Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Eight Book 22)

by Marie Corelli

  In the spacious marble court of a certain great house in the Avenue Bois de Boulogne, the oppressive sultriness of the night was tempered by the delicious coolness of a fountain in full play which flung a quivering column of snow-white against the darkness and tinkled its falling drops into a bronze basin below with a musical softness as of far-distant sleigh-bells. The court itself was gracefully built after Athenian models, — its [slender Ionic columns supported a domed roof which by daylight would have shown an exquisite sculptured design, but which now was too dimly, perceived for even its height to be guessed.

  Beyond the enclosure stretched the vague outline of a garden which adjoined the Bois, and here there were tall trees and drooping branches that moved mysteriously now and then, as though touched by an invisible finger-tip. Within each corner of the court great marble vases stood, brimming over with growing blossoms, — pale light streaming from an open window or door in the house shed a gleam on some statue of a god or goddess half hidden among flowers, — and here in this cool quietness of stately and beautiful surroundings sat, or rather reclined, Diana, on a cushioned bench, her head turned towards her sole companion, Féodor Dimitrius. He sat in a lounge chair opposite to her, and his dark and brilliant eyes studied her fair features with wistful gravity.

  “I think I have told you all,” he said, speaking in slow, soft tones. “Poor Chauvet’s death was sudden, but from his written instructions I fancy he was not unprepared. He has no relatives, — and he must have found great consolation in making his will in your favour. For he cared very greatly for you, — he told me he had asked you to marry him.”

  Diana moved a little restlessly. As she did so a rosy flash glittered from a great jewel she wore round her neck, — the famous “Eye of Rajuna,” whose tragic history she had heard from Chauvet himself.

  “Yes,” she answered—” That is true. But — I forgot!”

  “You forgot?” he echoed, wonderingly. “You forgot a proposal of marriage? And yet — when you came to me first in Geneva you thought love was enough for everything, — your heart was hungry for love—”

  “When I had a heart — yes!” she said. “But now I have none. And I do not hunger for what does not exist! I am sorry I forgot the kind Professor. But I did, — completely! And that he should have left me all he possessed is almost a punishment!” —

  “You should not regard it as such,” he answered. “It is hardly your fault if you forgot. Your thoughts are, perhaps, elsewhere?” He paused, — but she said nothing. “As I have told you,” he went on, “Chauvet has left you an ample fortune, together with this house and all it contains — its unique library, its pictures and curios, to say nothing of Ms famous collection of jewels, worth many thousands of pounds — and as everything is in perfect order you will have no trouble. Personally, I had no idea he was such a wealthy man.”

  She was still silent, looking at him more or less critically. He felt her eyes upon him, and some impulse stung him into sudden fervour.

  “You look indifferent,” he said, “and no doubt you are indifferent. Your nature now admits of no emotion. But, so far as you are woman, your circumstances are little changed. You are as you were when you first became my ‘subject’— ‘of mature years, and alone in the world without claims on your time or your affections.’ Is it not so?”

  A faint, mysterious smile lifted the corners of her lovely mouth. —

  “It is so!” she answered.

  “You are alone in the world, — alone, alone, alone!” he repeated with a kind of fierce intensity. “Alone! — for I know that neither your father nor your mother recognize you. Am I right or wrong?”

  Still smiling, she bent her head. —

  “Right, of course!” she murmured, with delicate irony. “How could you be wrong!”

  “‘Your own familiar friend will have none of you,” he went on, with almost angry emphasis. “To the world you once knew, you are dead! The man who was your lover — the man who, as you told me, spoilt your life and on whom you seek to be revenged—”

  She lifted one hand with an interrupting gesture.

  “That is finished,” she said. “I seek vengeance no longer. No man is worth it! Besides, I am avenged.” She half rose from her reclining attitude, and he waited for her next word.

  “I am avenged!” she went on, in thrilling accents—” And in a way that satisfies me. My lover that was, — never a true lover at best, — is my lover still — but with such limitations as are torture to a man whose only sense of love is — Desire! My beauty fills him with longing, — the thought of me ravages Ms soul and body — it occupies every thought and every dream! — and with this passion comes the consciousness of age. Age! — the great breakdown! — the end of all for him! — I have willed that he shall feel its numbing approach each day, — that he shall know the time is near when his step shall fail, his sight grow dim, — when the rush of youthful life shall pass Mm by and leave him desolate. Yes! — I am avenged! — he is ‘old enough now to realize that we are better apart! ‘“

  Her eyes glowed like stars, — her whole face was radiant. Dimitrius gazed at her almost sternly.

