For this rea- son Corelli objects to Decadence and naturalism. She has never experienced a fall, and seems to have been invested with her power of genius through divine intervention rather than by a process of growth and suffering over time. The author as saint functions as a picture of the ideal self on which individuals attempting to cultivate their own spiritual development might meditate for inspiration. No other woman should be my wife … she, and she only should be mine!
Had she been domesti- cated she might have been as harmless as her foreign contemporaries. As it is she stands alone, and the woman who has lost her womanliness is diseased. Finally, Rimanez casts off his disguise and appears before Tempest as Lucifer.
He awakens to find he has lost all his fortune and must now live as a poor man. He has learned to revere the holy authoress and regard her not as a sexual partner but as a model of exemplary living: I now took a humble room and set to work on a new literary enterprise, avoiding everyone.
And I? I rejoiced! Indeed, his new ability to recognize the superiority of the truly heroic female author safeguards him from a relapse of egotism. Those who think themselves the figureheads of the nation—cabinet ministers—are literally depicted as in league with the devil, and at the end of The Sorrows of Satan the noble and heroic woman authoress is confirmed as true spiritual leader of the nation. Of course, from another perspective this is not freedom at all, and authors from Matthew Arnold to Henry James would regard this as unreflective bondage to a dogmatic ideology.
Critics such as Mary Poovey, D. Miller, and Franco Moretti have pointed to the ways in which the Victorian novel instructs readers by offering characters as models of identification. To point to the highest aims of life, the best, the greatest things; to rise clear out of the darkness and point straight to the sunshine! For, if so uplifted, the Power of the Pen be- comes truly invincible. So she ought to be—a fairy stirring up the world with a wand dipped in ink.
Notes 1. For Carlyle, only certain individuals are gifted with a special degree of vision. And now, what is it that can keep all these together into virtually one Nation.
This King Shakespeare, does not he shine, in crowned sovereignty, over us all, as the noblest, gentlest, yet strongest of rallying-signs; indestructible; really more valuable in that point of view than any other means or appliance whatsoever?
The third is a letter of introduction from a foreign aristocrat called Lucio, who befriends him and proceeds to be his guide in how best to use his newfound wealth. Tempest remains blissfully unaware, despite warnings from people he meets, that Lucio is the earthly incarnation of the Devil.
When the Devil arrives in fin de siecle London in the form of the handsome and charming Prince Lucio Rimanez, his work promises to be easy. After all, in a world where science and materialism have replaced a belief in God, who will suspect Lucio of being Satan in disguise?
Lucio sets his sights on Geoffrey Tempest, a starving novelist who has just inherited a fortune, and promises to guide him to power and fame. As the tragic story of Geoffrey's meteoric rise and fall unfolds, Marie Corelli lays bare the hypocrisy, immorality, and irreligiousness of modern life, satire which is as fresh and relevant today as ever. And on another level it is a savage and bitter riposte to her critics, who had vilified her previous novel, "Barabbas" Marie Corelli was one of the most popular and best-selling novelists of the late Victorian period, her books selling in the millions of copies worldwide.
Although she saw herself as a female Shakespeare, critics have tended largely to dismiss her as a popular hack. This new edition of her most powerful novel allows twenty-first century readers to rediscover and reevaluate this fascinating writer. The Valancourt Books edition of "The Sorrows of Satan" includes the unabridged text of the first edition as well as a new introduction and notes by Julia Kuehn and an appendix containing rare contemporary reviews of Corelli's works.
It is widely regarded as one of the world's first best-sellers — partly due to an upheaval in the system British libraries used to purchase their books citation needed, and partly due to its popular appeal.
Or could this startling, this stupendous piece of information be really true? Because,—if indeed it were true, If it were true—why then the world was mine! The larger bulk of the cash is lodged in the Bank of England, and a considerable amount is placed in French government securities. We should prefer going into further details with you personally rather than by letter. Five Millions! I tried to grasp the astounding fact,—for fact it evidently was,—but could not.
It seemed to me a wild delusion, born of the dizzy vagueness which lack of food engendered in my brain. I stared round the room;—the mean miserable furniture,—the fireless grate,—the dirty lamp,—the low truckle bedstead,—the evidences of penury and want on every side;—and then,—then the overwhelming contrast between the poverty that environed me and the news I had just received, struck me as the wildest, most ridiculous incongruity I had ever heard of or imagined,—and I gave vent to a shout of laughter.
