MARIE CORELLI’S CHILDHOOD--EARLY INFLUENCES--LITERARY BEGINNINGS--THE
MACKAYS--FATHER AND SON
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:
“Thou art a bee, a bright, a golden thing
With too much honey; and the taste thereof
Is sometimes rough, and somewhat of a sting
Dwells in the music that we hear thee sing.”
Again, there are such pretty fancies as:
“Phœbus loosens all his golden hair
Right down the sky--and daisies turn and stare
At things we see not with our human wit,”
and
“A tuneful noise
Broke from the copse where late a breeze was slain,
And nightingales in ecstasy of pain
Did break their hearts with singing the old joys.”
There are scores of passages like these. The great gifts displayed in
the volume certainly afforded some justification a few years afterwards
for the strenuous efforts which Marie Corelli made to get her
stepbrother made Poet Laureate.
The “Love-Letters of a Violinist,” great as was their success as poems,
did not prove lucrative. Miss Corelli had provided for the first issue;
afterwards Mr. Eric Mackay made a free gift of the book to the
publishers of the Canterbury Poets series. The sales have since been
considerable, but the arrangement made by Mr. Mackay was one which, of
course, did not benefit him financially.
Shortly after the publication of “The Love-Letters of a Violinist,”
there were serious developments in Dr. Charles Mackay’s illness. He was
stricken down with paralysis, and the pinch of poverty was being felt,
for there was very little coming into the home. Marie Corelli had now a
great responsibility upon her young shoulders. The completion of her
musical training it was impossible to afford. What should she do? She
determined to try to write a novel. More articles and essays were
contributed anonymously to newspapers and magazines; and, meanwhile, the
plan of “A Romance of Two Worlds” had been prepared and the book was
being written. Finally it was submitted to and accepted by a great
publisher, who came to see Miss Corelli, and stared with amazement to
find that the young lady to whom he was introduced as the author was a
personal friend of his. Yet so it was, and the story of the publication
and reception of the book is instructive.