as special correspondent to the Russo-Turkish war. I left the MS. behind
me, and for many months the scheme was banished from my mind. I went
through those cities of the dead, Kesanlik, Calofar, Carlova, and Sopot.
I watched the long-drawn artillery duel at the Shipka Pass, made the
dreary month-long march in the rainy season from Orkhanié to Plevna,
with the army of reinforcement, under Chefket Pasha and Chakir Pasha,
lived in the besieged town until Osman drove away all foreign visitors,
and sent out his wounded to sow the whole melancholy road with corpses.
I put up on the heights of Tashkesen, and saw the stubborn defence of
Mehemet Ali, and there was pounced upon by the Turkish authorities for a
too faithful dealing with the story of the horrors of the war, and was
deported to Constantinople. I had originally gone out for an American
journal at the instance of a gentleman who exceeded his instructions in
despatching me, and I was left high and dry in the Turkish capital
without a penny and without a friend. But work of the kind I could do
was wanted, and I was on the spot. I slid into an engagement with the
_Scotsman_, and then into another with the _Times_. The late Mr.
Macdonald, who was killed by the Pigott forgeries, was then manager of
the leading journal, and offered me fresh work. I waited for it, and a
year of wild adventure in the face of war had given me such a taste for
that sort of existence that I let 'A Life's Atonement' slide, and had no
thought of taking it up again. A misunderstanding with the _Times_
authorities--happily cleared up years after--left me in the cold, and I
was bound to do something for a living. The first volume of 'A Life's
Atonement' had been written in the intervals of labour in the Gallery of
the House of Commons, and such work as an active hack journalist can
find among the magazines and the weekly society papers. I had been away
a whole year, and everywhere my place was filled. It was obviously no
use to a man in want of ready money to undertake the completion of a
three-volume novel of which only one volume was written, and so I betook
myself to the writing of short stories. The very first of these was
blessed by a lucky accident. Mr. George Augustus Sala had begun to write
for _The Gentleman's Magazine_ a story called, if I remember rightly,
'Dr. Cupid.' Sala was suddenly summoned by the proprietors of the _Daily
Telegraph_ to undertake one of his innumerable journeys, and the copy
of the second instalment of his story reached the editor too late for
publication. Just when the publishers of the _Gentleman's_ were at a
loss for suitable copy, my MS. of 'An Old Meerschaum' reached them, and,
to my delighted surprise, I received proofs almost by return of post.
The story appeared, with an illustration by Arthur Hopkins, and, about a
week later, there came to me, through Messrs. Chatto & Windus, a letter
from Robert Chambers: 'Sir,--I have read, with unusual pleasure and
interest, in this month's _Gentleman's Magazine_, a story from your pen
entitled "An Old Meerschaum." If you have a novel on hand, or in
preparation, I should be glad to see it. In the meantime, a short story,
not much longer than "An Old Meerschaum," would be gladly considered
by--Yours very truly, ROBERT CHAMBERS. P.S.--We publish no authors'
names, but we pay handsomely.' This letter brought back to mind at once
the neglected 'Life's Atonement,' but I was uncertain as to the
whereabouts of the MS. I searched everywhere amongst my own belongings
in vain, but it suddenly occurred to me that I had left it in charge of
a passing acquaintance of mine, who had taken up the unexpired lease of
my chambers in Gray's Inn at the time of my departure for the seat of
war. I jumped into a cab, and drove off in search of my property. The
shabby old laundress who had made my bed and served my breakfast was
pottering about the rooms. She remembered me perfectly well, of course,
but could not remember that I had left anything behind me when I went
away. I talked of manuscript, and she recalled doubtfully a quantity of
waste paper, of the final destination of which she knew nothing. I began
to think it extremely improbable that I should ever recover a line of
the missing novel, when she opened a cupboard and drew from it a
brown-paper parcel, and, opening it, displayed to me the MS. of which I
was in search. I took it home and read it through with infinite
misgiving. The enthusiasm with which I had begun the work had long
since had time to pall, and the whole thing looked weary, flat, stale,
and unprofitable. For one thing, I had adopted the abominable expedient
of writing in the present tense so far as the autobiographical portion
of the work was concerned, and, in the interval which had gone by, my
taste had, I suppose, undergone an unconscious correction. It was a dull
business, but, despondent as I was, I found the heart to rewrite those
chapters. Charles Reade describes the task of writing out one's work a
