MODERN FICTION AND CORELLI

The remarkable development of the modern novel during recent years has been a cause of much discussion and much criticism. The tendency appears to have been to depart more and more from the old-fashioned romance, in which love and crime or love and war were the themes, and in which the ending was invariably happy, with virtue rewarded, vice punished ; while a sound of wedding bells and a shower of rice and old shoes left the reader and writer perfectly satisfied with themselves. Whatever might have been said of this class of novel from the critical or literary standpoint, the moral tone was generally sound and healthy. But recently a taste appears to have grown up for novels dealing with strange and bizarre objects, or for novels discussing social and other problems, some of which are drawn from revolting phases of human experience. The success of the "realists" — Zola and de Maupassant-— in France set a small school of followers at work in England who, within the more confined space of public license allowed there, tried to do what had been done in France. These writers succeeded at any rate in reproducing the worst qualities of the French writers, without the really great, though perverted, talent of their models. Then the problem novel held away for some time, though the revolt against it was speedy, and if the book-sellers' reports are to be trusted, the discussion of problems never had the vogue in the novel that it had on the stage.

The chief characteristic of this particular school of modern fiction is its low moral tone. And the strange thing about it is that most of these writers ape the lofty tone of the preacher, and from a high moral altitude presume to deliver lectures upon morality to the world at large. Take Mr. George Moore's revolting studies of the adventures of domestic servants ; or of what he is pleased to paint as a picture of Irish middle-class life, such as may be found in works like "Esther Waters" and "A Drama in Muslin." These read like verbatim reports from the witness-box at a police or a divorce court. Yet Mr. Moore's lewdness is regarded in some quarters as the expression of the views of a heaven-sent moralist; and the recent exclusion of his books from the railway bookstalls of England by Messrs. Smith and Son — a respectable firm of booksellers— was regarded in certain quarters somehow as a blow to liberty and progress. But leaving Mr. Moore's open plunges into the seamy side of life to the readers who love lewdness for its own sake, we come to another writer who has cast a glamour over the modern reader —if we are to judge by the circulation of her novels— to an extent hitherto unparalleled. We refer to that strange personality known as Miss Marie Corelli. Miss Corelli sprang into vogue as a novelist by a novel called "A Romance of Two Worlds," in which she dabbled in speculations upon occult forces, and invented a creed called the Electric. In this novel, by means of a highly coloured descriptive style—by the aid of what a celebrated reviewer once called the "lurid colour of the child's penny paint-box"— she obtained a great vogue amongst thousands, nay, hundreds of thousands of persons whose judgment was incapable of appreciating the low literary value of the books.

If we follow Miss Corelli's works in succession, we will find the same lurid hues in her word-painting, and a strange atmosphere of nastiness, both in subject and treatment ; becoming more pungent with each successive book. Strong, powerful, dramatic, we allow — but betraying in each work the evidences of a diseased intellect. Is it possible that anyone can peruse "Vendetta," " Wormwood," or "Barrabas" without recognizing certain evidences of a perverted imagination, which, while assuming the airs and attitudes of a preacher of morals, puts forth an upside down morality, a topsy-turvy view of life, and an inverted estimate of all things human and Divine ? As to the regard in which the writer is held, there is the evidence of the enormous sale of her works, and the fact that she is believed by a certain class of ignorant persons to be the greatest writer of all time, infinitely superior in all respects to Shakespeare and Dante. And there is little doubt that Miss Corelli has the same exalted estimate of her own powers.

For some time past the eyes of writers of fiction have been turned towards the Catholic Church. This may possibly be in consequence of that growth of the influence of Catholicity which is the most remarkable characteristic of the Nineteenth Century. We find that such respectable writers of fiction as Mrs. Humphrey Ward, Mr. Hall Caine, Mrs. Voynich, Robert Buchanan, and Mrs. Craigie (" John Oliver Hobbes ") have turned towards certain aspects of Catholic life for material. The treatment of the theme by some is reverential ; by others hostile. There is another type of writer, such as Mr. Joseph Hocking, who uses his novel, "The Purple Robe," for the purpose of making a polemical attack upon the Catholic Church. The writer probably finds it easier to attack the Church that way than by argument or authority. But none of these writers have gone to the length of recklessness and blasphemy which have been reached by Miss Corelli in "Barrabas," and in her latest work, "The Master Christian." She had, indeed, in the "Sorrows of Satan," gone far enough ; but, as the scathing criticism of the QUARTERLY REVIEW showed, this was a mere plagiarism— a conscious or unconscious "cerebration" of a certain school of French writers whose blasphemies and inverted morals have earned for them the name of "The Satanic culte." Although to the cultured few the vagaries of Miss Corelli's transpontine Prince Rimanez were only the subject of laughter, the fact that she has such a large acceptance amongst the multitude of readers of fiction makes hers a sinister influence.

In her latest "blast" this literary virago devotes her attention to the Catholic Church, and in her usual highly-coloured style freely criticizes it, condemns it, and lectures the Hierarchy from his Holiness downwards. It seems hardly credible that the hardihood even of Miss Corelli could go to the length of introducing Our Divine Lord into such a work of fiction as this; but she has done this, and has put into His mouth some 500 pages of sententious and puerile vapourings in her own well-known style. This is the book of which we learn a hundred thousand copies of the first edition have been printed. It constitutes an attack upon the Catholic Church by one who exercises a certain amount of sway amongst an unthinking, sensation-loving public. Its effect upon the Church will probably equal the effect of a mosquito alighting truculently upon the Himalaya Mountains. But as a sign of the decadence of modern fiction from the stately romance of Scott, the brilliant narrative style of Thackeray, the high moral purpose of Dickens, it has a mournful significance.

We turn with relief from the nauseous school of Miss Corelli to the brilliant work of such men as Dr. William Barry, whose well-deserved vogue as a writer of fiction has increased, and is still increasing with with each successive work. We have recently had the pleasure of reading his latest work of fiction — "Arden Massiter," and we hope in a subsequent issue to publish a review of the book. For freshness and brilliancy of style we know of no modern author who rivals Dr. Barry. His other works, such as "The New Antigone," " The Two Standards," and "The Wizard's Knot," show the same characteristics. Dr. Barry does not model his style upon the " child's penny paint-box school," but for pure, clear, and picturesque English he is unrivalled. He takes us into the regions of pure romance, and though we find, as in "Arden Massiter," the life of modern Italy (from peasant to prince) treated by the author, we are not dragged through the gutters of "realism," or assailed with odours from an unhealthy moral atmosphere. We are taken into the real atmosphere of romance-— pure, healthy, and beautiful. We turn with relief to this author from the tainted school of fiction of Miss Marie Corelli and her French inspirers, the conspicuous qualities of which are bad literature, bad morals, and bad taste.

Freeman's Journal (Sydney, NSW : 1850 - 1932), Saturday 27 October 1900, page 11