In the Review of Reviews it was stated: “A leading figure in ‘The Sorrows of Satan’ is none other than the authoress herself, Marie Corelli, who, like Lucifer, the Son of Morning, also appears under a disguise. But it is a disguise so transparent that the wayfaring man, though a fool, could not fail in identifying it. Mavis Clare, whose initials it may be remarked[B] are the same as those of the authoress, represents Marie Corelli’s ideal of what she would like to be, but isn’t; what in her more exalted moments she imagines herself to be. It is somewhat touching to see this attempt at self-portraiture.” The suggestion thus put forward, that Mavis Clare was a deliberate portrait of Miss Marie Corelli, was at once accepted by the public—be it said to the credit of the public, who, having read her books, must have been instilled with the accurate idea that the talented author must be good and true, like Mavis Clare. Color was naturally lent to the suggestion of her deliberate self-portraiture by the similarity of the initials, and also of the circumstances of Miss Corelli and the lady of the story.
Nothing, however, was further from Miss Corelli’s thoughts or intentions than this, and the similarity of the initials was purely accidental. The name was written in the manuscript and appeared in the proofs as “Mavis Dare” and not Mavis Clare. Not only just before the book went to press, but actually whilst it was in the press, the second name was suddenly altered, because it was pointed out to Miss Corelli that the name was so very like the “Avice Dare” of another writer. When these facts were brought to Mr. Stead’s notice he did Miss Corelli the justice to apologize for the statement which had been made in the Review of Reviews.
It is Lady Sibyl who suddenly and violently breaks the thin wall between Tempest’s desire to marry her and the formal request that she shall become his wife. She, with just enough glimmering of honor to detest the “marriage by arrangement,” informs him of her knowledge that her charms are for sale and that he, Tempest, is to be the accepted purchaser. Her language is plain enough in very truth to demonstrate the hideousness of the bargain, for this is the picture of the bride-to-be that she herself draws for the edification of her future husband:
“I ask you, do you think a girl can read the books that are now freely published, and that her silly society friends tell her to read,—‘because it is so dreadfully queer!’—and yet remain unspoilt and innocent? Books that go into the details of the lives of outcasts?—that explain and analyze the secret vices of men?—that advocate almost as a sacred duty ‘free love’ and universal polygamy?—that see no shame in introducing into the circles of good wives and pure-minded girls, a heroine who boldly seeks out a man, any man, in order that she may have a child by him, without the ‘degradation’ of marrying him? I have read all those books, and what can you expect of me? Not innocence, surely! I despise men,—I despise my own sex,—I loathe myself for being a woman! You wonder at my fanaticism for Mavis Clare,—it is only because for a time her books give me back my self-respect, and make me see humanity in a nobler light,—because she restores to me, if only for an hour, a kind of glimmering belief in God, so that my mind feels refreshed and cleansed. All the same, you must not look upon me as an innocent young girl, Geoffrey, a girl such as the great poets idealized and sang of. I am a contaminated creature, trained to perfection in the lax morals and prurient literature of my day.”
The unholy wedding of the selfish millionaire and Lady Sibyl Elton takes place. Prince Rimânez acts as master of the ceremonies, and calls to his aid a devil’s own army of imps who work marvelous musical and picturesque effects—their identification as creatures of hell being, of course, hidden. Even thunder and lightning are called down to add to the remarkable scene. And so the marriage bargain is completed. Disillusionment quickly follows, and we find the husband and wife mutually disgusted with one another, and on the verge of hate. Lady Sibyl, however, finds passion at last, passion for the husband’s friend, Lucio Rimânez, Prince of Darkness.
To such an extent does this fever of love possess her that she seeks out Rimânez one night and declares her love, only to be scorned by him:
“I know you love me,” (is his retort); “I have always known it! Your vampire soul leaped to mine at the first glance I ever gave you.” And he rejects her pleadings. “For you corrupt the world,—you turn good to evil,—you deepen folly into crime,—with the seduction of your nude limbs and lying eyes you make fools, cowards, and beasts of men!” There is no limit to the degradation of this evil wife. “Since you love me so well,” he said, “kneel down and worship me!”
She falls upon her knees. And the scene thus continues:
“With every pulse of my being I worship you!” she murmured passionately. “My king! my god! The cruel things you say but deepen my love for you; you can kill, but you can never change me! For one kiss of your lips I would die,—for one embrace from you I would give my soul!...”
“Have you one to give?” he asked derisively. “Is it not already disposed of? You should make sure of that first! Stay where you are and let me look at you! So!—a woman, wearing a husband’s name, holding a husband’s honor, clothed in the very garments purchased with a husband’s money, and newly risen from a husband’s side, steals forth thus in the night, seeking to disgrace him and pollute herself by the vulgarest unchastity! And this is all that the culture and training of nineteenth-century civilization can do for you? Myself, I prefer the barbaric fashion of old times, when rough savages fought for their women as they fought for their cattle, treated them as cattle, and kept them in their place, never dreaming of endowing them with such strong virtues as truth and honor! If women were pure and true, then the lost happiness of the world might return to it, but the majority of them are like you—liars—ever pretending to be what they are not. I may do what I choose with you, you say? torture you, kill you, brand you with the name of outcast in the public sight, and curse you before Heaven, if I will only love you! All this is melodramatic speech, and I never cared for melodrama at any time. I shall neither kill you, brand you, curse you, nor love you; I shall simply—call your husband!”