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!”