second time as 'nauseous,' and I confess that I am with him with all my
heart. It is a misery which I have never since, in all my work, imposed
upon myself. At that time I counted amongst my friends an eminent
novelist, on whose critical faculty and honesty I knew I could place
the most absolute reliance. I submitted my revised first volume to his
judgment, and was surprised to learn that he thought highly of it. His
judgment gave me new courage, and I sent the copy in to Chambers. After
a delay of a week or two, I received a letter which gave me, I think, a
keener delight than has ever touched me at the receipt of any other
communication. 'If,' wrote Robert Chambers,'the rest is as good as the
first volume, I shall accept the book with pleasure. Our price for the
serial use will be 250_l._, of which we will pay 100_l._ on receipt of
completed MS.; the remaining 150_l._ will be paid on the publication of
the first monthly number.' I had been out of harness for so long a time,
and had been, by desultory work, able to earn so little, that this
letter seemed to open a sort of Eldorado to my gaze. It was not that
alone which made it so agreeable to receive. It opened the way to an
honourable ambition which I had long nourished, and I slaved away at the
remaining two volumes with an enthusiasm which I have never been able to
revive. There are two or three people still extant who know in part the
privations I endured whilst the book was being finished. I set
everything else on one side for it, incautiously enough, and for two
months I did not earn a penny by other means. The most trying accident
of all the time was the tobacco famine which set in towards the close
of the third volume, but, in spite of all obstacles, the book was
finished. I worked all night at the final chapter, and wrote 'Finis'
somewhere about five o'clock on a summer morning. I shall never forget
the solemn exultation with which I laid down my pen and looked from the
window of the little room in which I had been working over the golden
splendour of the gorse-covered common of Ditton Marsh. All my original
enthusiasm had revived, and in the course of my lonely labours had grown
to a white heat. I solemnly believed at that moment that I had written a
great book. I suppose I may make that confession now without proclaiming
myself a fool. I really and seriously believed that the work I had just
finished was original in conception, style, and character. No reviewer
ever taunted me with the fact, but the truth is that 'A Life's
Atonement' is a very curious instance of unconscious plagiarism. It is
quite evident to my mind now that if there had been no 'David
Copperfield' there would have been no 'Life's Atonement.' My Gascoigne
is Steerforth, my John Campbell is David, John's aunt is Miss Betsy
Trotwood, Sally Troman is Peggotty. The very separation of the friends,
though brought about by a different cause, is a reminiscence. I was
utterly unconscious of these facts, and, remembering how devotedly and
honestly I worked, how resolute I was to put my best of observation and
invention into the story, I have ever since felt chary of entertaining a
charge of plagiarism against anybody. There are, of course, flagrant and
obvious cases, but I believe that in nine instances out of ten the
supposed criminal has worked as I did, having so completely absorbed and
digested in childhood the work of an admired master that he has come to
feel that work as an actual portion of himself. 'A Life's Atonement' ran
its course through _Chambers's Journal_ in due time, and was received
with favour. Messrs. Griffith & Farran undertook its publication in book
form, but one or two accidental circumstances forbade it to prosper in
their hands. To begin with, the firm at that time had only newly decided
on publishing novels at all, and a work under such a title, and issued
by such a house, was naturally supposed to have a theological tendency.
Then again, in the very week in which my book saw the light, 'Lothair'
appeared, and for the time being swamped everything. All the world read
'Lothair,' all the world talked about it, and all the newspapers and
reviews dealt with it, to the exclusion of the products of the smaller
fry. Later on, 'A Life's Atonement' was handsomely reviewed, and was
indeed, as I am disposed to think, praised a good deal beyond its
merits. But it lay a dead weight on the hands of its original
publishers, until Messrs. Chatto & Windus expressed a wish to
incorporate it in their Piccadilly Series. The negotiations between the
two houses were easily completed, the stock was transferred from one
establishment to the other, the volumes were stripped of their old
binding and dressed anew, and with this novel impetus the story reached
a second edition in three-volume form. It brought me almost immediately
two commissions, and by the time that they were completed I had grown
into a professional novel-writer.
