5

If books were colours,
then The Great Gatsby would be the golden as expensive jewellery, The Secret Garden would be the green and violet as moorland – and Ross Poldark would be the black and red – as copper ore.

If books were sounds,
then The Collector would be silence as in a coffin, War & Peace would be the boom of canons, clatter of horses' hoofs and a waltz – and Ross Poldark would be the pumping engine at a mine, seagull cries and the rush of the tide.

If books were smells,
then Max Fry’s books would be coffee aroma, which makes you wanna snuggle in your armchair with a cup of coffee on a windy day; North and South would be smoke, which is omnipresent and makes you feel like coughing – and Ross Poldark would be the seaside breeze, fresh and salty, which invites you to take a stroll on the beach or even go for a swim.

If books were drinks,
then Pride & Prejudice would be champagne (so light and sparkling), Three Comrades would be calvados (with a taste of bitter disappointments), and Ross Poldark would be port and ale (hearty and heady, appropriate both for merry and gloomy spirits).

If books were landscapes,
then The English Patient would be sands-sands-sands with no end, The Cold Mountain would be mountains, each farther peak of a paler tint of blue – and Ross Poldark would be a barren land with not much good soil and woods, with a rugged coastline and mines which Cornwall is so famous for.

But they are not. Or better say – they are all these characteristics at once. Sometimes their combination is commonplace, sometimes disgusting, sometimes amusing, and once in a while magic. In case of this novel, it was the last variant for me.

I will make no summary of the story in my review – you will find it in the book’s description above, and to say more would mean putting spoilers. Instead, with your permission, I will quote just two extracts which show the main conflicts of the novel:

<...> he fought to overcome his jealousy and pain, as one will to overcome a fainting fit. This time he must destroy it once and for all. Either he must do that or leave the county again. He had his own life to live, his own way to go; there were other women in the world, common clay perhaps, but charming enough with their pretty ways and soft bodies.

Ross finished his pacing and stared down at the sandy earth. The eternal enigma of the prospector faced him: whether this acre of ground held under its surface riches or frustration. Time and work and patience...

I usually feel apprehensive about historical novels. Many of them are tedious with too many facts of history. Those written by people who lived in previous centuries can be charming but not close to life – to our life, I mean, because emotions and characters described by them are too “black-and-white” (either too good or too evil), and the plot is quite predictable in most cases – you just know that these will die and those will marry.

But not so in this series of novels. While reading, you plunge head over heels into its atmosphere, you feel like you are getting to know real people, not characters created by one man and therefore one-type and highly predictable. You share their feelings, laugh with them when they are merry, sigh with them when they are sad. The plot is like a map which shows not one direct route but many thoroughfares, paths, and even underground adits – some running ahead, some intersecting, all of them together creating a wonderful canvas. Even the technical side of mining doesn’t make the story less gripping. It’s a highly enjoyable, good sort of literature, sophisticated without being “too classical”.

I feel I have to say a few words about the language in the book. It is a rich palette of vocabulary, from high-flown words to country dialects and even curses. Sometimes you are puzzled by the speech of miners and bal maids; but for me it was fun to “decipher” it. Another local charm is toponyms. We are in England but many place names sound not quite English: Bodmin, Truro, Bedruthan, Redruth, Kenwyn, Penryn, Sawle, Marasanvose, Trenwith, Cusgarne, Nampara, Hendrawna… You are not always sure how to pronounce them, yet you feel fascinated with their almost exotic ringing.

PS Like Daphne du Maurier, Winston Graham found his inspiration in the spellbinding nature of Cornwall. It’s now on my bucket-list: to see Cornwall with my own eyes.