  “You are pitiless!” he said.

  She laughed.

  “As he was, — yes!”

  And rising to her full height, she stood up like a queen. She wore a robe of dull amber stuff interwoven with threads of gold, — a small circlet of diamonds glittered in her hair, and Chauvet’s historic Eastern jewel, the “Eye of Rajuna,” flamed like fire on her white neck.

  “Féodor Dimitrius,” she said, — and her voice had such a marvellously sweet intonation that he felt it penetrate through every nerve—” You say, and you say rightly, that ‘so far as I am woman’ — my circumstances are not changed from what they were when I first came to you in Geneva. But only ‘so far as I am woman.’ Now — how do you know I am woman at all?”

  He lifted himself in Ms chair, gripping both arms of it with clenched nervous hands. His dark eyes flashed a piercing inquiry into hers.

  “What do you mean?” he half whispered. “What — what would you make me believe?”

  She smiled.

  “Oh, marvellous man of science!” she exclaimed—” Must I teach you your own discovery? You, who have studied and mastered the fusion of light and air with elemental forces and the invisible whirl of electrons with perpetually changing forms, must I, your subject, explain to you what you have done? You have wrested a marvellous secret from Nature — you can unmake and remake the human body, freeing it from all gross substance, — as a sculptor can mould and unmould a statue, — and do you not see that you have made of me a new creature, no longer of mere mortal clay, but of an ethereal matter which has never walked on earth before? — and with which earth has nothing in common? What have such as I to do with such base trifles as human vengeance or love?”

  He sprang up and approached her.

  “Diana,” he said slowly—” If this is true, — and may God be the arbiter! — one thing in your former circumstances is altered — you are not ‘without claims on your time and your affections.’ I claim both! I have made you as you are! — you are mine!”

  She smiled proudly and retreated a step or two.

  “I am no more yours,” she said, “than are the elements of which your science has composed the new and youthful vesture of my unchanging Soul! I admit no claim. When I served you as your ‘subject,’ you were ready to sacrifice my life to your ambition; now when you are witness to the triumph of your ‘experiment,’ you would grasp what you consider as your lawful prize. Self! — all Self! But I have a Self as well — and it is a Self independent of all save its own elements.”

  He caught her hands suddenly.

  “Love is in all elements,” he said. “There would be no world, no universe without love!”

  Her eyes met his as steadily as stars.

  “There is no such thing as Love in all mankind!” she said. “The race is cruel, destructive, murderous. What men c
all love is merely sex-attraction — such as is common to all the animal world. Children are to be born in order that man may be perpetuated. Why, one cannot imagine! His, civilizations perish — he himself is the merest grain of dust in the universe, — unless he learns to subdue his passions and progresses to a higher order of being on this earth, which he never will. All things truly are possible, save man’s own voluntary uplifting. And without this uplifting there is no such thing as Love.”

  He still held her hands.

  “May I not endeavour to reach this height?” he asked, and his voice shook a little. “Have patience with me, Diana! You have beauty, wealth, youth—”

  She interrupted him.

  “You forget! ‘Mature years’ are in my brain and heart, — I am not really young.”

  “You are,” he rejoined—” Younger than you can as yet realize. You see your own outward appearance, but you have had no time yet to test your inward emotions—”

  I have none!” she said.

  He dropped her hands.

  “Not even an angel’s attribute — mercy?”

  A faint sigh stirred her bosom where the great “Eye of Rajuna” shone like a red star.

  “Perhaps!—” she said—” I do not know — it may be possible!”

