Bella Poldark

by Winston Graham

  ‘What an evening!’ said Ross presently. ‘I am proud of all my children, but this one exceeds everything else that has ever happened.’

  ‘She was so quiet after it!’ exclaimed Demelza. ‘Over supper. Much quieter than usual – you know how talkative she usually is. And she ate very little. Just sitting there and smiling and every so often taking a deep, deep breath.’

  ‘She must have been drained,’ Ross said. ‘Apart from the nervous tension and the physical action, the passion!’

  ‘I know. And those speeches to Friar – Friar Laurence! How did Bella know how to say it as if she spoke from her own soul – from a man’s soul?’

  ‘That is talent,’ said Ross, ‘of the highest order. Perhaps something more.’

  A beggar came mumbling up, and Ross gave him a handful of coins. The old man was startled and showed his bad teeth in a joyous grin before retreating into an alley.

  ‘Christopher is on air. He has done so much for her. Teaching her to fight a duel! I was terrified that she would get some disfigurement!’

  ‘And all to do again tomorrow.’

  ‘We must go again tomorrow, Ross! Can we get the same box?’

  ‘I don’t know if I can stand it. Supposing it did not go so well?’

  ‘We must be there. I expect Christopher can contrive something.’

  Ross said: ‘I wonder if he has some special influence over Glossop? I overheard them speaking together tonight as we came away, and Glossop said something about how pleased he was that he had yielded to Christopher’s pressure.’

  ‘Do you mean . . . Well, pressure could just mean persuasion.’

  ‘Of course. Of course.’

  ‘Do you suppose it was more than that?’

  ‘Mayhap yes. Mayhap no. Both Glossop and McArdle are astute businessmen – and very clever judges of an actor’s potential into the bargain.’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘Not really – in the event. Not in the least. When I get the right opportunity I will ask Christopher.’

  Demelza stared up at the old moon scrutinizing them between the serried rows of chimney pots. ‘I don’t think I should do that, Ross.’

  ‘Why not? Have you a special reason?’

  ‘Well, it may be. Christopher has been some wonderful. He first got Edward to use his influence to provide Bella with a part. They did that. They gave her a tiny part. But nobody expected this accident to Arthur Scholes! The first was a small favour compared to the favour of taking her out of obscurity to play the lead – the leading man’s part. Of course – of course they had in the meanwhile seen Bella, seen her in doublet and hose, been impressed with her potential maybe. But it was an enormous leap of faith. Would they have been willing to take this huge risk entirely on their own judgement?’

  ‘But that is precisely what I suspect!’ Ross said. ‘That is why I question what might have been implied by what Glossop said! If Christopher had money enough of his own to propose some financial deal . . .’

  ‘Then if he wishes to keep quiet about it, he should be allowed to. He is playing for high stakes.’

  ‘Bella?’

  ‘I do not know what their relationship is at present. It seems good. More than good. But if she marries him she should not feel she is doing it partly out of gratitude. And neither will he want to feel that gratitude towards him is why she prefers him to Maurice or some other young man that comes along. And I expect after this success there will be young men a-plenty.’

  ‘I wonder if her voice will completely return?’

  ‘It was brilliantly clear-spoken tonight, but deeper. That, I know, was put on. I do not know how she will estimate her success tonight against her appearance in The Barber.’

  ‘The audience in France was very enthusiastic.’

  Demelza took a trembling happy breath. ‘It is wonderful to succeed in two ways. I think – I dare think, Ross, that her personality plays a big part. The audience seems at once to – to take to her!’

  ‘It will be more than interesting to see what tomorrow’s papers have to say. Critics are much harder to please, and if an audience shouts its approval they will often take a contrary view.’

  ‘When will the papers be out?’

  ‘Early tomorrow. They may not all review it. I have ordered the most important four, and Mrs Pelham’s lad will fetch them before breakfast.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  Excerpt from the Morning Chronicle, the ninth of December 1820:

  London is renowned for the great fruit and vegetable market in Covent Garden. This is certainly the most famous in England, some would claim in the world. The best fruit available is brought there for our delectation: Strawberries from Sussex, Plums from Worcestershire, Pears from Dorset, Apples from Somerset, Cherries from Kent. But this week the Connoisseurs of our fruit supplies allowed a Peach, apparently brought from that dark and craggy county west of the Tamar, to slip through their fingers and be offered up not in Covent Garden, not even in Drury Lane, but in that relatively unimportant and minor theatre on the other side of the Thames, to be exhibited at one of the first attempts of the Management of the Royal Coburg to break away from their routine of Spectacular and Melodramatic trash; putting on a play called Two Lovers of Verona. This Mr William Shakespeare would no doubt recognize as akin to that little piece he once wrote called Romeo and Juliet, the name in this case having been changed – and a few other things – to comply with the threadbare and antiquated Law passed in the days of Charles II.

  What is this all about? First, but incidentally, it is to congratulate Mr Frederick McArdle and Mr Joseph Glossop on having produced a play which for staging, acting and general excellence would have done credit to either of the patent theatres. But chiefly it is all about a young lady who last night appeared as Romeo in this production. She has, it seems, appeared only once before on a public stage, where she ‘starred’ in the leading female role in The Barber of Seville at the Theâtre Jeanne d’Arc in Paris.

  Indeed it has been advertised that Miss Bella Poldark is herself French – a natural distortion, we suppose, on the part of the Management to attract an audience; but in fact she seems to be as English as any full-blooded Cornish maid can be. The reason for her appointment to play such a plum part – a part we may say that is at the apex of the ambitions of most of our leading actresses – is because of an unfortunate accident which happened to Mr Arthur Scholes, scheduled to appear as Romeo, and which caused him to withdraw.

  So what do we see? A pretty girl quite out of her depth with her immortal lines and speaking them by rote? And too pretty to be a boy. But stay, are there not pretty boys? In our struggle to accept this subterfuge, we are quite quickly arrested by Miss Poldark’s élan, her strong voice, the vigour and articulacy with which she utters every word, her sheer presence, which carries us along and presently swamps our disbelief. Not only does she look like a young man, she behaves like one, striding about the stage, leaping here and there with elastic elasticity. And, merciful Heaven, fencing like a master! Miss Charlotte Bancroft makes a charming and pliant Juliet; but in all justice we have to confess where our main interest was focused.

  We do not need to urge you to keep an eye on young Miss Poldark. If we are doing our job as critics I fancy a lot more will be written about her in the next decade or so. We personally would like to see her play, say, Portia, or Viola, or even Lady Macbeth! Yet may we enter a formal plea that she should not neglect her ability in taking a man’s part. After all, in addition to her other attributes, she has the prettiest legs seen on the stage this century.

  The Times of the same date carried a piece recording that

  as a replacement for Mr Arthur Scholes, who had been seriously injured in rehearsals, the Management of the Royal Coburg Theatre, Waterloo, has introduced a singular young woman who quite took the house by storm. She created a young Romeo of consummate grace and skill, a fiery young gallant, who fights his duels with the same elegance and conviction as he brings to his
poetic, gloriously masculine wooing of Juliet. It is a performance such as we have not seen in this part for many years. As an actress she must be celebrated as the find of the season.

  The Morning Post headed its piece ‘Arrival of an Actress’. It reviewed the play at length, while criticizing the unsatisfactory attempts to evade the Patent Law and prophesying that the management was likely to have to pay a fine for transgressing it. The review went on: ‘Few Romeos in London’s memory have looked young enough and passionately agile enough to be convincing.’ And ended: ‘The play’s final scenes can only be seen through a mist of tears.’ The Morning Herald contained a few comments, the critic probably not having been present, but said: ‘At the end the house was raised to the wildest excitement.’

  The second performance of Two Lovers of Verona went off as successfully as the first. Clearly word of mouth had been favourable, and the pit and the gallery, which had looked full last night, were now compressed to insufferable limits. But the audience suffered them, and this time applauded constantly throughout the play.

  Christopher Havergal was almost late for the third performance on the Thursday; he arrived at the theatre half an hour before the curtain was due to rise. When he tapped at the dressing-room door and was told to enter, he found Bella already clad for her part.

  ‘Sorry, sorry, darling.’ He kissed her. ‘There was a minor crisis at Rothschild’s and I could not excuse myself. But what wonderful news!’

  ‘Christopher. I’m glad you’re in time. I’ve been rehearsing this afternoon with Charlotte; just those speeches on the balcony and a few small points. You mean – wonderful news – you mean the letter?’

  ‘Of course I mean the letter, you little silly! Do I not! Do I not!’

  She said primly: ‘I left it at the door for you.’

  ‘I know you did, darling, and I have brought it with me in supreme triumph.’

  ‘Explain it to me.’

  ‘You don’t need any. This speaks superbly for itself. Read it again! Read it out loud if you have the smallest doubts!’

  She took the letter from him, shook it out between thumb and forefinger as if there might be some enclosure she had been missing.

  ‘Go on!’

  She read:

  Dear Miss Poldark,

  I wonder if you could call to see me sometime. I would like to discuss with you a prospect I have of producing Othello at Covent Garden. The play is scheduled to open on Thursday, January 11. I already have the promise of Mr John Julius Booth to play the name part, and Mr Thomas Cobham to play Iago. If we can come to a satisfactory agreement on conditions and terms, I would be willing to offer you the part of Desdemona. This play will probably go into repertory and run possibly to ten performances. If you would kindly send me word I would make myself available to see you. Might I suggest about twelve noon on any day from Friday next onwards?

  Believe me, most faithfully yours,

  Charles Kemble

  ‘Charles Kemble?’ said Bella.

  ‘He is the younger brother. He took over the management of Covent Garden a couple of years ago.’

  ‘Do you think he has been to see this play?’

  ‘You can bet your last guinea on it! He is too experienced to rely on press reviews.’

  ‘I’ve heard of John Julius Booth, but not of the other man. Is he . . . ?’

  ‘They’re both top of the tree, only Kean being way above either of them. It would be a testing time for you. This has been your launch. That would be your first voyage.’

  ‘A shipwreck?’

  ‘Having seen you in this production I would say impossible.’

  She showed a trace of dimples as she put a smear of dark stain on her chin.

  ‘Unsinkable,’ Christopher added, with a touch of humour.

  ‘Oh,’ Bella said, ‘Mama asked if she might watch an act tonight from behind the scenes. I asked Mr McArdle and he said that he was quite agreeable.’

  ‘Are you?’

  ‘I? Yes, of course. When I get . . . get on I forget who is watching me and from where. But I was thinking – the wings get very crowded. Would you be about if she should need some help?’

  ‘With the greatest pleasure. But I don’t believe she will.’

  ‘Well, she might perhaps—’

  ‘Your mother is still a beautiful woman. I don’t know if you’ve noticed that.’

  ‘Of course I have. She is—’

  ‘A lady who looks as attractive as she does is not likely to be jostled against or disregarded. I sometimes wonder . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘If you are not an amalgam, a mixture of your father and mother, partaking of the best qualities of both. You have the energy of your mother, the staying power of your father. You’re too much like your father to be as pretty as she is. But you are full of her determination and strength. When you stand on the stage you attract attention like – like a magnet with iron filings. And I have always been in love with you from the moment I first saw you in the British Embassy in Paris in eighteen fifteen. Remember?’

  She turned her eyes on him. Their conversation when they were alone together was often light-hearted, half-teasing. But she knew when his voice changed.

  ‘Of course I remember,’ she said. ‘You showed me Josephine’s bedroom.’

  ‘So I did,’ said Christopher. ‘So I did. A simple child you were then. But now . . .’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Now you are dressed up as a man, acting as a man, behaving like a man. Yet to me this attire, this doublet and hose and shortened hair, this masculine shirt and flat-heeled shoes and deliberately deepened voice: to me they all make you look more outrageously feminine than ever before. You won’t let me down, will you?’

  ‘Let you down?’

  He half-smiled, revealing rarely shown teeth. But it was almost a wolfish smile. ‘Bella, you have always bewitched me. I would kill for you!’

  ‘Kill me?’

  ‘No! To get you!’

  Her eyes did not waver. ‘Christopher, dearest. You will not have to.’

  It had been a fancy of Demelza’s that she should view at least one act from the wings. When no objection was raised, she chose to go behind for the ballroom scene in the earlier part of the play.

  Her interest, she had told herself, was largely cheerful curiosity. She wanted to watch the scene shifters at work, see how they could transform a stage in a few hasty minutes, how the actors could be trained to assemble and be in exactly the right place when the curtain went up again. In the big scene of the ballroom this should be specially interesting. But when it came to the point she discovered that all her attention was centred on her daughter. After all, she was playing the lead. How had it come about that Bella, whom she had suckled as a baby, succoured as a little girl, nursed through a few mild childhood ailments and one serious illness earlier this year – how had it come about that she was playing one of Shakespeare’s greatest roles in London in front of a concourse of people who now applauded her at the end of every scene? Just as when Julia and Jeremy died it had torn a piece out of her heart, now it seemed to warm, to burn, to stupefy, to enchant her heart that this other child of hers should be elevated and celebrated and almost fêted in this bizarre setting.

  She stood amid the crowd in the wings when Bella came from her dressing room, beamed at her mother, kissed her, waited for her cue, changed her expression, then strode out like some power upon the stage – then to watch this whole scene from the side, watched it develop, change, tense up, become more complex, resolve itself. Ten minutes of magic, then Bella came off to more applause, stood in the wings, went out again, returned and took her mother’s hand. Demelza could feel the girl was strung up, her nerves taut, breathing deep as if after a race, her whole body, it seemed, in a high even glow. She listened with a charming modesty to whispered congratulations, put her head briefly on her mother’s shoulder, then accepted a warm shawl from a dresser and made her way back to the dressing room to prepa
re for the next scene.

  When at the interval Demelza was shown back to the box, Ross said: ‘You look as if you have seen a vision.’

  ‘I have.’ She settled into her chair, holding tight to her impressions, as if afraid someone might steal them.

  Then the curtain went up again, and silence reigned in the box. When the curtain fell Ross said: ‘Have you seen who is sitting in the box opposite?’

  She looked. ‘Heavens! It is Clowance and Edward! Heavens! They were not here when I left!’

  ‘They were late. They sent a note over. Their coach broke a wheel. They wanted it to be a surprise.’

  ‘Oh, how lovely!’ She caught Clowance’s eye and waved. They waved back.

  ‘Mrs Pelham,’ Demelza said. ‘I do not know how we can possibly thank you enough for all you have done for Bella.’

  ‘It has been the greatest pleasure, my dear.’

  ‘You are good to say that. But even if it is true, and I trust it is, that does not repay the – the obligation, as you might say.’

  They were taking supper together on the following night at Edward Fitzmaurice’s apartment in Lansdowne House. The time was already eleven. They had told Bella she could be excused, but she said, rubbish, she would sleep on in the morning. It was just Ross and Demelza, Bella and Christopher, Sarah Pelham, Edward and Clowance.

  The newly-weds had come home in haste, having seen a copy of Wednesday’s Times in Norfolk, and left early to catch a performance of Two Lovers of Verona before it came off. When they reached London – late anyway – they found that, owing to the play’s success, it was prolonging its run by four performances, the last being next Wednesday.

  Demelza continued: ‘You being so generous has made all the difference right from the very beginning. By having Bella to stay for so long – compared to what her life would have been like if she had been living in a boarding house! Christopher has been wonderful, but without you none of this might have happened at all!’