrought, and died

  Is this, their Carrion Crucified!

  Nay, if their God and thou be one

  If thou and this thing be the same,

  Thou should’st not look upon the sun,

  The sun grows haggard at thy name!

  Come down, be done with, cease, give o’er,

  Hide thyself, strive not, be no more!”

  From the time of reading this, I used to think of Christ as ‘carrion crucified’; — if I ever thought at all. I found out that no one had ever reproached Swinburne for this term, — that it did not interfere with his chances for the Laureateship, — and that not even a priest of the church had been bold-spoken or zealous enough in his Master’s cause to publicly resent the shameless outrage. So I concluded that Swinburne must, after all, be right in his opinions, and I followed the lazy and unthinking course of social movement, spending my days with such literature as stored my brain with a complete knowledge of things evil and pernicious. Whatever soul I had in me was killed; the freshness of my mind was gone, — Swinburne, among others, had helped me to live mentally, if not physically, through such a phase of vice as had poisoned my thoughts for ever. I understand there is some vague law in existence about placing an interdiction on certain books considered injurious to public morals, — if there is such a rule, it has been curiously lax concerning the author of ‘Anactoria’ — who, by virtue of being a poet, passes unquestioned into many a home, carrying impure suggestion into minds that were once cleanly and simple. As for me, after I had studied his verse to my heart’s content, nothing remained sacred, — I judged men as beasts and women as little better, — I had no belief in honour, virtue or truth, — and I was absolutely indifferent to all things save one, and that was my resolve to have my own way as far as love was concerned. I might be forced to marry without love for purely money-considerations, — but all the same, love I would have, or what I called love; — not an ‘ideal’ passion by any means, but precisely what Mr Swinburne and a few of the most-praised novelists of the day had taught me to consider as love. I began to wonder when and how I should meet my lover, — such thoughts as I had at this time indeed would have made moralists stare and uplift their hands in horror, — but to the exterior world I was the very pink and pattern of maidenly decorum, reserve and pride. Men desired, but feared me; for I never gave them any encouragement, seeing as yet none among them whom I deemed worthy of such love as I could give. The majority resembled carefully trained baboons, — respectably clothed and artistically shaven, — but nevertheless all with the spasmodic grin, the leering eye and the uncouth gestures of the hairy woodland monster. When I was just eighteen I ‘came out’ in earnest — that is, I was presented at Court with all the foolish and farcical pomp practised on such occasions. I was told before going that it was a great and necessary thing to be ‘presented,’ — that it was a guarantee of position, and above all of reputation, — the Queen received none whose conduct was not rigidly correct and virtuous. What humbug it all was! — I laughed then, and I can smile now to think of it, — why, the very woman who presented me had two illegitimate sons, unknown to her lawful husband, and she was not the only playful sinner in the Court comedy! Some women were there that day whom since even I would not receive — so openly infamous are their lives and characters, yet they make their demure curtseys before the Throne at stated times, and assume to be the very patterns of virtue and austerity. Now and then, it chances in the case of an exceedingly beautiful woman, of whom all the others are jealous, that for her little slips she is selected as an ‘example’ and excluded from Court, while her plainer sisters, though sinning seventy times seven against all the laws of decency and morality, are still received, — but otherwise, there is very little real care exercised as to the character and prestige of the women whom the Queen receives. If any one of them is refused, it is certain she adds to her social enormities, the greater crime of being beautiful, otherwise there would be no one to whisper away her reputation! I was what is called a ‘success’ on my presentation day. That is, I was stared at, and openly flattered by certain members of my sex who were too old and ugly to be jealous, and treated with insolent contempt by those who were young enough to be my rivals. There was a great crush to get into the Throne-Room; and some of the ladies used rather strong language. One duchess, just in front of me, said to her companion— ‘Do as I do, — kick out! Bruise their shins for them — as hard as you can, — we shall get on faster then!’ This choice remark was accompanied by the grin of a fishwife and the stare of a drab. Yet it was a ‘great’ lady who spoke, — not a Transatlantic importation, but a woman of distinguished lineage and connection. Her observation however was only one out of many similar speeches which I heard on all sides of me during the ‘distinguished’ mélée, — a thoroughly ill-mannered ‘crush,’ which struck me as supremely vulgar and totally unfitting the dignity of our Sovereign’s court. When I curtsied before the Throne at last, and saw the majesty of the Empire rep
resented by a kindly faced old lady, looking very tired and bored, whose hand was as cold as ice when I kissed it, I was conscious of an intense feeling of pity for her in her high estate. Who would be a Monarch, to be doomed to the perpetual receiving of a company of fools! I got through my duties quickly, and returned home more or less wearied out and disgusted with the whole ceremony, — and next day I found that my ‘debût’ had given me the position of a ‘leading beauty’; or in other words that I was now formally put up for sale. That is really what is meant by being ‘presented’ and ‘coming out,’ — these are the fancy terms of one’s parental auctioneer. My life was now passed in dressing, having my photograph taken, giving ‘sittings’ to aspiring fashionable painters, and being ‘inspected’ by men with a view to matrimony. It was distinctly understood in society that I was not to be sold under a certain figure per annum, — and the price was too high for most would-be purchasers. How sick I grew of my constant exhibition in the marriage-market! What contempt and hatred was fostered in me for the mean and pitiable hypocrisies of my set! I was not long in discovering that money was the chief-motive power of all social success, — that the proudest and highest personages in the world could be easily gathered together under the roof of any vulgar plebeian who happened to have enough cash to feed and entertain them. As an example of this, I remember a woman, ugly, passée and squint-eyed, who during her father’s life was only allowed about half-a-crown a week as pocket-money up to her fortieth year, — and who, when that father died, leaving her in possession of half his fortune, (the other half going to illegitimate children of whom she had never heard, he having always posed as a pattern of immaculate virtue) suddenly blossomed out as a ‘leader’ of fashion, and succeeded, through cautious scheming and ungrudging toadyism, in assembling some of the highest people in the land under her roof. Ugly and passée though she was, and verging towards fifty, with neither grace, wit, nor intelligence, through the power of her cash alone she invited Royal dukes and ‘titles’ generally to her dinners and dances, — and it is to their shame that they actually accepted her invitations. Such voluntary degradations on the part of really well-connected people I have never been able to understand, — it is not as if they were actually in want of food or amusement, for they have a surfeit of both every season, — and it seems to me that they ought to show a better example than to flock in crowds to the entertainments of a mere uninteresting and ugly nobody just because she happens to have money. I never entered her house myself though she had the audacity to invite me, — I learned moreover, that she had promised a friend of mine a hundred guineas if she could persuade me to make one appearance in her rooms. For my renown as a ‘beauty’ combined with my pride and exclusiveness, would have given her parties a prestige greater than even Royalty could bestow, — she knew that and I knew that, — and knowing it, never condescended to so much as notice her by a bow. But though I took a certain satisfaction in thus revenging myself on the atrocious vulgarity of parvenus and social interlopers, I grew intensely weary of the monotony and emptiness of what fashionable folks call ‘amusement,’ and presently falling ill of a nervous fever, I was sent down to the seaside for a few weeks’ change of air with a young cousin of mine, a girl I rather liked because she was so different to myself. Her name was Eva Maitland — she was but sixteen and extremely delicate — poor little soul! she died two months before my marriage. She and I, and a maid to attend us, went down to Cromer, — and one day, sitting on the cliffs together, she asked me timidly if I knew an author named Mavis Clare? I told her no, — whereupon she handed me a book called ‘The Wings of Psyche.’