[Illustration: THE STOCK WAS TRANSFERRED]
[Illustration: SOME NOVELS]
'_A ROMANCE OF TWO WORLDS_'
BY MARIE CORELLI
It is an unromantic thing for an author to have had no literary
vicissitudes. One cannot expect to be considered interesting, unless one
has come up to London with the proverbial solitary 'shilling,' and gone
about hungry and footsore, begging from one hard-hearted publisher's
house to another with one's perpetually rejected manuscript under one's
arm. One ought to have consumed the 'midnight oil;' to have 'coined
one's heart's blood' (to borrow the tragic expression of a contemporary
gentleman-novelist); to have sacrificed one's self-respect by
metaphorically crawling on all-fours to the critical faculty; and to
have become æsthetically cadaverous and blear-eyed through the action of
inspired dyspepsia. Now, I am obliged to confess that I have done none
of these things, which, to quote the Prayer-book, I ought to have done.
I have had no difficulty in making my career or winning my public. And I
attribute my good fortune to the simple fact that I have always tried to
write straight from my own heart to the hearts of others, regardless of
opinions and indifferent to results. My object in writing has never
been, and never will be, to concoct a mere story which shall bring me in
a certain amount of cash or notoriety, but solely because I wish to say
something which, be it ill or well said, is the candid and independent
expression of a thought which I will have uttered at all risks.
In this spirit I wrote my first book, 'A Romance of Two Worlds,' now in
its seventh edition. It was the simply worded narration of a singular
psychical experience, and included certain theories on religion which I,
personally speaking, accept and believe. I had no sort of literary pride
in my work whatsoever; there was nothing of self in the wish I had, that
my ideas, such as they were, should reach the public, for I had no
particular need of money, and certainly no hankering after fame. When
the book was written I doubted whether it would ever find a publisher,
though I determined to try and launch it if possible. My notion was to
offer it to Arrowsmith as a shilling railway volume, under the title
'Lifted Up.' But in the interim, as a kind of test of its merit or
demerit, I sent the MS. to Mr. George Bentley, head of the
long-established and famous Bentley publishing firm. It ran the gauntlet
of his 'readers' first, and they all advised its summary rejection.
Among these 'readers' at that time was Mr. Hall Caine. His strictures on
my work were peculiarly bitter, though, strange to relate, he afterwards
forgot the nature of his own report. For, on being introduced to me at a
ball given by Miss Eastlake, when my name was made and my success
assured, he blandly remarked, before a select circle of interested
auditors, that he 'had had the pleasure of _recommending_' my first book
to Mr. Bentley! Comment on this were needless and unkind: he tells
stories so admirably that I readily excuse him for his 'slip of memory,'
and accept the whole incident as a delightful example of his inventive
faculty.
His severe judgment pronounced upon me, combined with similar, but
perhaps milder, severity on the part of the other 'readers,' had,
however, an unexpected result. Mr. George Bentley, moved by curiosity,
and possibly by compassion for the impending fate of a young woman so
'sat upon' by his selected censors, decided to read my MS. himself.
Happily for me, the consequence of his unprejudiced and impartial
perusal was acceptance; and I still keep the kind and encouraging letter
he wrote to me at the time, informing me of his decision, and stating
the terms of his offer. These terms were, a sum down for one year's
rights, the copyright of the work to remain my own entire property. I
did not then understand what an advantage this retaining of my copyright
in my own possession was to prove to me, financially speaking; but I am
willing to do Mr. Bentley the full justice of supposing that he foresaw
the success of the book; and that, therefore, his action in leaving me
the sole owner of my then very small literary estate redounds very much
to his credit, and is an evident proof amongst many of his manifest
honour and integrity. Of course, the copyright of an unsuccessful book
is valueless; but my 'Romance' was destined to prove a sound investment,
though I never dreamed that it would be so. Glad of my chance of
reaching the public with what I had to say, I gratefully closed with Mr.
