Everand Logo

Welcome to Everand!

  • Discover millions of ebooks, audiobooks, and so much more with a free trial

    From $11.99/month after trial. Cancel anytime.

    The Mighty Atom
    The Mighty Atom
    The Mighty Atom
    Ebook240 pages3 hours

    The Mighty Atom

    By Marie Corelli and Mint Editions

    ()

    Read preview

    About this ebook

    The Mighty Atom (1896) is a novel by Marie Corelli. Published at the height of Corelli’s career as one of the most successful writers of her generation, the novel combines realism, social commentary, and family drama to tell a story of morality and the corruption of the youth. Due for reassessment by a modern audience, Marie Corelli’s work—which has inspired several adaptations for film and theater—is a must read for fans of early science fiction. “‘D—d—did I hear you rightly, sir? Ch—child-murder!’ ‘I repeat it, Mr. Valliscourt […] Child-murder! Take the phrase and think it over! You have only one child,—a boy of a most lovable and intelligent disposition […] and you are killing him with your hard and fast rules, and your pernicious “system” of intellectual training.’” Intended as a rallying cry to Christian readers, The Mighty Atom states quite clearly Correlli’s beliefs on progressivism and public education. Raised in a household of atheists, Lionel is left only with science to inform his thoughts and experiences. Early in the novel, his tutor, a religious Scotsman, is dismissed by the boy’s father Mr. Valliscourt. On his way out the door, however, he makes sure to state his mind to his employer. Despite his warning about the boy’s perilous upbringing, Lionel will grow into a nervous, lonely young man. Addressing philosophical, scientific, and religious themes, The Mighty Atom is a moving work of fiction which asks important questions about an emerging modern world. This edition of Marie Corelli’s The Mighty Atom is a classic work of English science fiction reimagined for modern readers.

    Since our inception in 2020, Mint Editions has kept sustainability and innovation at the forefront of our mission. Each and every Mint Edition title gets a fresh, professionally typeset manuscript and a dazzling new cover, all while maintaining the integrity of the original book.

    With thousands of titles in our collection, we aim to spotlight diverse public domain works to help them find modern audiences. Mint Editions celebrates a breadth of literary works, curated from both canonical and overlooked classics from writers around the globe.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherMint Editions
    Release dateJun 8, 2021
    ISBN9781513288642
    The Mighty Atom
    Author

    Marie Corelli

    Marie Corelli (1855-1924) was an English novelist. Born Mary Mackay in London, she was sent to a Parisian convent to be educated in 1866. Returning to England in 1870, Corelli worked as a pianist and began her literary career with the novel A Romance of Two Worlds (1886). A favorite writer of Winston Churchill and the British Royal Family, Corelli was the most popular author of her generation. Known for her interest in mysticism and the occult, she earned a reputation through works of fantasy, Gothic, and science fiction. From 1901 to 1924, she lived in Stratford-upon-Avon, where she continued to write novels, short story collections, and works of non-fiction. Corelli, whose works have been regularly adapted for film and the theater, was largely rejected by the male-dominated literary establishment of her time. Despite this, she is remembered today as a pioneering author who wrote for the public, not for the critics who sought to deny her talent.

    Read more from Marie Corelli

    Related to The Mighty Atom

    Related ebooks

    Literary Fiction For You

    View More
    View More

    Related podcast episodes

    Related articles

    • UNLIMITED

      Three Poems

      Sep 1, 2024

      after a cycle of paintings by the Meister des Marienlebens, Munich What begins: everything. Size of a crumb,indiscriminate bundle of cells. It’sa barnacle with a dream inside. Cloudin-sewn with seed pearls. Radiant shapethat in theory she’s always ca

      4 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      It’s Come to This

      Sep 1, 2021

      It’s Come to This
      16 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      The Beyoğlu Municipality Waste Management Orchestra

      Jun 8, 2021

      Selim the half-wit hoarded everything—that was the story they told me my first day in waste management. Selim had lost his wife, and I guess everyone figured he took up hoarding as a way to fill the void. It started out with stuff his wife might have

