CHAPTER XI

“THE MURDER OF DELICIA” AND “ZISKA”[C]

In the former of these works Marie Corelli has much to say about men that is very disagreeable and, as it appears to us, only partially true. It would seem that the novelist is too prone to seize upon a particular instance of “man’s ingratitude,” laziness, cruelty, and general worthlessness, and set it up as a frequently occurring type.

In “The Murder of Delicia,” for example, a handsome guardsman, nicknamed by his fellow-officers “Beauty Carlyon,” marries a lady novelist who is equally gifted in brain and person, and, after spending her money for a considerable period, finally breaks her heart--in short, “murders” her--by his neglect and infidelity.

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.

The book, as its title implies, ends sadly. How sadly, those who have read it will know, and those who may read it hereafter will soon discover, for it is quite a little book, and its price but a florin.

* * * * *

“These are the people,” writes Marie Corelli in “Ziska,” alluding to the tourists assembled in Cairo, “who usually leave England on the plea of being unable to stand the cheery, frosty, and in every respect healthy winter of their native country--

“that winter, which with its wild winds, its sparkling frost and snow, its holly trees bright with scarlet berries, its merry hunters galloping over field and moor during daylight hours, and its great log fires roaring up the chimneys at evening, was sufficiently good for their forefathers to thrive upon and live through contentedly up to a hale and hearty old age in the times when the fever of traveling from place to place was an unknown disease, and home was indeed ‘sweet home.’ Infected by strange maladies of the blood and nerves, to which even scientific physicians find it hard to give suitable names, they shudder at the first whiff of cold, and, filling huge trunks with a thousand foolish

things which have, through luxurious habit, become necessities to their pallid existences, they hastily depart to the Land of the Sun, carrying with them their nameless languors, discontents, and incurable illnesses, for which Heaven itself, much less Egypt, could provide no remedy.”

Be that as it may, the tourists assembled at the Gezireh Palace Hotel one winter were treated to a vision of loveliness which for a time made them momentarily forget their nameless languors in spells of admiration and envy, according to the sex which claimed them, the vision in question taking an apparently human shape in the person of the Princess Ziska.

Reputedly a Russian lady, Ziska was in reality the flesh-clad ghost of Ziska-Charmazel, the favorite of the harem of a great Egyptian warrior, described in forgotten histories as “The Mighty Araxes.” Visiting Egypt at the same time as the Princess was Armand Gervase, a French painter of great renown, and the interest of the story may be imagined when it is explained that Armand was the nineteenth-century incarnation of Araxes, who, it must be understood, had, in the dim long-ago, slain Ziska-Charmazel because she stood in the way of his ambition.

The modern Araxes is quickly enslaved by Ziska’s loveliness, but the passion that consumes him is a decidedly uncanny one, as the following passage will show. Armand is speaking to Helen Murray, the sister of his great friend, Denzil Murray. In Scotland during the previous summer Armand had paid Helen some attentions, and Helen does not fail to note that the charms of Ziska have dissipated any tender feeling which Armand might have once entertained for the Scottish girl. “How was I to know,” cries Armand, “that this horrible thing would happen?” “What horrible thing?” enquires Helen.

“This,” he answers: “the close and pernicious enthralment of a woman I never met till the night before last; a woman whose face haunts me; a woman who drags me to her side with the force of a magnet, there to grovel like a brain-sick fool and plead with her for a love which I already know is poison to my soul! Helen, Helen! You do not understand--you will never understand! Here, in the very air I breathe, I fancy I can trace the perfume she shakes from her garments as she moves; something indescribably fascinating yet terrible attracts me to her; it is an evil attraction, I know, but I cannot resist it. There is something wicked in every man’s nature; I am conscious enough that there is something detestably wicked in mine, and I have not sufficient goodness to overbalance it. And this woman,--this silent, gliding, glittering-eyed creature that has suddenly taken possession of my fancy--she overcomes me in spite of myself; she makes havoc of all the good intentions of my life. I admit--I confess it!”

Unfortunately, the painter’s very good friend, Denzil Murray, also becomes inspired with a passion for Ziska, and the lad’s temper is roused when Armand openly admits that his intentions with regard to the Princess are strictly dishonorable. Murray suggests that it were well Ziska should know this, but Armand laughs at the other’s idea that the bringing of such tidings to Ziska’s ears would lower him one jot in that lovely lady’s estimation:

“My good boy, do you not know that there is something very marvelous in the attraction we call love? It is a preordained destiny,--and if one soul is so constituted that it must meet and mix with another, nothing can hinder the operation. So that, believe me, I am quite indifferent as to what you say of me to Madame la Princesse or to any one else. It will not be for either my looks or my character that she will love me, if, indeed, she ever does love me; it will be for something indistinct, indefinable, but resistless in us both, which no one on earth can explain.”

The hot-headed young Highlander, however, will not be put off with any such reasoning, and the rivalry might have resulted awkwardly at an early date of its upspringing had not Armand steadfastly refused to quarrel.

There is one person at the hotel who makes a shrewd guess at the spiritual identity of both Ziska and Armand--an old _savant_ named Dr. Dean, who is visiting Egypt for the purpose of studying its hieroglyphs and other matters possessing interest for an antiquarian. A knowing fellow is this Doctor, and a fine little character, whose good-humored personality and quiet, shrewd observations present a soothing contrast to the passionate utterances of Murray and Armand, and the dramatic outbursts of Ziska when she scornfully taunts the painter with his vileness.

In conversation with the Doctor, Gervase Armand admits that there is something about Ziska which has struck him as being familiar. “The tone of her voice and the peculiar cadence of her laughter” affect him peculiarly. When he wonders whether he has ever come across her before as a model either in Paris or Rome, the Doctor shakes his head. “Think again,” he says. “You are now a man in the prime of life, Monsieur Gervase, but look back to your early youth,--the period when young men do wild, reckless, and often wicked things,--did you ever in that thoughtless time break a woman’s heart?”