Bentley's proposal. He considered the title 'Lifted Up' as lacking
attractiveness; it was therefore discarded, and Mr. Eric Mackay, the
poet, gave the book its present name, 'A Romance of Two Worlds.'
Once published, the career of the 'Romance' became singular, and totally
apart from that of any other so-called 'novel.' It only received four
reviews, all brief and distinctly unfavourable. The one which appeared
in the dignified _Morning Post_ is a fair sample of the rest. I keep it
by me preciously, because it serves as a wholesome tonic to my mind, and
proves to me that when a leading journal can so 'review' a book, one
need fear nothing from the literary knowledge, acumen, or discernment of
reviewers. I quote it _verbatim_: '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.' This was all. No explanation was vouchsafed as to
why my ideas were 'ridiculous,' though such explanation was justly due;
nor did the reviewer state why he (or she) found the 'names' of
characters 'sufficient indications' of dulness, a curious discovery
which I believe is unique. However, the so-called 'critique' did one
good thing; it moved me to sincere laughter, and showed me what I might
expect from the critical brethren in these days--days which can no
longer boast of a Lord Macaulay, a brilliant, if bitter, Jeffrey, or a
generous Sir Walter Scott.
[Illustration: THE DRAWING-ROOM[D]]
To resume: the four 'notices' having been grudgingly bestowed, the Press
'dropped' the 'Romance,' considering, no doubt, that it was 'quashed,'
and would die the usual death of 'women's novels,' as they are
contemptuously called, in the prescribed year. But it did nothing of the
sort. Ignored by the Press, it attracted the public. Letters concerning
it and its theories began to pour in from strangers in all parts of the
United Kingdom; and at the end of its twelvemonth's run in the
circulating libraries Mr. Bentley brought it out in one volume in his
'Favorite' series. Then it started off at full gallop--the 'great
majority' got at it, and, what is more, kept at it. It was 'pirated' in
America; chosen out and liberally paid for by Baron Tauchnitz for the
'Tauchnitz' series; translated into various languages on the Continent,
and became a topic of social discussion. A perfect ocean of
correspondence flowed in upon me from India, Africa, Australia, and
America, and at this very time I count through correspondence a host of
friends in all parts of the world whom I do not suppose I shall ever
see; friends who even carry their enthusiasm so far as to place their
houses at my disposal for a year or two years--and surely the force of
hospitality can no further go! With all these attentions, I began to
find out the advantage my practical publisher had given me in the
retaining of my copyright; my 'royalties' commenced, increased, and
accumulated with every quarter, and at the present moment continue still
to accumulate, so much so, that the 'Romance of Two Worlds' alone, apart
from all my other works, is the source of a very pleasant income. And I
have great satisfaction in knowing that its prolonged success is not due
to any influence save that which is contained within itself. It
certainly has not been helped on by the Press, for since I began my
career six years ago, I have never had a word of open encouragement or
kindness from any leading English critic. The only real 'reviews' I ever
received worthy of the name appeared in the _Spectator_ and the
_Literary World_. The first was on my book 'Ardath: The Story of a Dead
Self,' and in this the over-abundant praise in the beginning was all
smothered by the unmitigated abuse at the end. The second in the
_Literary World_ was eminently generous; it dealt with my last book,
'The Soul of Lilith.' So taken aback was I with surprise at receiving
an all-through kindly, as well as scholarly, criticism from any quarter
of the Press, that, though I knew nothing about the _Literary World_, I
wrote a letter of thanks to my unknown reviewer, begging the editor to
forward it in the right direction. He did so, and my generous critic
turned out to be--a woman--a literary woman, too, fighting a hard fight
herself, who would have had an excuse to 'slate' me as an unrequired
rival in literature had she so chosen, but who, instead of this easy
course, adopted the more difficult path of justice and unselfishness.