Good God! I, of all men in the world to be suddenly chosen out for this luck! By Heaven! And I laughed loudly again; laughed just as I had previously sworn, simply by way of relief to my feelings. Some one laughed in answer,—a laugh that seemed to echo mine. I checked myself abruptly, somewhat startled, and listened. Rain poured outside, and the wind shrieked like a petulant shrew,—the violinist next door was practising a brilliant roulade up and down his instrument,—but there were no other sounds than these.
Poor Boffles! You shall have your loan back as promptly as you sent it, with an extra fifty added by way of interest for your generosity. I want neither assistance nor advice nor patronage,—I can buy them all!
Titles, honours, possessions,—they are all purchaseable,—love, friendship, position,—they are all for sale in this admirably commercial age and go to the highest bidder!
By my soul! He will scarcely have more than five millions to waste, I warrant! And now for supper,—I shall have to live on credit till I get some ready cash,—and there is no reason why I should not leave this wretched hole at once, and go to one of the best hotels and swagger it!
I was about to leave the room on the swift impulse of excitement and joy, when a fresh and violent gust of wind roared down the chimney, bringing with it a shower of soot which fell in a black heap on my rejected manuscript where it lay forgotten on the floor, as I had despairingly thrown it.
I hastily picked it up and shook it free from the noisome dirt, wondering as I did so, what would be its fate now? I smiled as I thought of the vengeance I would take on all those who had scorned and slighted me and my labour,—how they should cower before me!
Every stiff and stubborn neck should bend before me;—this I resolved upon; for though money does not always conquer everything, it only fails when it is money apart from brains. Brains and money together can move the world,—brains can very frequently do this alone without money, of which serious and proved fact those who have no brains should beware!
I took it up and turned it over with an odd sense of reluctance in my fingers, which were slow at the work of tearing the thick envelope asunder. Drawing out an equally thick small sheet of notepaper also coroneted, I read the following lines written in an admirably legible, small and picturesque hand. I am the bearer of a letter of introduction to you from your former college companion Mr John Carrington, now of Melbourne, who has been good enough to thus give me the means of making the acquaintance of one, who, I understand, is more than exceptionally endowed with the gift of literary genius.
I enclose my card, and present address, and beg to remain,. The card mentioned dropped on the table as I finished reading the note. It bore a small, exquisitely engraved coronet and the words. I read the brief letter through again,—it was simple enough,—expressed with clearness and civility. There was nothing remarkable about it,—nothing whatever; yet it [p 16 ] seemed to me surcharged with meaning.
Why, I could not imagine. A curious fascination kept my eyes fastened on the characteristic bold handwriting, and made me fancy I should like the man who penned it. How the wind roared!
My brain swam and my heart ached heavily,—the drip drip of the rain outside sounded like the stealthy footfall of some secret spy upon my movements. I grew irritable and nervous,—a foreboding of evil somehow darkened the bright consciousness of my sudden good fortune. Then an impulse of shame possessed me,—shame that this foreign prince, if such he were, with limitless wealth at his back, should be coming to visit me,— me , now a millionaire,—in my present wretched lodging.
Already, before I had touched my riches, I was tainted by the miserable vulgarity of seeking to pretend I had never been really poor, but only embarrassed by a little temporary difficulty! If I had had a sixpence about me, which I had not I should have sent a telegram to my approaching visitor to put him off. As I spoke, the flickering lamp gave a dismal crackle and went out, leaving me in pitch darkness.
Surrounded by black gloom, I paused and listened. The door opened,—and from the dense obscurity enshrouding me I could just perceive a tall shadowy figure standing on the threshold. The lamp must have gone out!
She hurried away, and though I knew that of course I ought to speak, a singular and quite inexplicable perversity of humour kept me silent and unwilling to declare my presence. Meanwhile the tall stranger advanced a pace or two, and a rich voice with a ring of ironical amusement in it called me by my name—.
Why could I not answer? The strangest and most unnatural obstinacy stiffened my tongue,—and, concealed in the gloom of my forlorn literary den I still held my peace. The [p 19 ] majestic figure drew nearer, till in height and breadth it seemed to suddenly overshadow me; and once again the voice called—. You see I am perfectly frank! Briefly, and without courtesy, you resent my visit this evening and wish I had not come!
This open declaration of my mood sounded so brusque that I made haste to deny it, though I knew it to be true. Truth, even in trifles, always seems unpleasant! I at once extended my hand, and it was instantly clasped in a warm and somewhat masterful manner. I am myself an average good height, but he was fully half a head taller than I, if not more than that,—and as I looked straightly at him, I thought I had never seen so much beauty and intellectuality combined in the outward personality of any human being.