Armand admits that he may have done so, and the Doctor propounds his theory:

“Suppose that you, in your boyhood, had wronged some woman, and suppose that woman had died. You might imagine that you had got rid of that woman. But if her love was very strong and her sense of outrage very bitter, I must tell you that you have not got rid of her by any means; moreover, you never will get rid of her. And why? Because her Soul, like all Souls, is imperishable. Now, putting it as a mere supposition, and for the sake of the argument, that you feel a certain admiration for the Princess Ziska, an admiration which might possibly deepen into something more than platonic, ...”--here Denzil Murray looked up, his eyes glowing with an angry pain as he fixed them on Gervase,--“why, then the Soul of the other woman you once wronged might come between you and the face of the new attraction and cause you to unconsciously paint the tortured look of the injured and unforgiving Spirit on the countenance of the lovely fascinator whose charms are just beginning to ensnare you. I repeat, I have known such cases.”

For it should be explained that, when Ziska gave the celebrated painter a sitting, he could produce nothing on his canvas, in spite of his genius, but a strange and awful face distorted with passion and pain, agony in every line of the features--“agony in which the traces of a divine beauty lingered only to render the whole countenance more repellent and terrific.”

Dr. Dean quickly comes to the conclusion, and very reasonably, that this is the most interesting problem he has ever had a chance of studying. It could be only one case out of thousands, he decides.

“Great heavens! Among what terrific unseen forces we live! And in exact proportion to every man’s arrogant denial of the ‘Divinity that shapes our ends,’ so will be measured out to him the revelation of the invisible. Strange that the human race has never entirely realized as yet the depth of the meaning in the words describing hell: ‘Where the worm dieth not, and where the flame is never quenched.’ The ‘worm’ is Retribution, the ‘flame’ is the immortal Spirit,--and the two are forever striving to escape from the other. Horrible! And yet there are men who believe in neither one thing nor the other, and reject the Redemption that does away with both! God forgive us all our sins--and especially the sins of pride and presumption!”

Other of the Doctor’s thoughtful utterances are well worth quoting. “To the wise student of things there is no time and no distance. All history from the very beginning is like a wonderful chain in which no link is ever really broken, and in which every part fits closely to the other part,--though why the chain should exist at all is a mystery we cannot solve. Yet, I am quite certain that even our late friend Araxes has his connection with the present, if only for the reason that he lived in the past.”

Armand asks him how he argues out that theory, and the Doctor replies:

“The question is, how can you argue at all about anything that is so plain and demonstrated a fact? The doctrine of evolution proves it. Everything that we were once has its part in us now. Suppose, if you like, that we were originally no more than shells on the shore,--some remnant of the nature of the shell must be in us at this moment. Nothing is lost,--nothing is wasted,--not even a thought. I carry my theories very far indeed, especially in regard to matters of love. I maintain that if it is decreed that the soul of a man and the soul of a woman must meet,--must rush together,--not all the forces of the universe can hinder them; aye, even if they were, for some conventional cause or circumstance, themselves reluctant to consummate their destiny, it would, nevertheless, despite them, be consummated. For mark you,--in some form or other they have rushed together before! Whether as flames in the air, or twining leaves on a tree, or flowers in a field, they have felt the sweetness and fitness of each other’s being in former lives,--and the craving sense of that sweetness and fitness can never be done away with,--never! Not as long as this present universe lasts! It is a terrible thing,” continued the Doctor in a lower tone, “a terrible fatality,--the desire of love. In some cases it is a curse; in others, a divine and priceless blessing. The results depend entirely on the temperaments of the human creatures possessed by its fever. When it kindles, rises, and burns towards Heaven in a steady flame of ever-brightening purity and faith, then it makes marriage the most perfect union on earth,--the sweetest and most blessed companionship; but when it is a mere gust of fire, bright and fierce as the sudden leaping light of a volcano, then it withers everything at a touch,--faith, honor, truth,--and dies into dull ashes in which no spark remains to warm or inspire man’s higher nature. Better death than such a love,--for it works misery on earth; but who can tell what horrors it may not create Hereafter!”

When the Princess Ziska betakes herself to the Mena House Hotel, near the Pyramids, Dr. Dean, Gervase Armand, and Denzil Murray follow her. She entertains them at dinner, and after dinner, while the Doctor and Armand are strolling without, Murray puts his fate to the touch, with results as might have been expected, for the Princess has displayed little emotion in respect to anybody save Armand, and in his case it is clear that her interest has a malignant foundation.

Armand comes after him, and, in a passionate scene, audaciously proposes to “play the part of Araxes over again.” Ziska promises to give him her answer on the morrow, and on the morrow Armand receives it.

The last scene of this “Problem of a Wicked Soul” takes place beneath the Great Pyramid. Why and how the modern Araxes and the modern Ziska-Charmazel come together in the end in this strangest of meeting-places, we will leave the reader to discover for him or herself.

But we may at least record our admiration for the feat of imagination of which “Ziska” is the result, and indicate the lesson that is to be learned from its pages. “Ziska” teaches that sin shall not escape punishment, that a man shall not play fast and loose with women’s hearts and yet go scotfree. “Ziska” shows how the mutilated soul of the beautiful dancer arises after many centuries and exacts vengeance from its enemy; and again “Ziska” shows how, when Araxes, in his modern painter guise, cries for pardon, the eyes of his one-time victim soften and flash with love and tenderness.

Truly a fragrant passage is this, wherein the old story is once again told of man’s repentance and woman’s sweet forgiveness.