      24 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      Ghost Girl, Banana

      Aug 21, 2023

      By the time I was 25, there were only two things I remembered about Mumma. The first was that she smelled of watermelons, the second was that we were happy. We’d taken our father’s name of course, but a name is only half a story. The other half exist

      6 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      TWO ESSAYS from FINGER EXERCISES FOR POETS

      Nov 1, 2022

      Russian Formalists have a word, “ostranenie,” which means constantly attempting to discover new ways of looking at everyday things. There are almost always two realities rubbing up against one another in every poem, whether they are specified or not,

      10 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      The Ghosts of Wannsee

      Sep 28, 2024

      The Ghosts of Wannsee
      19 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      Apparition

      Mar 26, 2020

      Apparition
      8 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      Tales of Escape

      Sep 1, 2021

      Tales of Escape
      7 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      Summer Beach Reads

      Jan 10, 2021

      Summer Beach Reads
      7 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      Poetry

      Jun 1, 2021

      Poetry
      3 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      Selkie

      Feb 3, 2022

      Selkie
      10 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      Tom Cunliffe

      Nov 6, 2020

      Tom Cunliffe
      5 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      Tom Cunliffe

      Nov 6, 2020

      Tom Cunliffe
      5 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      THE HOUSE with the BLUE DOOR

      May 7, 2020

      THE HOUSE with the BLUE DOOR
      6 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      The Island

      Jun 4, 2018

      The Island
      8 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      A Year in Reading: Jason R Jimenez

      Dec 10, 2019

      Can you imagine a world without frogs? Or even less of them? What is the night without a symphony of croaks? I want to ask that to everyone. The post A Year in Reading: Jason R Jimenez appeared first on The Millions.

      6 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      DULCE DOMUM From The Wind In The Willows

      Nov 1, 2022

      DULCE DOMUM From The Wind In The Willows
      11 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      Low Expectations

      Feb 1, 2019

      Low Expectations
      7 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      Where We Write

      Feb 9, 2017

      Where We Write
      9 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      A Scent Of The Past

      Feb 2, 2023

      A Scent Of The Past
      4 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      Four Poems

      Mar 1, 2024

      I was trying to look a little less like myselfand more like other humans, humans who belonged, so I put on a skort.Purchased in another life, when I had a husband and wrote thank-you notes and held dinner parties,the skort even had its own little poc

      6 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      Memories Of A Miracle

      Dec 1, 2023

      Memories Of A Miracle
      8 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      Setting The Scene

      Dec 5, 2024

      Setting The Scene
      6 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      Marco

      Mar 1, 2022

      THE ALLEY STANK . Marco could feel the damp soaking into his tunic as he pressed his back against the wall, trying to seem like part of the shadows. He cursed himself. How could he have been so stupid? He knew if he stayed out after dark they might f

      6 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      I Discover A Place I Already Knew

      Jan 8, 2020

      I felt cold chills down my arms when I realized that I recognized this book's setting: We had a home on the exact river the author was describing.

      3 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      The Last Friend on Earth

      May 4, 2023

      It was as if Doreen Saunders had been waiting for me, passing the time until my arrival. She might as well have been sitting in a rocking chair, knitting needles clicking, jam tarts cooling on the side, the door wide open, waiting for the next visito

      6 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      Falling

      Jul 6, 2021

      Falling
      17 min read

    Related categories

    Reviews for The Mighty Atom

    0 ratings

    0 ratings0 reviews

    What did you think?

