Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli, page 1
part #22 of Delphi Series Series
The Collected Works of
MARIE CORELLI
(1855-1924)
Contents
The Novels
A Romance of Two Worlds
Vendetta!
Thelma
Ardath
Wormwood
The Soul of Lilith
Barabbas
The Sorrows of Satan
The Mighty Atom
The Murder of Delicia
Ziska
Boy
The Master-Christian
Temporal Power
God’s Good Man
Treasure of Heaven
Holy Orders
Life Everlasting
Innocent
The Young Diana
The Secret Power
The Shorter Fiction
Cameos
The Song of Miriam and Other Stories
Jane
The Strange Visitation of Josiah McNason
Delicia and Other Stories
The Love of Long Ago, and Other Stories
The Short Stories
List of Short Stories in Chronological Order
List of Short Stories in Alphabetical Order
The Non-Fiction
The Modern Marriage Market
The Passing of the Great Queen
The Delphi Classics Catalogue
© Delphi Classics 2017
Version 1
The Collected Works of
MARIE CORELLI
By Delphi Classics, 2017
with introductions by Gill Rossini
www.gillrossini.com
COPYRIGHT
Collected Works of Marie Corelli
First published in the United Kingdom in 2017 by Delphi Classics.
© Delphi Classics, 2017.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form other than that in which it is published.
ISBN: 978 1 78656 098 8
Delphi Classics
is an imprint of
Delphi Publishing Ltd
Hastings, East Sussex
United Kingdom
Contact: sales@delphiclassics.com
www.delphiclassics.com
The Novels
Bayswater, North London, c. 1800 — Corelli’s birthplace
Corelli was born at Gloucester Terrace in 1855
Corelli’s father, Charles Mackay (1814-1889) was a Scottish poet, journalist, author, anthologist, novelist and songwriter, remembered mainly for his book ‘Extraordinary Popular Delusions and the Madness of Crowds’. Corelli was Mackay’s illegitimate daughter, presumably conceived while her mother was working in Mackay’s household as a servant.
A Romance of Two Worlds
This novel was first published in two volumes in February 1887, by Richard Bentley in Britain and William Allison and Co. in America. It had begun in 1885 as the manuscript for a novel entitled Lifted Up, but Corelli changed it to A Romance of Two Worlds on the advice of her father, journalist Charles Mackay. On submitting the manuscript to the publisher George Bentley, it received a mixed response from his expert readers, a reception that was reflected by reviewers in the press when it reached the market. However, in contrast, the public took to both novel and author immediately and it was a great success. A few years later, in 1891, Corelli became aware of a highly eminent fan: Queen Victoria. The Queen had been lent a copy of Romance of Two Worlds by the Duchess of Roxburghe and asked for her own presentation copy and even decreed that in future, all Corelli’s books were to be sent to her on publication.
Perhaps one of the reasons the public responded so positively to the book is the use of electro-therapy, also known at the time as galvanism, as a strong element of the plot. Electricity was seen as something of a cure-all by the public, treating everything from “women’s problems” to muscle weakness and mental illness (and later, what were perceived as sexual perversions, such as homosexuality). Small home kits could be purchased and there were many “therapists” offering galvanism as a genuine cure-all. Coupled with the Victorian passion for psychic phenomena, spirituality, table-tipping (séances) and all things esoteric, Corelli had found an almost fool proof storyline to kick-start her writing career. This novel also includes an elixir or potion of great potency, that can revive and rejuvenate even a person’s soul – powerful tonics such as the coca – laden cola drink (launched 1886; a dominant active ingredient of coca is the alkaloid, cocaine) were very popular at this time too. This is a theme Corelli returned to in a later novel, Young Diana: An Experiment of the Future, published in 1918.
In the novel’s prologue, Corelli enters into an almost philosophical discourse about the nature of existence and her belief in the supernatural – the elements and energies beyond established religion and the confines of science. She makes it clear that she has an absolute belief in Shakespeare’s “more things in heaven and earth” than are dreamt of in science, but appreciates that not all readers will agree. The main narrative continues in the first person, as if it is an autobiographical account.
The narrator is a female artist who is suffering from “a series of nervous ailments”, whose doctor suggests a sojourn in the sunshine of the Riviera to affect a cure. The idea appeals to the artist and in the company of her friends, Colonel and Mrs. Everard, she leaves behind the gloomy London weather and heads for Cannes.