The finely shaped head denoted both power and wisdom, and was nobly poised on such shoulders as might have befitted a Hercules,—the countenance was a pure oval, and singularly pale, this complexion intensifying the almost fiery brilliancy of the full dark eyes, which had in them a curious and wonderfully attractive look of mingled mirth and misery. The mouth was perhaps the most telling feature in this remarkable face,—set in the perfect curve of beauty, it was yet firm, determined, and not too small, thus escaping effeminacy,—and I noted that in repose it expressed bitterness, disdain and even cruelty.
But with the light of a smile upon it, it signified, or seemed to signify, something more subtle than any passion to which we can give a name, and already with the rapidity of a lightning flash, I caught myself wondering what that mystic undeclared something might be. And now face to face with him in the bright lamp-light, I remembered my actual surroundings,—the bare cold room, the lack of fire, the black soot that sprinkled the nearly carpetless floor,—my own shabby clothes and deplorable aspect, as compared with this regal-looking individual, who carried the visible evidence of wealth upon him in the superb Russian sables that lined and bordered his long overcoat which he now partially unfastened and threw open with a carelessly imperial air, the while he regarded me, smiling.
It is my peculiar misfortune. He took a chair and seated himself. I observed his handsome face and easy attitude with renewed admiration. But the fact is—— well!
I had expected to see quite an old man And I broke off, somewhat embarrassed by the keen glance of the brilliant eyes that met mine so fixedly. One does not talk of age at all now in polite society,—it is ill-bred, even coarse. Indecent things are unmentionable—age has become an indecent thing. It is therefore avoided in conversation. You expected to see an old man you say? Well, you are not disappointed—I am old.
In fact you have no idea how very old I am! But come, read the introductory missive I have brought you,—I shall not be satisfied till you do. You, as a student and lover of ancient history, will be interested to know that his ancestors were originally princes of Chaldea, who afterwards settled in Tyre,—from thence they went to Etruria and there continued through many centuries, the last scion of the house being the very gifted and genial personage who, as my good friend, I have the pleasure of commending to your kindest regard.
Certain troublous and overpowering circumstances have forced him into exile from his native province, and deprived him of a great part of his possessions, so that he is, to a considerable extent a wanderer on the face of the earth, and has travelled far and seen much, and has a wide experience of men and things. He is a poet and musician of great skill, and though he occupies himself with the arts solely for his own amusement, I think you will find his practical knowledge of literary matters eminently useful to you in your difficult career.
I must not forget to add that in all matters scientific he is an absolute master. Wishing you both a cordial friendship, I am, dear Geoffrey,. John Carrington. There seemed to be something formal and stiff in the letter, almost as if it had been written to dictation, and under pressure. What gave me this idea I know not. I glanced furtively at my silent companion,—he caught my stray look and returned it with a curiously grave fixity. Fearing lest my momentary vague distrust of him had been reflected in my eyes I made haste to speak—.
Meanwhile the prince waived aside my remarks with a light gesture of his hand. Genius thrives in a garret and dies in a palace,—is not that the generally accepted theory? There is an all-wise Providence in this, my dear sir! Schubert perished of want,—but see what large profits all the music-publishers have made since out of his compositions! It is a most beautiful dispensation of nature,—that honest folk should be sacrificed in order to provide for the sustenance of knaves!
He laughed, and I looked at him in a little surprise. His remark touched so near my own opinions that I wondered whether he were in jest or earnest. The devil drives the world, whip in hand,—and oddly enough, considering that some belated folk still fancy there is a God somewhere succeeds [p 24 ] in managing his team with extraordinary ease!
I am here to make friends with you if you permit,—and to put an end to ceremony, will you accompany me back to my hotel where I have ordered supper?
By this time I had become indescribably fascinated by his easy manner, handsome presence and mellifluous voice,—the satirical turn of his humour suited mine,—I felt we should get on well together,—and my first annoyance at being discovered by him in such poverty-stricken circumstances somewhat abated. You have heard a good deal about my affairs from my friend John Carrington, and I know from his private letter to me that you have come here out of pure kindness and goodwill.
For that generous intention I thank you! I know you expected to find a poor wretch of a literary man struggling with the direst circumstances of disappointment and poverty,—and a couple of hours ago you would have amply fulfilled that expectation.
But now, things have changed,—I have received news which completely alters my position,—in fact I have had a very great and remarkable surprise this evening Though of course this wealth which seems to content [p 25 ] you, to me appears a mere trifle. It can be quite conveniently run through and exhausted in about eight years or less, therefore it does not provide absolute immunity from care.
