But many of the social and artistic world’s great personages are among her most frequent guests and correspondents. The numerous letters she has from famous men and women would almost make a journal of contemporary history. Many eminent persons appear to set considerable value on her opinions, judging from the questions they ask of her, and the urgency with which they press for an answer.
During the South African War, representatives of all ranks at the front kept her informed of all that was going on, batches of letters reaching her from “fighting men” who were personally utter strangers to her, and whose names she had never heard. The gallant Lord Dundonald, who has long been a friend of hers, found time to write her one of the first letters that left his pen after he entered Ladysmith. And this kind of general confidence in her friendship runs all along the line. No one who has known her once seems inclined to forget her, while those who have really read her books become her friends without any personal knowledge of her.
At Stratford this celebrated novelist lives a very quiet life. Of course she cannot escape the attentions of the curious, for Fame has its penalties; the Stratford cabmen, taking visitors round the old town, often pull up opposite Mason Croft to allow
Miss Corelli’s Boatman and Punt
their fares to gaze upon the residence of the popular writer. Sometimes her admirers, although absolute strangers, venture to call upon her; but there is an astute and diplomatic butler at Mason Croft who takes very good care that his mistress is not unnecessarily disturbed when she is working.
It is this resolute working of hers that—coupled with her extraordinary gifts—has made the name of Marie Corelli one to conjure with. Week in, week out, she toils at her desk for several hours every morning, and it is by such methods of regularity and application that she has succeeded in writing such long, as well as such successful, novels.
The following sketch, contributed to the Manchester Chronicle last summer by the editor, Mr. J. Cuming Walters, affords a very complete picture of Marie Corelli as she is to-day:—
In the old-world town of Stratford-on-Avon stands an Elizabethan red-brick house, its windowsills brightened with flowers which hang down in profusion and impart gaiety of aspect to the ancient and time-worn edifice. Here, near the Guild Church and the school that Shakespeare knew, in the quietest part of the town, dwells, with her loyal companion and friend, Miss Marie Corelli.