  “Do read it!” she said earnestly— “It will make you feel so happy!”

  I laughed. The idea of a modern author writing anything to make one feel happy, seemed to me quite ludicrous, the aim of most of them being to awaken a disgust of life, and a hatred of one’s fellow-creatures. However, to please Eva, I read the ‘Wings of Psyche,’ — and if it did not make me actually happy, it moved me to a great wonder and deep reverence for the woman-writer of such a book. I found out all about her, — that she was young, good-looking, of a noble character and unblemished reputation, and that her only enemies were the press-critics. This last point was so much in her favour with me that I at once bought everything she had ever written, and her works became, as it were, my haven of rest. Her theories of life are strange, poetic, ideal and beautiful; — though I have not been able to accept them or work them out in my own case, I have always felt soothed and comforted for a while in the very act of wishing they were true. And the woman is like her books, — strange, poetic, ideal and beautiful, — how odd it is to think that she is within ten minutes walk of me now! — I could send for her if I liked, and tell her all, — but she would prevent me carrying out my resolve. She would cling to me woman-like and kiss me, and hold my hands and say ‘No, Sibyl, no! You are not yourself, — you must come to me and rest!’ An odd fancy has seized me, ... I will open my window and call her very gently, — she might be in the garden coming here to see me, — and if she hears and answers, who knows! — why, perhaps my ideas may change, and fate itself may take a different course!

  · · · · ·

  Well, I have called her. I have sent her name ‘Mavis!’ softly out on the sunshine and still air three times, and only a little brown namesake of hers, a thrush, swinging on a branch of fir, answered me with his low autumnal piping. Mavis! She will not come, — to-day God will not make her His messenger. She cannot guess — she does not know this tragedy of my heart, greater and more poignant than all the tragedies of fiction. If she did know me as I am, I wonder what she would think of me!

  · · · · ·

  Let me go back to the time when love came to me, — love, ardent, passionate, and eternal! Ah, what wild joy thrilled through me! what mad ecstasy fired my blood! — what delirious dreams possessed my brain! — I saw Lucio, — and it seemed as if the splendid eyes of some great angel had flashed a glory in my soul! With him came his friend, the foil to his beauty, — the arrogant, self-satisfied fool of a millionaire, Geoffrey Tempest, — he who bought me, and who by virtue of his purchase, is entitled by law to call himself my husband ...”