    Tap to rate

    Review must be at least 10 words

      Book preview

      The Mighty Atom - Marie Corelli

      I

      A heavy storm had raged all day on the north coast of Devon. Summer had worn the garb of winter in a freakish fit of mockery and masquerade; and even among the sheltered orchards of the deeply-embowered valley of Combmartin, many a tough and gnarled branch of many a sturdy apple-tree laden with reddening fruit, had been beaten to the ground by the fury of the blast and the sweeping gusts of rain. Only now, towards late afternoon, were the sullen skies beginning to clear. The sea still lashed the rocks with angry thuds of passion, but the strength of the wind was gradually sinking into a mere breeze, and a warm saffron light in the west showed where the sun, obscured for so many hours, was about to hide his glowing face altogether for the night, behind the black vizor of our upward-moving earth. The hush of the gloaming began to permeate nature; flowers, draggled with rain, essayed to lift their delicate stems from the mould where they had been bowed prone and almost broken,—and a little brown bird fluttering joyously out of a bush where it had taken shelter from the tempest, alighted on a window-sill of one of the nearest human habitations it could perceive, and there piped a gentle roundelay for the cheering and encouragement of those within before so much as preening a feather. The window was open, and in the room beyond it a small boy sat at a school-desk reading, and every now and then making pencil notes on a large folio sheet of paper beside him. He was intent upon his work,—yet he turned quickly at the sound of the bird’s song and listened, his deep thoughtful eyes darkening and softening with a liquid look as of unshed tears. It was only for a moment that he thus interrupted his studies,—anon, he again bent over the book before him with an air of methodical patience and resignation strange to see in one so young. He might have been a bank clerk, or an experienced accountant in a London merchant’s office, from his serious old-fashioned manner, instead of a child barely eleven years of age; indeed, as a matter of fact, there was an almost appalling expression of premature wisdom on his pale wistful features;—the thinking furrow already marked his forehead,—and what should still have been the babyish upper curve of his sensitive little mouth, was almost though not quite obliterated by a severe line of constantly practised self-restraint. Stooping his fair curly head over the printed page more closely as the day darkened, he continued reading, pondering, and writing; and the bird, which had come to assure him as well as it could, that fine bright weather,—such weather as boys love,—might be expected tomorrow, seemed disappointed that its gay carol was not more appreciated. At any rate it ceased singing, and began to plume itself with fastidious grace and prettiness, peering round at the youthful student from time to time inquisitively, as much as to say,—What wonder is this? The rain is over,—the air is fresh,—the flowers are fragrant,—there is light in the sky,—all the world of nature is glad, and rejoices,—yet here is a living creature shut up with a book which surely God never had the making of!—and his face is wan, and his eyes are sad, and he seems not to know the meaning of joy!

      The burning bars of saffron widened in the western heavens,—shafts of turquoise-blue, pale rose, and chrysoprase flashed down towards the sea like reflections from the glory of some unbarred gate of Paradise,—and the sun, flaming with August fires, suddenly burst forth in all his splendour, Full on Combmartin, with its grey old church, stone cottages, and thatched roofs overgrown with flowers, the cheerful radiance fell, bathing it from end to end in a shower of gold,—the waves running into the quiet harbour caught the lustrous glamour and shone with deep translucent glitterings of amber melting into green,—and through the shadows of the room where the solitary little student sat at work, a bright ray came dancing, and glistened on his bent head like the touch of some passing angel’s benediction. Just then the door opened, and a young man entered, clad in white boating flannels.

      Still at it, Lionel! he said, kindly. Look here, drop it all for today! The storm is quite over;—come with me, and I’ll take you for a pull on the water.

      Lionel looked up, half surprised, half afraid.

      "Does he say I may go, Mr. Montrose?"

      I haven’t asked him, replied Montrose, curtly, "I say you may,—and not only that you may, but that you must! I’m your tutor,—at least for the present,—and you know you’ve got to obey me, or else—!"

      Here he squared himself, and made playfully threatening gestures after the most approved methods of boxing.

      The boy smiled, and rose from his chair.

      I don’t think I get on very fast, he said, apologetically, with a doubtful glance at the volume over which he had been poring—It’s all my stupidity, I suppose, but sometimes it seems a muddle to me, and more often still it seems useless. How, for instance, can I feel any real interest in the amount of the tithes that were paid to certain bishops in England in the year 1054? I don’t care what was paid, and I’m sure I never shall care. It has nothing to do with the way people live nowadays, has it?

      No,—but it goes under the head of general information,—answered Montrose, laughing,—Anyhow, you can leave the tithes alone for the present,—forget them,—and forget all the bishops and kings too if you like! You look fagged out,—what do you say to a first-class Devonshire tea at Miss Payne’s?

      Jolly! and a flash of something like merriment lit up Lionel’s small pale face—But we’ll go on the water first, please! It will soon be sunset, and I love to watch a sunset from the sea.

      Montrose was silent. Standing at the open door he waited, attentively observing meanwhile the quiet and precise movements of his young pupil who was now busy putting away his books and writing materials. He did this with an almost painful care: wiping his pen, re-sharpening his pencil to be ready for use when he came back to work again, folding a scattered sheet or two of paper neatly, dusting the desk, setting up the volume concerning tithes and what not, on a particular shelf, and looking about him in evident anxiety lest he should have forgotten some trifle. His tutor, though a man of neat taste and exemplary tidiness himself, would have preferred to see this mere child leaving everything in a disorderly heap, and rushing out into the fresh air with a wild whoop and bellow. But he gave his thoughts no speech, and studied the methodical goings to and fro of the patient little lad from under his half-drooped eyelids with an expression of mingled kindness and concern, till at last, the room being set in as prim an order as that of some fastidious old spinster, Lionel took down his red jersey-cap from its own particular peg in the wall, put it on, and smiled up confidingly at his stalwart companion.

      "Now, Mr. Montrose!" he said.

      Montrose started as from a reverie.

      Ah! That’s it! Now’s the word!

      Flinging on his own straw hat, and softly whistling a lively tune as he went, he led the way downstairs and out of the house, the little Lionel following in his footsteps closely and somewhat timidly. Their two figures could soon be discerned among the flowers and shrubs of the garden as they passed across it towards the carriage gate which opened directly on to the high road,—and a woman watching them from an upper window pushed her fair face through a tangle of fuchsias and called,—

      Playing truant, Mr. Montrose? That’s right! Always do what you’re told not to do! Good-bye, Lylie!

      Lionel looked up and waved his cap.

      Good-bye, mother!

      The beautiful face framed in red fuchsia flowers softened at the sound of the child’s clear voice,—anon, it drew back into the shadow and disappeared.

      The woods and hills around Combmartin were now all aglow with the warm luminance of the descending sun, and presently, out on the sea which was still rough and sparkling with a million diamond-like points of spray, a small boat was seen, tossing lightly over the crested billows. William Montrose, B.A., oor Willie, as some of his affectionate Highland relatives called him, pulled at the oars with dash and spirit, and Lionel Valliscourt, only son and heir of John Valliscourt of Valliscourt in the county of Somerset, sat curled up, not in the stern, but almost at the end of the prow, his dreamy eyes watching with keen delight every wave that advanced to meet the little skiff and break against it in an opaline shower.

      I say, Mr. Montrose! he shouted—This is glorious!

      Aye, aye! responded Montrose, B.A., with a deep breath and an extra pull—Life’s a fine thing when you get it in big doses!

      Lionel did not hear this observation,—he was absorbed in catching a string of seaweed, slimy and unprofitable to most people, but very beautiful in his eyes. There were hundreds of delicate little shells knitted into it, as fragile and fine as pearls, and every such tiny casket held a life as frail. Ample material for meditation was there in this tangle of mysterious organisms marvellously perfect, and while he minutely studied the dainty net-work of ocean’s weaving, across the young boy’s mind there flitted the dark shadow of the inscrutable and unseen. He asked within himself, just as the oldest and wisest scholars have asked to their dying day, the why of things,—the cause for the prolific creation of so many apparently unnecessary objects, such as a separate universe of shells, for example,—what was the ultimate intention of it all? He thought earnestly, and, thinking, grew sorrowful, child though he was, with the hopeless sorrow of Ecclesiastes the Preacher, and his incessant cry of "Vanitas vanita tem!" Meantime, the heavens were ablaze with glory,—the two rims of the friendly planets, earth and the sun, seemed to touch one another on the edge of the sea,—then, the bright circle was covered by the dark, and the soft haze of a purple twilight began to creep over the Hangman’s Hills, as they are curiously styled,—the Great and the Little Hangman. There is nothing about these grassy slopes at all suggestive of capital punishment, and they appear to have derived their names from a legend of the country, which tells how a thief, running away with a stolen sheep tied across his back, was summarily and unexpectedly punished for his misdeed by the sheep itself, who struggled so violently as to pull the cord which fastened it close round its captor’s throat in a thoroughly hangman-like manner, thus killing him on the spot. The two promontories form a bold and picturesque headland as seen from the sea, and Willie Montrose, resting for a moment on his oars, looked up at them admiringly, and almost with love in his eyes, just because they reminded him of a favourite little bit of coast scenery in his own more romantic and beautiful Scottish land. Then he brought his gaze down to the curled-up small figure of his pupil, who was still absorbed in the contemplation of his treasure-trove of sea-weed and shells.

      What have you got there, Lionel? he asked.

      The boy turned round and faced him.

      Thousands of little people! he answered, with a smile,—All in pretty little houses of their own, too,—look! and he held up his dripping trophy,—It’s quite a city, isn’t it?—and I shouldn’t wonder if the inhabitants thought almost as much of themselves as we do. His eyes darkened, and the smile on his young face vanished. "What do you think about it, Mr. Montrose? I don’t see that we are a bit more valuable in the universe than these little shell-people."

      Montrose made no immediate reply. He pulled out a big silver watch and glanced at it.

      Tea-time! he announced, abruptly—Put the shell-people back in their own native element, my boy, and don’t ask me any conundrums just now, please! Take an oar!

      With a flush of pleasure, Lionel obeyed,—first dropping the seaweed carefully into a frothy billow that just then shouldered itself up caressingly against the boat, and watching it float away. Then he pulled at the oar manfully enough with his weak little arms,—while Montrose, controlling his own strength that it might not overbalance that of the child, noted his exertions with a grave and somewhat pitying air. The tide was flowing in, and the boat went swiftly with it,—the healthful exercise sent colour into Lionel’s pale cheeks and lustre into his deep-set eyes, so that when they finally ran their little craft ashore and sprang out of it, the boy looked as nature meant all boys to look, bright and happy-hearted, and the sad little furrow on his forehead, so indicative of painful thought and study, was scarcely perceptible. Glancing first up at the darkening skies, then at his own clothes sprinkled with salt spray, he laughed joyously as he said,—

      I’m afraid we shall catch it when we get home, Mr. Montrose.

      "I shall,—you won’t, returned Montrose, imperturbably. But,—as it’s my last evening,—it doesn’t matter."

      All the mirth faded from Lionel’s face and he uttered a faint cry of wonder and distress.

      Your last evening?—oh, no!—surely not! You don’t,—you can’t mean it! he faltered, nervously.

      Willie Montrose’s honest blue eyes softened with a great tenderness and compassion.

      Come along, laddie, and have your tea! he said kindly, his tongue lapsing somewhat into his own soft Highland accentuation; come along, and I’ll tell you all about it. Life is like being out on the sea yonder,—a body must take the rough with the smooth and just make the best of it. One mustn’t mind a few troubles now and then,—and—and—partings and the like; you’ve often heard that the best of friends must part, haven’t you? There now, don’t look so downcast!—come along to Miss Payne’s cottage where we can get the best cream in all Devonshire, and we’ll have a jolly spread and a talk out, shall we?

      But Lionel stood mute,—the colour left his cheeks, and his little mouth once more became set and stern.

      I know! he said at last, slowly, I know exactly what you have to tell me, Mr. Montrose! My father is sending you away. I am not surprised; oh, no! I thought it would happen soon. You see you have been too kind,—too easy with me,—that’s what it is. No,—I’m not going to cry,—here he choked back a little rising sob bravely,—you mustn’t think that,—I am glad you are going away for your own sake, but I’m sorry for myself,—very sorry! I’m always feeling sorry for myself,—isn’t it cowardly! Marcus Aurelius says the worst form of cowardice is self-pity.

      "Oh, hang Marcus Aurelius!" burst out Montrose.

