NOW this is the story of this woman—Diana Beswick,—who would have told
her own story if she could, and indeed had the zest for it, for she
pondered often over her life, finding it more strange than any written
in any book. But ’tis to be thought she knew either too much or too
little of her charming subject or had not the words at command. Let me
set down her qualifications as a truth-teller and on these let her be
judged.
_Item._ She was beautiful, and not beautiful only as a statue formed to
excite admiration rather than love. Truly she wore the girdle of Venus
for she was adorned with a thousand indescribable charms and graces as
when a landscape is bathed in sunshine and all the pretty warblers sing
and every flower spreads its coy bosom to the sun.
_Item._ She was an actress the most finished, and where she captured all
opinion and led it whither she would, may it not be argued that such a
lady was sometimes her own dupe also?
_Item._ From her skill in portraying the emotions of others, ’tis to be
allowed she was certainly skilled in the art of fiction.
_Item._ She had the gift, with her eyes of sunshine and voice of music
to make all believe her true as Truth’s self even had she vouched for
the Impossible.
I ask therefore, can such a woman tell the truth about herself even if
she would? I leave it, as I said, to the world’s judgment. But because
her history is very moving, entertaining and marvellous, ’twere pity it
were not set down.
For this was no honey-sweet beauty of April smiles and tears and fond
abandonments and compliances. ’Twas this at times certainly, for every
mood was natural to her and she adorned them all. But she wore each as
she might put on her satin manteau and lay it away when it had served
its turn. At other times you beheld a Dian, austere and chilly—“severe
in youthful beauty,” and desire was quenched in the frosty sparkle of
her eyes and scorn winged its shafts from the bow of her lips smartly
enough to disconcert not a few of the idle gentlemen who swore and
drawled about her. And when she had them daunted—suddenly her
Goddess-ship would slide down from her pedestal, and ’twas a young girl
all hopes and fears and a dewy tremble on her eyelashes looking up into
your face for encouragement and approbation. She was then perhaps most
dangerous, for ’twas a natural movement to lay love at her tender feet
for a stepping-stone amid the quagmires of life.
And here is the story of how two gentlemen did this, and their reward.
’Tis to be seen that a surprise awaited Mr. Rich when that hood should
be lifted, for she wore it muffled about her face. She came up beside
him and dropped her curtsey, and he bowed sitting and rather on the
careless side, a way he affected with his suitors and suitresses. To
Mrs. Oldfield and her like, who had made their way and topped their
parts he could be deferential, otherwise he wasted no civility.
Seeing he awaited her speech, a low voice, sweet as dropping honey,
emerged from the hood.
“I venture to present myself, Sir, in hopes you might have a small part
unfilled in whatever new play you might think to produce shortly. My
ambitions are humble. ’Tis so needful I should place myself.”
Mr. Rich sat up somewhat straighter because ’twas the voice and accent
of no Drury Lane hussey, but of a gentlewoman. Here his first surprise
lay in wait for him because it was by no means a common thing that a
young gentlewoman should find her way to his parlour. I own him curious
as he provoked her to speak further.
“Ambition should never be humble in this profession, Madam. ’Tis a fair
field and no favour, and if an actress wins the public there’s nothing
beyond her hopes.”
“True, Sir. I doubt if you would find me humble later, but I can scarce
expect a gentleman of your experience will admit me at my own
valuation.”
An astonishing admission. His heavy eye lightened a little. This
resembled not the modesty, mock or otherwise, of the cringing suppliant
that was his usual fare in that place. He dallied a moment with the
surprisingness of the thing.
“Then you value yourself high, Madam. Doth your experience warrant it?”
“Why, as to experience, Sir,—’tis not much to vaunt myself on. You may
recall that in the playhouse in the Haymarket a year since there was a
few performances of a few plays. Nothing fixed.”
“I recall. They gave ‘The Beaux’ Stratagem’—I forget what else.”
“‘The Orphan,’ Sir. I was presented as Monimia in ‘The Orphan,’ and
Cherry in ‘The Beaux’ Stratagem.’ An understudy. For four nights.”
“Indeed. Both parts warrant me in supposing a pretty face. Throw back
your hood, child.”
She untied a ribbon at the throat and threw it back with a quick
gesture. And here was Mr. Rich met with his second surprise.
There hung behind her the looking-glass wherein he was wont to adjust
the elegance of his wig and cravat. ’Twas a good one, for he valued his
appearance beyond expense. Now it reflected her graceful shoulders and
the creamy pillar of a swan throat, atop of which percht her little head
with the knots of black silken hair disposed about it very simple and
unlike the _curley-murley_ style then the mode. She carried the said
head high—could not indeed do otherwise, for the throat was stately,
but it gave her the carriage of a princess. Her eyes, meeting his with
anxious candour, were the deepest blue running on the violet side and
veiled with the most expressive eyelashes in the world. An Irish
combination ’tis true, but come by right, for her mamma sprang from the
noble stock of the Maguires of Ballyinch, though she had never set foot
on Irish soil. For the rest, the low broad brows and heart-shaped face,
and even the bow of the arched lip raised over the little pearls within
were beautiful. Nature, that is but a niggard stepmother with most of us
poor mortals, gave with more than maternal tenderness to this darling,
perfecting her picture with little touches, not to be described, such as
the great Kneller lays upon a picture he loves. These made her every
look an allurement, her every movement a favour to those who saw.