To be rich, really rich, in my sense of the word, one should have about a million a year. Then one might reasonably hope to escape the workhouse! He laughed,—and I stared at him stupidly, not knowing how to take his words, whether as truth or idle boasting.
Five millions of money a mere trifle! He went on without apparently noticing my amazement—. If he is not consumed by desire for one thing, he is for another, and his tastes are generally expensive. A few pretty and unscrupulous women for example, would soon relieve you of your five millions in the purchase of jewels alone. Horse-racing would do it still more quickly. No, no,—you are not rich,—you are still poor,—only your needs are no longer so pressing as they were.
And in this I confess myself somewhat disappointed,—for I came to you hoping to do a good turn to some one for once in my life, and to play the foster-father to a rising genius—and here I am—forestalled,—as usual! It is a singular thing, do you know, but nevertheless a fact, that whenever I have had any particular intentions towards a man I am always forestalled!
It is really rather hard upon me! And perhaps a music-hall afterwards if you feel inclined,—what do you say? He clapped me on the shoulder cordially and looked straight into my face,—those wonderful eyes of his, suggestive [p 26 ] of both tears and fire, fixed me with a clear masterful gaze that completely dominated me. I made no attempt to resist the singular attraction which now possessed me for this man whom I had but just met,—the sensation was too strong and too pleasant to be combated.
Only for one moment more I hesitated, looking down at my shabby attire. An ill-fitting coat often adorns the back of a Prime Minister,—and if you see a woman clad in clothes vilely cut and coloured, you may be sure she is eminently virtuous, renowned for good works, and probably a duchess! I have my own chef with me, and he is not without skill. I hope, by the way, you will at least do me this much service,—that pending legal discussion and settlement of your affairs, you will let me be your banker?
This offer was made with such an air of courteous delicacy and friendship, that I could do no more than accept it gratefully, as it relieved me from all temporary embarrassment. I hastily wrote a few lines to my landlady, telling her she would receive the money owing to her by post next day,—then, thrusting my rejected manuscript, my only worldly possession, [p 27 ] into my coat-pocket, I extinguished the lamp, and with the new friend I had so suddenly gained, I left my dismal lodgings and all its miserable associations for ever.
I little thought the time would come when I should look back to the time spent in that small mean room as the best period of my life,—when I should regard the bitter poverty I then endured, as the stern but holy angel meant to guide me to the highest and noblest attainment,—when I should pray desperately with wild tears to be as I was then, rather than as I am now! Is it well or ill for us I wonder, that the future is hidden from our knowledge?
Should we steer our ways clearer from evil if we knew its result? It is a doubtful question,—at anyrate my ignorance for the moment was indeed bliss. I went joyfully out of the dreary house where I had lived so long among disappointments and difficulties, turning my back upon it with such a sense of relief as could never be expressed in words,—and the last thing I heard as I passed into the street with my companion, was a plaintive long-drawn wail of minor melody, which seemed to be sent after me like a parting cry, by the unknown and invisible player of the violin.
We stepped in, I preceding my companion at his expressed desire; and as I sank back among the easy cushions, I felt the complacent consciousness of luxury and power to such an extent that it seemed as if I had left my days of adversity already a long way behind me.
Hunger and happiness disputed my sensations between them, and I was in that vague light-headed condition common to long fasting, in which nothing seems absolutely tangible or real. I knew I should not properly grasp the solid truth of my wonderful good luck till my physical needs were satisfied and I was, so to speak, once more in a naturally balanced bodily condition.
At present my brain was in a whirl,—my thoughts were all dim and disconnected,—and I appeared to myself to be in some whimsical dream from which I should wake up directly. The carriage rolled on rubber-tyred wheels and made no noise as it went,—one could only hear the even rapid trot of the horses. It is such an absurd world, you know—so easily moved. Wise men in all ages have done their best to make it less ridiculous,—with no result, inasmuch as it continues to prefer folly to wisdom.
A football, or let us say a shuttlecock among worlds, ready to be tossed up anyhow and anywhere, provided the battledore be of gold! From this point of view, am I wrong in calling my kingdom vast? But my experience has taught me that I can always buy everything. The sentiments called honour and virtue by the majority of men are the most shifty things imaginable,—set sufficient cash down, and they become bribery and corruption in the twinkling of an eye!
