Читать книгу Marie Corelli: The Writer and the Woman - R. S. Warren Bell - Страница 7

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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: