Читать книгу Marie Corelli: The Writer and the Woman - R. S. Warren Bell - Страница 10

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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!”