Curious—very curious. I confess I found a case of unpurchaseable integrity once, but only once. I may find it again, though I consider the chance a very doubtful one. Now to revert to myself, pray do not imagine I am playing the humbug with you or passing myself off under a bogus title.
I am a bona-fide prince, [p 30 ] believe me, and of such descent as none of your oldest families can boast,—but my dominions are long since broken up and my former subjects dispersed among all nations,—anarchy, nihilism, disruption and political troubles generally, compel me to be rather reticent concerning my affairs. Money I fortunately have in plenty,—and with that I pave my way.
Some day when we are better acquainted, you shall know more of my private history. I have various other names and titles besides that on my card—but I keep to the simplest of them, because most people are such bunglers at the pronunciation of foreign names.
My intimate friends generally drop my title, and call me Lucio simply. He spoke with such impatience that for a moment I was at a loss for a reply. At last—. There is no such creature alive.
You are not a Christian,—no one is really,—people pretend to be,—and in so damnable an act of feigning are more blasphemous than any fallen fiend! The carriage stopped and we descended. At first sight of [p 31 ] the black horses and silver trappings, the porter of the hotel and two or three other servants rushed out to attend upon us; but the prince passed into the hall without noticing any of them and addressed himself to a sober-looking individual in black, his own private valet, who came forward to meet him with a profound salutation.
I murmured something about wishing to engage a room for myself in the hotel. A staring waiter, who up to that moment, had been noting my shabby clothes with that peculiar air of contempt commonly displayed by insolent menials to those whom they imagine are poor, overheard these words, and suddenly changing the derisive expression of his foxy face, bowed obsequiously as I passed. With vague thoughts such as these flitting over my mind, I followed my host to his rooms.
He occupied nearly a whole wing of the hotel, having a large drawing-room, dining-room and study en suite , fitted up in the most luxurious manner, besides bedroom, bathroom, and dressing-room, with other rooms adjoining, for his valet and two extra personal attendants. The table was laid for supper, and glittered with the costliest glass, silver and china, being furthermore adorned by baskets of the most exquisite fruit and flowers, and in a few moments we were seated. His name was Amiel, and I found myself involuntarily watching his movements, they were so noiseless,—his very step suggesting the stealthy gliding of a cat or a tiger.
He was assisted in his work by the two other attendants who served as his subordinates, and who were equally active and well-trained,—and presently I found myself enjoying the choicest meal I had tasted for many and many a long day, flavoured with such wine as connoisseurs might be apt to dream of, but never succeed in finding. I began to feel perfectly at my ease, and talked with freedom and confidence, the strong attraction I had for my new friend deepening with every moment I passed in his company.
You see, with money I can force my name into notice whether the public like it or not. No newspaper refuses paying advertisements. My dear Tempest, do not let either the Tokay we have been drinking, or the cognac we are going to drink, speak for you in such haste! I assure you I do not think you empty-headed,—on the contrary, your head, I believe from what I have heard, has been and is full of ideas,—excellent ideas, original ideas, which the world of [p 33 ] conventional criticism does not want.
But whether these ideas will continue to germinate in your brain, or whether, with the full purse, they will cease, is now the question. Great originality and inspiration, strange to say, seldom endow the millionaire. Inspiration is supposed to come from above,—money from below! In your case however both originality and inspiration may continue to flourish and bring forth fruit,—I trust they may. It often happens, nevertheless that when bags of money fall to the lot of aspiring genius, God departs and the devil walks in.
Have you never heard that? The Sorrows of Satan is an faustian novel by Marie Corelli. It is widely regarded as one of the world's first bestsellers, partly due to an upheaval in the system British libraries used to purchase their books and partly due to its popular appeal.
Roundly condemned by critics for Corelli's moralistic and prosaic style it nonetheless had strong supporters in Oscar Wilde and various members of royalty.
It is widely regarded as one of the world's first best-sellers - partly due to an upheaval in the system British libraries used to purchase their books[citation needed], and partly due to its popular appeal.
Roundly condemned by contemporary literary critics for Corelli's moralistic and prosaic style, it nonetheless had strong supporters, including Oscar Wilde and various members of royalty.
The Sorrows of Satan is a faustian novel by Marie Corelli. It is broadly viewed as one of the world's first successes, somewhat because of a disturbance in the framework British libraries used to buy their books and mostly because of its well known allure.
Entirely denounced by pundits for Corelli's moralistic and trite style it in any case had solid allies in Oscar Wilde and different individuals from sovereignty. This is a reproduction of a book published before Web icon An illustration of a computer application window Wayback Machine Texts icon An illustration of an open book.
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