All this Mr. Rich could perceive, yet knew not the mere alphabet of the
charm that made her what she was. How shall a man see if he be blind or
hear if he be deaf? How shall a man with little mind and no sensibility
perceive what the play of both may add to the power of beauty? And
moreover she naturally did not set her illuminations alight for him. She
was too frightened indeed. But he saw before him a fine young woman of
what his practised eye detected for an excellent stage presence, and
spoke to that.
“Why, I must own that I commend the choice that made you Cherry, child.
But the experience is no experience at all—if it be not a something
gained in facing an audience. And these are speaking parts. The ladies I
engage for what I have in view must also be little warblers for there is
a chorus to many of the songs. I conclude you no singer since you was
chose for such parts.”
A slight smile raised the corners of her fair lips.
“Sir, I did not know ’twas required, but— Yes, I can sing.”
“A ballad over your needleworks, child? Well, but I need somewhat more.”
“Somewhat more I can do, Sir,” she said modestly, “I have had lessons.”
“Can you sing me a lesson now?”
’Twas a hard test and Mr. Rich knew it, but the girl invited tests. Two
she had past triumphant, but the third was the hardest. ’Tis to be said
however that he already saw her in his mind’s eye in the chorus, was it
but up the stage or in the wings. That face would stir the gallants, he
dare swear.
Bending over his scrutoire he took out a sheet of music very neat
written,
“This here’s a song in the new piece. You would not have this song for
’tis the first woman’s. Still, since we can’t ask you for a chorus,
’twill give me the notion of your voice, Mrs. Beswick. Will you try
it—you can read the music?”
“Certainly, Sir,” she replied with a little curtsy, and a sort of
assured modesty very pleasing. “You will make allowance for my
situation, I am certain.”
He composed himself in his chair as she took the music in hand, and
stood up like a young poplar by the candles to get the light on the
sheet. A few minutes past while she read it down slowly and carefully,
the paper shaking the least in the world in a somewhat trembling hand.
Then she began:
“Cease your funning,
Force and cunning
Never can my heart trepan.
All your sallies
Are but malice——”
Mr. Rich made a start here that completely overset her and she dropped
the music outright and put her hand quick to her heart.
“O, Sir,” she fluttered.
“Hush, hush, my child. Compose yourself and proceed. Begin again.” For
here came the third surprise! Heavens, what a voice! Not grand, massive,
commanding like Cuzzoni’s—not a voice to storm the town in grave opera
or in the great Mr. Handel’s oratorios, but fresh, clear and sweet as a
linnet’s at dawn.
“O Lord, the pretty innocent!” cries Mrs. Scawen from behind her
master’s chair. “Sure she trips up the notes like a lark running up the
sky. Was ever anything so uncommon! Sure she fetches the tears and I
don’t know why.”
“Be quiet, woman. Be not a chatter-chops!” says Mr. Rich, as stiff as a
magistrate in his chair. “Continue, Mrs. Beswick. To the end, if you
please.”
She did so, less fluttered now that she perceived the start was not
fury. Indeed she sang it charmingly. She hit every note in the middle
true as a silver mallet. Never was such effortless singing. ’Twas art
concealing art. It might be supposed the fair creature had never sung a
lesson nor a scale nor had human teacher, but sang as a bird does on a
flowery branch for mere delight in the sound of her own most delicious
voice—a singular high soprano, clear as crystal and as little
impassioned. But that might in part be owing to the circumstances which
certainly did not invite passion. He was about to speak when she
interrupted, but modestly:
“Sir, your discernment will tell you ’tis impossible I should do myself
justice in a lesson of music I know not. If you was at the music in
honor of St. Cecilia some months since at the Crown Tavern you might
recall the song “Pur dicesti,” which Madame Faustina sung there. Have I
your permission to sing a passage or two?”
Mr. Rich had not been present nor was skilled in music further than as
his trade used it, but as in a kind of dream he gave his august
permission, and the room rippled to the sweetest trills and melodious
cries of the Italian master. He could contain himself no longer. He
broke in upon the woven enchantment. He leaped up.
“Say no more, child. Sing no more. I’ll search no further. You’re the
cordial drop heaven in my cup has thrown. You’re my Polly!”
For one second she looked scared and shrank, his face being so
masterful. Then she saw his drift and her gravity broke up into dancing
smiles of delight. He caught her hand and they stood linked a
moment—Youth and joy at one.
“Polly!” she cries. “Is Polly her name? Then indeed ’tis something new.
Trust me, Sir, and I’ll make you the agreeablest Polly in all the
world!”
“You will, my girl, you will, for you can’t do otherwise. You have but
to look and sing and if you were the veriest stick that ever trod the
boards, you’ll have the town at your feet.”