  * * * * * * * *

  To-day in Paris one of the loveliest women in the world holds undisputed sway as a reigning beauty. The “old,” now the “young” Diana is the envy of her sex and the despair of men. Years pass over her and leave no change in her fair face or radiant eyes, — a creature of light and magnetic force, she lives for the most part the life of a student and recluse, and any entertaining of society in her house is rare, though the men of learning and science who were friends of Professor Chauvet are always welcomed by their adorable hostess, who to them has become a centre of something like worship. So far as she herself is concerned, she is untouched by either admiration or flattery. Each, day finds, her further removed from the temporary joys and sorrows of humanity, and more enwrapt in a strange world of unknown experience to which she seems to belong. She is happy, because she has forgotten all that might have made her otherwise. She feels neither love nor hate: and Féodor Dimitrius, now alone in the world, his mother having passed away suddenly in her sleep, wanders near her, watchfully, but more or less aimlessly, knowing that his beautiful “experiment” has outmastered him, and that in the mysterious force wherewith his science has endowed her, she has gone beyond his power. His “claim” upon her lessens day by day, rendering him helpless to contend with what he imagined he had himself created. The Marchese Farnese, catching a passing glimpse of her in Paris, became so filled with amazement that he spread all sorts of rumours respecting her real “age” and the “magic art” of Dimitrius, none of which were believed, of course, but which added to the mystery surrounding her — though she herself never condescended to notice them. To this day she holds herself apart and invisible to all save those whom she personally chooses to receive. No man can boast of any favour at her hands, — not even Dimitrius. And, — as was said at the beginning of this veracious narrative — there is no end for Diana May. She lives as the light lives, — fair and emotionless, — as all may live who master: the secret of living, — a secret which, though now apparently impregnable, shall yield itself to those, who, before very long, will grasp the Flaming Sword and “take and eat of the fruit of the Tree of Life.” The Sword turns every way — but the blossom is behind the blade. And in this Great Effort neither the love of man nor the love of woman have any part, nor any propagation of an imperfect race, — for those who would reach the goal must relinquish all save the realization of that “new heaven and new earth” of splendid and lasting youth and vitality when “old things are passed away.”

  The Secret Power

  First published in 1921 by Methuen, The Secret Power was advertised in the newspapers as “the most remarkable” of all Corelli’s novels and “It comes on the very top of the wave of the world’s unrest and expresses the thoughts of thousands who lack the skill or courage to speak out” (Yorkshire Post 5 October 1921). Corelli was near the end of her career (she died in 1924) and was keen to move with the times in her style, so the text features fewer lengthy descriptive passages and more dialogue. Much of the interaction between men and women in the novel seems to revolve around the nature of relationships between the two genders (at a time when few could conceive of a more nuanced approach to the subject of gender) and certainly the lead female character, Morgana, seems to embody many of the debates of the times with her complex and powerful personality.

  Unusually for Corelli, this story opens with a somewhat exotic setting compared to her usual focus on Britain and Europe. Roger Seaton, a Englishman of intense demeanour “who has set his soul on science…a man of many philosophies,” is in California at work on his books and papers, when he has an unexpected visitor – millionairess Morgana Royal, the attractive and wilful blonde, with whom he has previously shared an intellectually combative, yet romantic relationship. Morgana is seen by outsiders as “an impossible woman,” — independent of opinions and therefore “not understood of the people.” Her family had migrated to America from the misty highlands of Scotland and Morgana claims to be “fey” – essentially, someone with second sight, almost from another world. Seaton claims to be able to destroy half the world with his science if he wishes to and Morgana is his erstwhile accomplice. Between Seaton’s firm belief that there has to be more to existence than working, reproducing and dying and Morgana’s other-worldliness, the pair are an intriguing combination.

  From California, after a less than satisfactory meeting between Seaton and Morgana, the wealthy woman makes her way to her magnificent home in Sicily. Here, with the assistance of an adoring priest, Don Aloysius, her plans for an amazing machine have come to fruition, creating a device unlike anything that has been seen before. Meanwhile, Seaton meets with an influential friend, the US Senator Gwent and asks him to represent Seaton to the American government, as he feels he has created the ultimate deterrent weapon that can cause such catastrophic mass destruction that it could end war altogether, as no government would dare to use it. Also, if Seaton and Morgana join forces and combine their shocking inventions, who knows what they could achieve — or destroy — together?

  At first, this novel comes across as a typically over-the-top fantasy story, very much of its time. However, many of the subjects still resonate today with anyone interested in world politics. Globalisation, the sociopathic disregard of governments for their citizens, weapons of mass destruction, the placement of power inappropriately in the hands of one individual and the merits or otherwise of science in the service of humankind, are some of the topics highlighted in this gripping novel.

