Clark Russell is captain on his own deck, whether he sail a coffin or a princely Indiaman of the old time. Sir Walter Besant is lord of his own East End, and of that innocent seraglio of delightful and eccentric young ladies to which he has been adding for years past Sir Walter Besant is chiefly remarkable as an example of what may be done by a steadfast cheerfulness in style. His creed has always been that fiction is a recreative art, and we have no better sample of a manly and stout-hearted optimist than he. He is optimistic of set purpose, and sometimes his cheerfulness costs him a struggle, for he is tender-hearted and clear-sighted, and he is the Columbus of ‘the great joyless city’ of the East. He has had a double aim—to keep his work recreative and to make it useful. In one respect he has been curiously happy, for he once dreamt aloud a beautiful dream, and has lived to find it a reality. It was his own bright hope which built the People’s Palace, and a man might rest on that with ample satisfaction.
He has given us many well-studied types of character, but he excels in the portraiture of the manly young man and the lovable young woman. In this regard I find him at his apogee with Phyllis Fleming and Jack Dunquerque, who are both frankly alive and charming. He is good, too, at the portraiture of a humbug, and finds a humorous delight in him, very much as Dickens did. There is more than a touch of Dickens in his method, and in his way of seeing people, and, most of all, in the warm-hearted cheer he keeps.
It is outside the purpose of this series to dwell on anything but the literary value of the works of the people dealt with; but little apology, after all, is needed for a side-glance at the work which Sir Walter Besant has done for men of letters. He has worked hard at the vexed and difficult question of copyright; he has founded an Authors’ Club and an authors’ newspaper; and he has devoted with marked unselfishness much valuable time and effort to the general well-being of the craft. He has stood out stoutly for the State recognition of authorship, and in his own person he has received it. Esprit de corps is a capital thing in its way. Whether it is well to have too much of it in a body of men who hold the power of the Press largely in their own hands, whilst at the same time publicity is the breath of their nostrils, is perhaps an open question. But of Sir Walter Besant’s single-mindedness in this voluntary work there is no shadow of doubt. Remembering his popularity with the public, and the price he can command for his work, it is evident that he has expended in the pursuit of his ideal time which would have been worth some thousands of pounds to him. He has striven in all ways to do honour to letters, and the esteem in which he is held is a just payment for high purpose and unselfish labour.
XI.—MISS MARIE CORELLI
In an article intended for this series and set under this lady’s name (an article now suppressed, and therefore to be re-written), I fell into an error which appears to have been shared by several of the critics who dealt with what was then the latest of her books, ‘The Sorrows of Satan,’ I assumed Miss Corelli to have drawn her own portrait, as she sees things, in the character of ‘Mavis Clare.’ This belief has been expressed—so it turns out—by other people, and I learn that Miss Corelli has authoritatively denied it ‘She objects very strongly,’ so says an inspired defender, ‘to a notion which was started by one of the most distinguished of her interviewers, and absolutely denies the assertion that she described herself as “Mavis Clare” in “The Sorrows of Satan.”’ Miss Corelli, of course, knows the truth about this matter, and nobody else can possibly know it, but it is at least permissible to examine the evidence which led many separate people to the same false conclusion. ‘Mavis Clare’ and Marie Corelli own the same initials, and until the fact that this was a mere fortuitous chance was made clear by Miss Corelli herself it seemed natural to suppose that an identity was coyly hinted at. ‘Mavis Clare’ is a novelist, and so is Miss Corelli. ‘Mavis Clare’ is mignonne and fair, ‘is pretty, and knows how to dress besides,’ is a ‘most independent creature, too; quite indifferent to opinions,’ All these things, as we learn from many sources, are true of Miss Corelli also. It is said of Miss Corelli herself that ‘dauntless courage, a clear head, and a tremendous power of working hard without hurting herself have helped her to make a successful use of her great gift. She is not afraid of anything. She “insists on herself,” and is unique,’ It is to be noted that all this is said by Miss Corelli of ‘Mavis Clare,’ Miss Corelli is at war with the reviewers. So is ‘Mavis Clare,’ Miss Corelli’s books circulate by the thousand. So do ‘Mavis Clare’s.’ ‘Mavis Clare’ is utterly indifferent to outside opinion. So is Miss Corelli. In point of fact, if anybody thought Miss Corelli a woman of astonishing genius, and wrote an honest account of her, he would describe her precisely as Miss Corelli has described ‘Mavis Clare.’
There is, in fact, a point up to which ‘Mavis Clare’ and Miss Corelli are not to be separated. There are a score of things in any description of the one which are indubitably true of the other. But when Miss Corelli writes of ‘Mavis Clare’ in such terms as are now to be quoted we begin to see that she is and must be indignant at the supposition that she is still writing of herself: ‘She is too popular to need reviews. Besides, a large number of the critics—the “log-rollers” especially—are mad against her for her success, and the public know it. Clearness of thought, brilliancy of style, beauty of diction—all these are hers, united to consummate ease of expression and artistic skill. The potent, resistless, unpurchasable quality of Genius. She wrote what she had to say with a gracious charm, freedom, and innate consciousness of strength. She won fame without the aid of money, and was crowned so brightly and visibly before the world that she was beyond criticism.’
But is it not just within the bounds of possibility that Miss Corelli began with some idea of depicting herself, and, discarding that idea, took too little care to obliterate resemblances? Even here she trenches too closely upon the truth to escape the calumnious supposition that she is writing of herself. She is too popular to need reviews. She is at war with the critics, and she has induced a very large portion of the public to believe that ‘a number of the critics—the “log-rollers” especially—are mad against her for her success.’
Were I, the present writer, to invent a fictional character, to give him for the initials of his name the letters D. C. M., to describe him as awkward and burly, with an untidy head of grey hair, to make him a novelist, a Bohemian and a wanderer, and then to paint him as a man of genius and an astonishing fine fellow, I should expect to be told that I had been guilty of a grave insolence. If I could honestly say that the resemblances had never struck me, and that the egregious vanity of the picture was a wholly imaginary thing, I should, of course, desire to be believed, and I should, of course, deserve to be believed. But I should encounter doubt, and I should not be disposed to wonder at it. If I were annoyed with anybody I should be annoyed with myself for having given such a handle to the world’s ill-nature.
Accepting Miss Corelli’s disclaimer, one is still forced to the conclusion that she has fallen into a serious indiscretion.