FAMED NOVELIST'S HOME

Otago Daily Times, Issue 21409, 10 August 1931, Page 9

FAMED NOVELIST'S HOME

WHERE MARIE CORELLI WROTE. If Marie Corelli, who died in 1924, came back from the grave and walked into her 400-ye'ar-old house at Stratford-on-Avon, she would find the place exactly as it was on the day of her death.

The great woman novelist’s house in the bustling High street of Shakespeare’s “ Town ” is one of England's most beauty ful homes of yesterday (says a correspondent of the Daily Express). Sightseers flock to Stratford by the thousands every week of the summer season, yet few who pass the ivy-covered Elizabethan house where Marie Corelli found repose, solitude, and inspiration for her work guess the hidden gem of old English beauty which .is contained in the dead novelist’s house. ■ ,

Miss Bertha Vyver was Marie Corelli’s lifelong friend. She came into the novelist’s life when Marie Corelli was a child. She was her devoted companion during the whole time the novelist was at Stratford-on-Avon, and now she has consecrated the remainder of her life to keening Marie Corelli’s home exactly as it was in the novelist’s lifetime. THE OLD'OAK ARMCHAIR.

It was this faithful friend ‘herself who was the guide when the writer visited Marie Corelli's home recently. She came to greet the caller with an old-world grace and dignity as he ‘ stood waiting on the mat which had the word “Welcome" stamped out' boldly on its surface.“ Everything is as it was when Marie Corelli was alive —nothing is disturbed,” said Marie Cofelli’s lifelong friend. Then she led the visitor through the house. In the dining room was Marie Corelli’s old oak armchair —the chair she always used-—at the head of the table. There were flowers on the table freshly gathered from the garden. Miss Yyver went to a glass case and pointed out original manuscripts of Marie Corelli’s works which she had carefully preserved. Then she revealed a secret of the great novelist’s life.

Every time Marie Corelli ended a book she uttered a prayer. “People say Marie Corelli had no religion,” said Miss Vyver. “Look at this!” She held up the,last page of the “ Sorrows of Satan,” which had come back to Marie Corelli from the printers with its secret unprobed, and might have remained an unsolved riddle for all time had not Miss Vyver gained the key. The last page of the novel was gummed to another piece of paper, and Miss Vyver steamed the page one day and read this prayer in Marie Corelli’s handwriting'. “To Thee, 0 God, and my Saviour Christ I commend this work and all work I may ever do or have done.—Ave Marie.” - TWO SURVIVING. PETS.

Marie Corelli’s old pets—she was a great, animal lover —are nearly all gone —the visitor eaw two —the last remaining pair, a tame dove, Poppsie, and Ariel, a shaggy old Shetland pony, who lost his mate, Puck, a couple of years ago. Ariel spends the twilight of his days in the beautiful meadow surrounding Marie Corelli’s house—unapproachable to all except the dead novelist’s household staff who still remain at the houee. ( Miss Vyver led the way to a latticed door leading from the drawing room. “ Could you find, anywhere, a more perfect picture of English beauty than this? ” she said ecstatically. One looked out, seemingly, for miles, along an avenue of poplar trees and rhododendron bushes, many of them planted by Marie Corelli’s own hand—out through a 400-year-old archway of stone with a double sundial on its roof. There was beauty, peace, and solitude in Marie Corelli’s old-world , garden —’the garden which gave the novelist inspiration for many of her chapters. There was an old garden seat in a rose bower. It was Marie Corelli’s favourite garden seat -where she sat for’ hours in the cool summer evenings planning her novels. The seat jvas freshly painted—the' faithful Bertha’s springtime task. The writer looked up at a little” lattice window looking out on to the garden. The window was wide open to let in the fresh morning air. ' It was Marie Corelli’s bedroom—the room where she died. FRESH FLOWERS EVERY MORNING.

Every morning Marie Corelli’s maid enters the room to dost the things on the dressing table. Freshly-gathered flowers are put on the table. It is the only room where no stranger ever enters—it is the most sacred room in the house in the faithful Bertha’s eyes. The visitor peeped into Marie Corelli’s study. There were the books on the table —the last volumes she used —just as they were the last time she sat at her table writing. A bowl of lilies stood on a table in the ante-room of Marie Corelli’s study—they were the first lilies of the year from the novelist’s beautiful garden, and every mornim:, until the summer ends, the rooms which Marie Corelli made sacred for ever in the eyes of this faithful old friend will be perfumed with the scent of the flower's from her beautiful old-world garden. , ....