Sadly, her depression is so acute that her deep melancholia does not lift, even with the distractions of the beautiful resort. In the meantime, the Everards have befriended another gifted young artist, Raffaelo Cellini and the narrator is soon introduced to him. His effect on her was “remarkable — it was ELECTRIC” and she finds solace in Raffaelo’s beautiful studio, using it as a form of retreat from the trials of her depression; in particular she is very taken by his portrait of an angel. Raffaelo can be taken either as an eccentric or a natural – born philosopher and aesthete and although as a result he is rather intimidating, the author agrees to sit for a portrait. The narrator now begins to get to know the artist. He claims to have a master whom he is in awe of and has the habit of drinking a mysterious, glittering elixir that invigorates and sustains him. Corelli marks out Raffaelo as different in many ways; he is triumphant when an acquaintance dies whilst playing the organ, he refers to Christ as “the God-man” and his pronouncements are “full of mysterious suggestions”. One could easily have the impression of a man that is “genius bordering on insanity”. Is it the Eastern wine she sips as she sits for her portrait that makes the narrator sleepy and content for the first time in months, or the influence of Raffaelo? Why has she had such a strange esoteric dream on returning to the hotel?
As the portrait sittings progress, the narrator finds out the story of her artist host. Raffaelo was also suffering from nervous exhaustion when he encountered the aristocratic Heliobas, a Chaldean “descended directly from one of those wise men of the East.” Heliobas promises to cure Raffaelo of his torpor as an artist and using a range of esoteric techniques, including electricity, he does as he promises, leaving Raffaelo feeling reborn. However, the narrator is not sure she can believe that Raffaelo’s spirit had left his body during the “cure”. The artist has been in touch with Heliobas and recommended the narrator for the same treatment; full of hope, she arranges to travel to Paris to meet Heliobas and place her care in his hands and mind. Will she respond to the “treatment” as well as Raffaelo did and can the positive effects have a lasting impact?
If you like high drama and romance, the gothic and “purple prose”, then you will love this book. It has the drama of Mrs Radcliffe’s The Mysteries of Udolpho, but written about a century later; one could see Corelli’s venture into this elaborate and emotional genre as a refreshing revival, or an anachronism. Such boundaries did not bother her readers, however, who loved the novel and eagerly awaited her next creation.
Miss Marie Corelli and her pet dog, c. 1878
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE.
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI.
CHAPTER VII.
CHAPTER VIII.
CHAPTER IX.
CHAPTER X.
CHAPTER XI.
CHAPTER XII.
CHAPTER XIII.
CHAPTER XIV.
CHAPTER XV.
CHAPTER XVI.
CHAPTER XVII.
APPENDIX.
An early frontispiece
PROLOGUE.
We live in an age of universal inquiry, ergo of universal scepticism. The prophecies of the poet, the dreams of the philosopher and scientist, are being daily realized — things formerly considered mere fairy-tales have become facts — yet, in spite of the marvels of learning and science that are hourly accomplished among us, the attitude of mankind is one of disbelief. “There is no God!” cries one theorist; “or if there be one, I can obtain no proof of His existence!” “There is no Creator!” exclaims another. “The Universe is simply a rushing together of atoms.” “There can be no immortality,” asserts a third. “We are but dust, and to dust we shall return.” “What is called by idealists the SOUL,” argues another, “is simply the vital principle composed of heat and air, which escapes from the body at death, and mingles ag ain with its native element. A candle when lit emits flame; blow out the light, the flame vanishes — where? Would it not be madness to assert the flame immortal? Yet the soul, or vital principle of human existence, is no more than the flame of a candle.”
If you propound to these theorists the eternal question WHY? — why is the world in existence? why is there a universe? why do we live? why do we think and plan? why do we perish at the last? — their grandiose reply is, “Because of the Law of Universal Necessity.” They cannot explain this mysterious Law to themselves, nor can they probe deep enough to find the answer to a still more tremendous WHY — namely, WHY, is there a Law of Universal Necessity? — but they are satisfied with the result of their reasonings, if not wholly, yet in part, and seldom try to search beyond that great vague vast Necessity, lest their finite brains should reel into madness worse than death. Recognizing, therefore, that in this cultivated age a wall of scepticism and cynicism is gradually being built up by intellectual thinkers of every nation against all that treats of the Supernatural and Unseen, I am aware that my narration of the events I have recently experienced will be read with incredulity. At a time when the great empire of the Christian Religion is being assailed, or politely ignored by governments and public speakers and teachers, I realize to the fullest extent how daring is any attempt to prove, even by a plain history of strange occurrences happening to one’s self, the actual existence of the Supernatural around us; and the absolute certainty of a future state of being, after the passage through that brief soul-torpor in which the body perishes, known to us as Death.
In the present narration, which I have purposely called a “romance,” I do not expect to be believed, as I can only relate what I myself have experienced. I know that men and women of to-day must have proofs, or what they are willing to accept as proofs, before they will credit anything that purports to be of a spiritual tendency; — something startling — some miracle of a stupendous nature, such as according to prophecy they are all unfit to receive. Few will admit the subtle influence and incontestable, though mysterious, authority exercised upon their lives by higher intelligences than their own — intelligences unseen, unknown, but felt. Yes! felt by the most careless, the most cynical; in the uncomfortable prescience of danger, the inner forebodings of guilt — the moral and mental torture endured by those who fight a protracted battle to gain the hardly-won victory in themselves of right over wrong — in the thousand and one sudden appeals made without warning to that compass of a man’s life, Conscience — and in those brilliant and startling impulses of generosity, bravery, and self-sacrifice which carry us on, heedless of consequences, to the performance of great and noble deeds, whose fame makes the whole world one resounding echo of glory — deeds that we wonder at ourselves even in the performance of them — acts of heroism in which mere life goes for nothing, and the Soul for a brief space is pre-eminent, obeying blindly the guiding influence of a something akin to itself, yet higher in the realms of Thought.
