Marie Corelli: The Writer and the Woman

by Thomas F. G. Coates; R. S. Warren Bell

The keynote of the story—which is, we are assured by its writer, a true one—may be found in an introductory note, which contains the following: “To put it plainly and bluntly, a great majority of the men of the present day want women to keep them.”

Now surely this is an over-statement which will not strengthen Marie Corelli’s case. We grant that a certain number of men marry for money, and that the women they so marry are only too glad to be married on those or any terms; but the social conditions of this era have not become so cankered as to lead the “great majority of men” to seek a livelihood at the altar steps! Would it not be altogether more reasonable to substitute “a certain minority” for “a great majority”? In fairness to the novelist, we must add that her remarks on this subject apply principally to the aristocracy. The worthy lover or husband of the middle classes may therefore breathe again.

Nevertheless, we will venture to present the other aspect of this matter of marrying for money. It is well-known that many a wealthy woman languishes in virgin solitude on account of those very shekels of gold and shekels of silver which she possesseth, while her penniless girl-friends are donning their marital veils and going through the sweet old business of marrying and being given in marriage. This applies to the upper as well as to the lower ranks of society.

Many a man—aye, many a guardsman—would now be a happy Benedict had a certain girl of “once upon a time” been possessed of no riches save the inestimable wealth of a loving heart, no diamonds except those shining in her eyes, no pearls but what one might see when her lips parted in shy smile or merry laughter.

For the average man—be his rank high or low—loves a woman, as the saying is, for herself. While recognizing the value and usefulness of money, while raising no objection should his father-in-law allow the young wife pin-money, the average man who marries in the ordinary way sets little store on what his bride brings him in the shape of earthly dross.

It is, however, incumbent on a writer of contemporary biography to be in the main courteous and commendatory, else we might apply a harsher criticism to “The Murder of Delicia” than a mere statement to the effect that this book is the least worthy of all the books Marie Corelli has written. It is far too full of railing against men; it is far too one-sided and far too bitter. Granted that a novelist must put his or her case strongly, in order to drive conviction home to the reader’s mind—granted this, it must be at the same time pointed out that there are generally two sides to every question. Given that a certain number of men marry for money—for money and nothing else—it must be recollected that there are at the present moment thousands of Englishwomen devoting whatever powers of mental arithmetic they may be endowed with to reckoning up exactly what pecuniary advantages shall accrue to them if they marry Jack Jones, or, failing Jack Jones, John Smith! And a cross-Channel père de famille would tell you that they are quite right to do this, that, indeed, if they were his daughters, he would do it for them, and have the whole thing put down in black and white at a notary’s office.

But—thank heaven!—we are a little more sentimental on this side of the narrow strip of silver sea. We still believe in the love marriage, and so an approving Dame Nature gives us healthy sons and daughters for the regular renewal of the nation’s strength. Whereas in la belle France, with her businesslike matrimonial alliances, they have to offer prizes for babies! Truly a pathetic endeavor to stem a national decay!

“The Murder of Delicia” is a short story, soon told. Lord Carlyon takes a strong fancy to Delicia Vaughan, the popular and beautiful lady-novelist, and his liking is returned tenfold. They marry, and Delicia supplies him with money for his clothes, club expenses, cabs, and card games. Were it not that we are aware that even the wisest of women may, in spite of their wisdom, love unwisely, we should marvel at a woman of Delicia Vaughan’s intellectual gifts (which were coupled, we may presume, with the keen insight into human nature that a novelist should possess) marrying a man of the Lord Carlyon type—a big, handsome animal, whose conversation must have afforded her very little entertainment. She loved him because to her (to quote the book) he was a “strong, splendid, bold, athletic, masterful creature who was hers—hers only!” Is it possible that a woman of Delicia Vaughan’s alleged intelligence would have fallen so completely in love with a man who “was absolutely devoid of all ambition, save a desire to have his surname pronounced correctly”? Truly, a dull dog—yet Delicia worshiped him. She disregarded the apostolic command to little children not to take unto themselves idols. She doted on this man of inches. She housed and fed him, pampered him, showered money on him, and he repaid her by indulging in a low intrigue with a music-hall dancer.

Marie Corelli almost laughs at her heroine. But, even while the smile hovers on her lips, she explains poor Delicia’s phantasy. It was “the rare and beautiful blindness of perfect love”—squandered on an entirely worthless object. And this is quite a true touch, for even lady-novelists are only human.

Delicia had to pay the penalty of her passion. Her eyes were opened all in good time, and from showering the wealth of her hand and all the treasures of her heart upon Carlyon, she came, in the end, to threatening him with a revolver when he would have healed their differences with a kiss.