[Illustration: THE LIBRARY]
After the 'Romance of Two Worlds' I wrote 'Vendetta;' then followed
'Thelma,' and then 'Ardath: The Story of a Dead Self,' which, among
other purely personal rewards, brought me a charming autograph letter
from the late Lord Tennyson, full of valuable encouragement. Then
followed 'Wormwood: A Drama of Paris'--now in its fifth edition;
'Ardath' and 'Thelma' being in their seventh editions. My publishers
seldom advertise the number of my editions, which is, I suppose, the
reason why the continuous 'run' of the books escapes the Press comment
of the 'great success' supposed to attend various other novels which
only attain to third or fourth editions. 'The Soul of Lilith,' published
only last year, ran through four editions in three-volume form; it is
issued now in one volume by Messrs. Bentley, to whom, however, I have
not offered any new work. A change of publishers is sometimes advisable;
but I have a sincere personal liking for Mr. George Bentley, who is
himself an author of distinct originality and ability, though his
literary gifts are only known to his own private circle. His book of
essays, entitled 'After Business,' is a delightful volume, full of point
and brilliancy, two specially admirable papers being those on Villon and
Carlyle, while it would be difficult to discover a more 'taking' prose
bit than the concluding chapter, 'Under an Old Poplar.'
[Illustration: THE STUDY]
A very foolish and erroneous rumour has of late been circulated
concerning me, asserting that I owe a great measure of my literary
success to the kindly recognition and interest of the Queen. I take the
present opportunity to clear up this perverse misunderstanding. My books
have been running successfully through several editions for six years,
and the much-commented-upon presentation of a complete set of them to
Her Majesty took place only last year. If it were possible to regret the
honour of the Queen's acceptance of these volumes, I should certainly
have cause to do so, as the extraordinary spite and malice that has
since been poured on my unoffending head has shown me a very bad side of
human nature, which I am sorry to have seen. There is very little cause
to envy me in this matter. I have but received the courteously formal
thanks of the Queen and the Empress Frederick, conveyed through the
medium of their ladies-in-waiting, for the special copies of the books
their Majesties were pleased to admire; yet for this simple and quite
ordinary honour I have been subjected to such forms of gratuitous abuse
as I did not think possible to a 'just and noble' English Press. I have
often wondered why I was not equally assailed when the Queen of Italy,
not content with merely 'accepting' a copy of the 'Romance of Two
Worlds,' sent me an autograph portrait of herself, accompanied by a
charming letter, a souvenir which I value, not at all because the sender
is a queen, but because she is a sweet and noble woman whose every
action is marked by grace and unselfishness, and who has deservedly won
the title given her by her people, 'the blessing of Italy.' I repeat, I
owe nothing whatever of my popularity, such as it is, to any 'royal'
notice or favour, though I am naturally glad to have been kindly
recognised and encouraged by those 'thronëd powers' who command the
nation's utmost love and loyalty. But my appeal for a hearing was first
made to the great public, and the public responded; moreover, they do
still respond with so much heartiness and goodwill, 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. I do not entirely believe
the eminent literary authority, inasmuch as I have not always written
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. An
author has quite as much right to characterise angels and saints in his
or her pages as a painter has to depict them on his canvas. And I do not
keep my belief in the supernatural as a sort of special mood to be
entered into on Sundays only; it accompanies me in my daily round, and
helps me along in all my business. But I distinctly wish it to be
understood that I am neither a 'Spiritualist' nor a 'Theosophist.' I am
not a 'strong-minded' woman, with egotistical ideas of a 'mission.' I
have no other supernatural belief than that which is taught by the
Founder of our Faith, and this can never be shaken from me or 'sneered
down.' If critics object to my dealing with this in my books, they are
very welcome to do so; their objections will not turn me from what they
are pleased to consider the error of my ways. I know that unrelieved
naturalism and atheism are much more admired subjects with the critical
faculty; but the public differ from this view. The public, being in the
main healthy-minded and honest, do not care for positivism and
pessimism. They like to believe in something better than themselves;
they like to rest on the ennobling idea that there is a great loving
Maker of this splendid Universe, and they have no lasting affection for
any author whose tendency and teaching is to despise the hope of heaven,
and 'reason away' the existence of God. It is very clever, no doubt, and
very brilliant to deny the Creator; it is as if a monkey should, while
being caged and fed by man, deny man's existence. Such a circumstance
would make us laugh, of course; we should think it uncommonly 'smart' of
the monkey. But we should not take his statement for a fact all the
same.