“Me a stick!” she cried, highly offended. “Why, Sir, my ‘Cherry’ was
adorable. There wasn’t a man saw it but said so, and you know ’tis an
arch part. I hope I’m no fool if I _do_ look one. Hear me do a speech of
Lady Betty’s in ‘The Careless Husband.’”
She dropt his hand, and advanced, tripping with the ease and grace of a
fine modish woman:
“O, my dear! I’m overjoyed to see you! I’m strangely happy today. I have
just received my new scarf from London, and you are most critically come
to give me your opinion of it.”
Falling into her vein, Rich, laughing, took up Lady Easy’s part. He knew
every line.
“O, your servant, Madam. I’m a very indifferent judge, you know. What?
Is it with sleeves?”
(She languished and pouted at him)
“O, impossible to tell you what it is. ’Tis all extravagance both in
mode and fancy, my dear. I believe there’s six thousand yards of edging
in it. Then, such an enchanting slope from the elbow—so lively, so
noble, so coquette—”
She broke off laughing.
“_Now_, am I a stick, Lady Easy?”
“My dear, you’re perfection’s self!” cries Mr. Rich. Then cautiously
recollecting himself, because this might count in the salary, he said:
“Consider yourself bespoke for Polly, Mrs. Beswick. And I would have you
meet Mr. Gay tomorrow and consider the part with him. For though authors
be very blundering in stagecraft, expecting the impossible and indeed a
general hindrance, still they can’t be altogether set aside. Be pleased
therefore to be here tomorrow at the hour of eleven in the morning when
the conditions shall be adjusted to your satisfaction and mine.”
She clasped her hands and looked at him in a kind of ravishment.
“And is it really true? Sir, what shall I say to you? O, I will play as
you never saw woman play yet—no, not even the great Mrs. Oldfield. You
see me now but in hood and cloak, but when dressed to advantage, my hair
curled and frizzed about my face in the mode, I trust you will admit my
person not negligible. Indeed I won’t disappoint you and to the last day
of my life I will murmur to myself— ‘’Tis to Mr. Rich I owe all I have
and am!’
“’Tisn’t, my dear!” says he, surprised into candour. “’Tis to an
uncommonly lavish nature you owe it and not to an curmudgeon like me.
But I’ll be a true friend to you so long as you deserve it. Perhaps
longer, if I look into your eyes. But a word on that. My own orbs are
spectacled with good sense and a fine woman doesn’t strike the youthful
fire out of them as once she did. Come—in your ear. Other and younger
eyes will kindle at yours.— Are you an honest girl, child? or is there
any gentleman behind you to put you forward and live on your earnings?”
Instead of flushing and anger, she laughed the clearest laughter in the
world.
“Gentleman, Lord bless you, Sir—what have I to do with gentlemen? ’Tis
to get away from one, I’m here. My stepfather. And as to gentlemen, I’ll
have none of them,—let them stick to the audience, and I’ll stick to
the boards. I want but one lover, Sir—the public. That’s the heart I
would win and for any other I have no use. And as to matrimony—what! to
bear the uneasiness of a man’s temper and the fret of babies and the
bearing them, and the dull life of a wife whether she be a slut or a
lady of quality! No, Sir, indeed I am all yours and my profession’s.”
She was but a girl. Relieved of anxiety this showed most charmingly and
touched a paternal vein in Rich neither he nor any other knew he
possessed. He sighed a little looking at that fresh sparkling
beauty—all cream and roses, and the sweetness of a May hawthorn.
“Why, child, you speak brave, but you’re not to learn there are dangers
here—men——”
“I give but a snap of my fingers for them, be they who they will!” she
cried, and snapt her fingers to suit the words. “I’ll take care of
myself, Sir, and if I can’t, I’ll ask you for your protection.”
“I will be at your service,” he said, somewhat more grave than his wont.
“Your age, Mrs. Diana?”
“Eighteen, Sir, last June. My mother is Mrs. Fenton, wife of the
gentleman who keeps the Savannah Coffee House in Charing Cross. My
father was Mr. Beswick, a lieutenant in his Majesty’s navy. He is dead
three years. And for his sake, Sir, I entreat you give not my real name
to any concerned till I shall decide by what name I would be known. It
shall not be my own, for reasons.”
Mr. Rich assenting, noted all particulars in his pocket book, then took
up her cloak and put it about her, drawing the hood over her face.
“Let us quench the moon in clouds. There are too many peepers about!”
says he. “And now, Scawen, fetch a chair and put this young lady in it
and tell the chairmen they are answerable to me for her safety. My dear,
go to your home now, and tell your mamma what hath been done, and
conduct yourself with gravity and discretion and I doubt not but much
success awaits you.”
Mrs. Scawen called the chair, but ’twas Mr. Rich himself who placed the
hooded lady within and laid stern injunctions on the chairmen, who knew
him well. He stood watching a moment as they swung off with the
treasure—a treasure indeed to him.
“’Tis a fair creature and my very Polly!” he said to himself, and later,
with a sigh, “God be good to the poor child!”
’Twas not wholly selfish at heart.