There are no proofs as to why such things should be; but that they are, is indubitable. The miracles enacted now are silent ones, and are worked in the heart and mind of man alone. Unbelief is nearly supreme in the world to-day. Were an angel to descend from heaven in the middle of a great square, the crowd would think he had got himself up on pulleys and wires, and would try to discover his apparatus. Were he, in wrath, to cast destruction upon them, and with fire blazing from his wings, slay a thousand of them with the mere shaking of a pinion, those who were left alive would either say that a tremendous dynamite explosion had occurred, or that the square was built on an extinct volcano which had suddenly broken out into frightful activity. Anything rather than believe in angels — the nineteenth century protests against the possibility of their existence. It sees no miracle — it pooh-poohs the very enthusiasm that might work them.
“Give a positive sign,” it says; “prove clearly that what you say is true, and I, in spite of my Progress and Atom Theory, will believe.” The answer to such a request was spoken eighteen hundred years and more ago. “A faithless and perverse generation asketh for a sign, and no sign shall be given unto them.”
Were I now to assert that a sign had been given to ME — to me, as one out of the thousands who demand it — such daring assurance on my part would meet with the most strenuous opposition from all who peruse the following pages; each person who reads having his own ideas on all subjects, and naturally considering them to be the best if not the only ideas worth anything. Therefore I wish it to be plainly understood that in this book I personally advocate no new theory of either religion or philosophy; nor do I hold myself answerable for the opinions expressed by any of my characters. My aim throughout is to let facts speak for themselves. If they seem strange, unreal, even impossible, I can only say that the things of the invisible world must always appear so to those whose thoughts and desires are centred on this life only.
CHAPTER I.
AN ARTIST’S STUDIO.
In the winter of 188-, I was afflicted by a series of nervous ailments, brought on by overwork and overworry. Chief among these was a protracted and terrible insomnia, accompanied by the utmost depression of spirits and anxiety of mind. I became filled with the gloomiest anticipations of evil; and my system was strung up by slow degrees to such a high tension of physical and mental excitement, that the quietest and most soothing of friendly voices had no other effect upon me than to jar and irritate. Work was impossible; music, my one passion, intolerable; books became wearisome to my sight; and even a short walk in the open air brought with it such lassitude and exhaustion, that I soon grew to dislike the very thought of moving out of doors. In such a condition of health, medical aid became necessary; and a skilful and amiable physician, Dr. R —— , of great repute in nervous ailments, attended me for many weeks, with but slight success. He was not to blame, poor man, for his failure to effect a cure. He had only one way of treatment, and he applied it to all his patients with more or less happy results. Some died, some recovered; it was a lottery on which my medical friend staked his reputation, and won. The patients who died were never heard of more — those who recovered sang the praises of their physician everywhere, and sent him gifts of silver plate and hampers of wine, to testify their gratitude. His popularity was very great; his skill considered marvellous; and his inability to do ME any good arose, I must perforce imagine, out of some defect or hidden obstinacy in my constitution, which was to him a new experience, and for which he was unprepared. Poor Dr. R —— ! How many bottles of your tastily prepared and expensive medicines have I not swallowed, in blind confidence and blinder ignorance of the offences I thus committed against all the principles of that Nature within me, which, if left to itself, always heroically struggles to recover its own proper balance and effect its own cure; but which, if subjected to the experimental tests of various poisons or drugs, often loses strength in the unnatural contest and sinks exhausted, perhaps never to rise with actual vigour again. Baffled in his attempts to remedy my ailments, Dr. R —— at last resorted to the usual plan adopted by all physicians when their medicines have no power. He recommended change of air and scene, and urged my leaving London, then dark with the fogs of a dreary winter, for the gaiety and sunshine and roses of the Riviera. The idea was not unpleasant to me, and I determined to take the advice proffered. Hearing of my intention, some American friends of mine, Colonel Everard and his charming young wife, decided to accompany me, sharing with me the expenses of the journey and hotel accommodation. We left London all together on a damp foggy evening, when the cold was so intense that it seemed to bite the flesh like the sharp teeth of an animal, and after two days’ rapid journey, during which I felt my spirits gradually rising, and my gloomy forebodings vanishing slowly one by one, we arrived at Cannes, and put up at the Hotel de L —— . It was a lovely place, and most beautifully situated; the garden was a perfect wilderness of roses in full bloom, and an avenue of orange-trees beginning to flower cast a delicate fragrance on the warm delicious air.
