“Thelma” is, in truth, for some considerable way through its numerous pages, a very pretty story: by many readers, as has been said, it is counted Miss Corelli’s best achievement, albeit the authoress, in her heart of hearts, sets “Ardath” above everything that has come from her pen.
“Thelma” is quaintly unorthodox from its very start, for the two principal characters meet each other in the unconventional manner so dear to the heart of the romance-lover. A wave-lapped beach, at midnight, in the Land of the Midnight Sun—a handsome English aristocrat—a wonderful maid, who can claim direct descent from the old Vikings—some slight assistance required in the launching of a boat—are not these particulars sufficient to whet the appetite for what is bound to follow? Favored by circumstances, this chance meeting ripens into a full-fledged friendship, whence to a wooing and a wedding is no far cry in the hands of a skilful novelist.
The main theme of the story, of course, is English society as viewed by a girl who, though naturally refined and carefully educated, is, as regards the world and its ways, a child. Thelma, having become Lady Bruce-Errington, is gradually introduced to her husband’s social equals, the result being as diverting as it is pathetic; for she has to go through a process of disillusionment whereby she learns with no little pain that an invitation to dinner is not necessarily a genuine expression of regard any more than a woman’s kiss betokens the slightest affection or even liking for the woman upon whom it is bestowed.
Having imbibed all the accomplishments of the schoolroom, Thelma finds that the vanity of the world is a study which brings much bitterness of soul in the mastering. At first the young bride’s astonishing frankness is taken for a supreme effort of art; then, when the truth dawns upon her associates, her success in society advances by leaps and bounds, and she becomes what is called “the rage.” Naturally her large nature soon sickens of such adulation, and induces a strange weariness which gives place to blank despair and unutterable misery when the machinations of certain evily-disposed persons lead her to believe that her husband has bestowed his affections upon a burlesque actress. So great is her selflessness that the poor girl makes excuses for her husband’s (alleged) infidelity, and actually blames herself for not having proved sufficiently fascinating to keep him by her side. In bitter weather she quietly leaves London—bound for home. She crosses the rough seas in a cargo-boat, and arrives in Norway to find that her father is just dead. Her husband follows her by a perilous route, and, surviving the many dangers of the journey, gains her bedside in time to save her life and reason. And thereafter all is well.
In a book containing six hundred and fifteen closely-printed pages, there must of necessity be a long roll of characters. It is often the case that characters, increasing in number as a book progresses in the writing, demand more and more space for their exploitation. Hence such voluminous works as “Thelma.” In the first part of the novel the persons introduced are mainly of the bachelor kind, and, though useful in filling chairs at the literary repast, are not absolutely necessary to the plot’s working. In Book II.—“The Land of Mockery”—a new set of people is introduced, society people mostly, and their servants. In Book III.—“The Land of the Long Shadow”—the reader is taken to Norway in the winter, the novelist appropriately and strikingly making Nature’s moods harmonize with those of her pen-and-ink creations.
Miss Corelli lays on her colors with an unsparing brush—there is nothing half-and-half in her characterization. There are four “principals” in this play. Lady Winsleigh, as opposed to Thelma, fills a rôle full of wrongful possibilities in that she portrays “a woman scorned,” than whom, as we are asked to believe, Hell hath no fury whose malevolence is of a worse description. Sir Francis Lennox is, in wrong-doing, her masculine counterpart; and to balance him we have Thelma’s husband, an excellent fellow who makes a fool of himself in a truly bewildering manner. His behavior in endeavoring to bring about a reconciliation between his secretary and his secretary’s wife—the actress already referred to—is the weak spot in the book.
Much, however, that displeases the critical sense—which is fortunately not the predominating mental attribute of the novel-reading public—is obliterated by Thelma’s womanliness and attractively gentle nature. She is born to love and to suffer, and still to love, without murmur or reproach, “for better for worse, for richer for poorer,” the husband of her heart’s choice. She is a human flower, well pictured by the lines from Rossetti quoted by the authoress:
“Sweet hands, sweet hair, sweet cheeks, sweet eyes, sweet mouth
Each singly wooed and won!”
CHAPTER V
“ARDATH”—THE STORY OF A DEAD SELF—THE WONDERFUL CITY OF AL-KYRIS—THE MISSION OF THE BOOK
In no work produced by her busy pen has Miss Corelli given such range to her imagination, to her love of the beautiful and fantastic, as in “Ardath.” This, her fourth book, abounds in wonderful accounts of a strange people in a strange place. When she sets a scene of barbaric splendor in the city of Al-Kyris, she reaches great descriptive heights; she tells, indeed, a tale of beauty, of horror, and of extraordinary amours, whose like can nowhere be found, look where you will. “Ardath” stands alone—a prose poem and a startlingly vivid narrative in one. “I have read it,” wrote Mr. Bentley (referring to the work in manuscript form), “with wonder that one small head could hold it all.”