Of the mechanical part of my work there is little to say. I write every
day from ten in the morning till two in the afternoon, alone and
undisturbed, save for the tinpot tinkling of unmusical neighbours'
pianos, and the perpetual organ-grinding which is freely permitted to
interfere _ad libitum_ with the quiet and comfort of all the patient
brain-workers who pay rent and taxes in this great and glorious
metropolis. 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; and I do not see why my publishers should have to pay
for more printers' errors than the printers themselves make necessary. 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. No one
sees my manuscript before it goes to press, as I am now able to refuse
to submit my work to the judgment of 'readers.' These worthies treated
me roughly in the beginning, but they will never have the chance again.
I correct my proofs myself, though I regret to say my instructions and
revisions are not always followed. In my novel 'Wormwood' I corrected
the French article '_le_ chose' to '_la_ chose' three times, but
apparently the printers preferred their own French, for it is still
'_le_ chose' in the 'Favorite' edition, and the error is stereotyped. In
accordance with the arrangement made by Mr. George Bentley for my first
book, I retain to myself sole possession of all my copyrights, and as
all my novels are successes, the financial results are distinctly
pleasing. America, of course, is always a thorn in the side of an
author. The 'Romance,' 'Vendetta,' 'Thelma' and 'Ardath' were all
'pirated' over there before the passing of the American Copyright Act,
it being apparently out of Messrs. Bentley & Son's line to make even an
attempt to protect my rights. After the Act was passed, I was paid a sum
for 'Wormwood,' and a larger sum for 'The Soul of Lilith,' but, as
everyone knows, the usual honorarium offered by American publishers for
the rights of a successful English novel are totally inadequate to the
sales they are able to command. American critics, however, have been
very good to me. They have at least read my books before starting to
review them, which is a great thing. I have always kept my 'Tauchnitz'
rights, and very pleasant have all my dealings been with the courteous
and generous Baron. All wanderers on the Continent love the 'Tauchnitz'
volumes--their neatness, handy form, and remarkably clear type give them
precedence over every other foreign series. Baron Tauchnitz pays his
authors excellently well, and takes a literary as well as commercial
interest in their fortunes.
[Illustration: FACSIMILE OF MARIE CORELLI'S MS. AS PREPARED FOR THE
PRESS
_A page of the "Romance of Two Worlds"_]
Perhaps one of the pleasantest things connected with my 'success' is the
popularity I have won in many quarters of the Continent without any
exertion on my own part. My name is as well known in Germany as
anywhere, while in Sweden they have been good enough to elect me as
one of their favourite authors, thanks to the admirable translations
made of all my books by Miss Emilie Kullmann, of Stockholm, whose energy
did not desert her even when she had so difficult a task to perform as
the rendering of 'Ardath' into Swedish. In Italy and Spain 'Vendetta,'
translated into the languages of those countries, is popular. Madame
Emma Guarducci-Giaconi is the translator of 'Wormwood' into Italian, and
her almost literal and perfect rendering has been running as the
_feuilleton_ in the Florentine journal, _La Nazione_, under the title
'L'Alcoolismo: Un Dramma di Parigi.' The 'Romance of Two Worlds' is to
be had in Russian, so I am told; and it will shortly be published at
Athens, rendered into modern Greek. While engaged in writing this
article, I have received a letter asking for permission to translate
this same 'Romance' into one of the dialects of North-west India, a
request I shall very readily grant. In its Eastern dress the book will,
I understand, be published at Lucknow. I may here state that I gain no
financial advantage from these numerous translations, nor do I seek any.
Sometimes the translators do not even ask my permission to translate,
but content themselves with sending me a copy of the book when
completed, without any word of explanation.