      Lionel smiled,—a dreary little cynical smile.

      Shall we go and have our tea? he suggested, quietly—I’m ready.

      And they walked slowly up from the shore together,—the young man with a light yet leisurely tread, the child with wearily-dragging feet that seemed scarcely able to support his body. Painful thoughts and forebodings kept them silent, and they exchanged not a word even when a sudden red and golden after-glow flashed across the sea as the very last salutation of the vanished sun,—indeed they scarcely saw the fiery splendour that would, at a happier moment, have been a perfect feast of beauty to their eyes. Turning away from the principal street of the village they bent their steps towards a small thatched cottage, overgrown from porch to roof with climbing roses, fuchsias and jessamine, where an unobtrusive signboard might be just discerned framed in a wreath of brilliant nasturtiums, and bearing the following device:

      CLARINDA CLEVERLY PAYNE

      NEW LAID EGGS DEVONSHIRE CREAM JUNKETS

      TEAS PROVIDED

      Within this rustic habitation, tutor and pupil disappeared, and the pebbly shore of Combmartin was left in the possession of two ancient mariners, who, seated side by side on the overhanging wall, smoked their pipes together in solemn silence and watched the gradual smoothing of the sea as it spread itself out in wider, longer, and more placid undulations, as though submissively preparing for the coming of its magnetic mistress, the moon.

      II

      That same evening, John Valliscourt, Esquire, of Valliscourt, sat late over his after-dinner wine, conversing with a languid, handsome-featured person known as Sir Charles Lascelles, Baronet. Sir Charles was a notable figure in swagger society, and he had been acquainted with the Valliscourts for some time, in fact he was almost an old friend of theirs, as social old friends go, that phrase nowadays merely meaning about a year’s mutual visiting, without any unpleasant strain on the feelings or the pockets of either party. Whenever the Valliscourts were in town for the season at their handsome residence in Grosvenor Place, Sir Charles was always dropping in, and dropping out again, a constant and welcome guest, a purveyor of fashionable scandals, and a thoroughly reliable informant concerning the ins and outs of the newest approaching divorce. But his appearance at Combmartin was quite unlooked-for, he having been supposed to have gone to his little place (an estate of several thousand acres) in Inverness-shire. And it was concerning his present change of plan and humour that Mr. Valliscourt was just now rallying him in ponderously playful fashion.

      Ya-as! drawled Sir Charles, in answer—I have doosid habits of caprice. Never know what I’m going to do from one day to another! Fact, I assure you! You see a chum of mine has got Watermouth Castle for a few weeks, and he asked me to join his house-party. That’s how it is I happen to be here.

      Mrs. Valliscourt, who had left the dinner-table and was seated in a lounge chair near the open window, looked round and smiled. Her smile was a very beautiful one,—her large flashing eyes and brilliantly white teeth gave it a sun-like dazzle that amazed and half bewitched any man who was not quite prepared to meet it.

      I suppose you are all very select at Water-mouth,—observed Mr. Valliscourt, cracking a walnut and beginning to peel the kernel with a deliberate and fastidious nicety which showed off his long, white, well-kept fingers to admirable advantage—Nothing lower than a baronet, eh?

      And he laughed softly.

      Sir Charles gave him a quick glance from under his lazily drooping eyelids that might have startled him had he perceived it. Malice, derision, and intense hatred were expressed in it, and for a second it illumined the face on which it gleamed with a wicked flash as of hell-fire. It vanished almost as quickly as it had shone, and a reply was given in such quiet, listless tones as betrayed nothing of the speaker’s feelings.

      "Well, I really don’t know! There’s a painter fellow staying with us,—one of those humbugs called ‘rising artists,’—gives himself doosid airs too. He’s got a commission to do the castle. Of course he isn’t thought much of,—we keep him in his place as much as we can,—still he’s there, and he doesn’t dine with the servants, either. The rest are the usual lot,—dowagers with marriageable but penniless daughters,—two or three ugly ‘advanced’ young women who have brought their bicycles and go tearing about the country all day,

      Enjoying the preview?
      Page 1 of 1