  As usual, the modern reader must take some of the prose in good part. Remarks such as these will certainly irritate most readers: “Women have no business with science” is a good example and “Women are nothing — just necessary for the continuation of the race — no more. They may be beautiful or homely — it’s all one — they serve the same purpose. Without men they are utterly useless.” However, to counterbalance such statements, Morgana is ready with cutting rejoinders about the hideous bestial nature of man’s need to physically conquer women and have them bear their progeny. One might speculate that Corelli is looking here at the future role of women in the post-war years and questioning the pre-war roles of and attitudes towards, women. She herself was a passionate critic of anyone who tried to demean her own success and achievements as an independent woman. If the reader can overcome the usual mild vexations of reading vintage fiction such as this – the literary style, for example – they will be rewarded with an intriguing story, which although written at the end of Corelli’s career, still retains much value today.

  The first edition’s title page

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER I

  CHAPTER II

  CHAPTER III

  CHAPTER IV

 
CHAPTER V

  CHAPTER VI

  CHAPTER VII

  CHAPTER VIII

  CHAPTER IX

  CHAPTER X

  CHAPTER XI

  CHAPTER XII

  CHAPTER XIII

  CHAPTER XIV

  CHAPTER XV

  CHAPTER XVI

  CHAPTER XVII

  CHAPTER XVIII

  CHAPTER XIX

  CHAPTER XX

  CHAPTER XXI

  CHAPTER XXII

  CHAPTER XXIII

  CHAPTER XXIV

  CHAPTER XXV

  CHAPTER XXVI

  L’ENVOI

  CHAPTER I

  A cloud floated slowly above the mountain peak. Vast, fleecy and white as the crested foam of a sea-wave, it sailed through the sky with a divine air of majesty, seeming almost to express a consciousness of its own grandeur. Over a spacious tract of Southern California it extended its snowy canopy, moving from the distant Pacific Ocean across the heights of the Sierra Madre, now and then catching fire at its extreme edge from the sinking sun, which burned like a red brand flung on the roof of a roughly built hut situated on the side of a sloping hollow in one of the smaller hills. The door of the hut stood open; there were a couple of benches on the burnt grass outside, one serving as a table, the other as a chair. Papers and books were neatly piled on the table, — and on the chair, if chair it might be called, a man sat reading. His appearance was not prepossessing at a first glance, though his actual features could hardly be seen, so concealed were they by a heavy growth of beard. In the way of clothing he had little to trouble him. Loose woollen trousers, a white shirt, and a leathern belt to keep the two garments in place, formed his complete outfit, finished off by wide canvas shoes. A thatch of dark hair, thick and ill combed, apparently served all his need of head covering, and he seemed unconscious of, or else indifferent to, the hot glare of the summer sky which was hardly tempered by the long shadow of the floating cloud. At some moments he was absorbed in reading, — at others in writing. Close within his reach was a small note-book in which from time to time he jotted down certain numerals and made rapid calculations, frowning impatiently as though the very act of writing was too slow for the speed of his thought. There was a wonderful silence everywhere, — a silence such as can hardly be comprehended by anyone who has never visited wide-spreading country, over-canopied by large stretches of open sky, and barricaded from the further world by mountain ranges which are like huge walls built by a race of Titans. The dwellers in such regions are few — there is no traffic save the coming and going of occasional pack-mules across the hill tracks — no sign of modern civilisation. Among such deep and solemn solitudes the sight of a living human being is strange and incongruous, yet the man seated outside his hut had an air of ease and satisfied proprietorship not always found with wealthy owners of mansions and park-lands. He was so thoroughly engrossed in his books and papers that he hardly saw, and certainly did not hear, the approach of a woman who came climbing wearily up the edge of the sloping hill against which his cabin presented itself to the view as a sort of fitment, and advanced towards him carrying a tin pail full of milk. This she set down within a yard or so of him, and then, straightening her back, she rested her hands on her hips and drew a long breath. For a minute or two he took no notice of her. She waited. She was a big handsome creature, sun-browned and black-haired, with flashing dark eyes lit by a spark that was not originally caught from heaven. Presently, becoming conscious of her presence, he threw his book aside and looked up.