'I can do your dirty work, eh? Well, well.'
'You'll go?'
'That is no concern of yours,' says he. 'Good day.'
'May I come?'
'My dear sir, I cannot prevent you going where you choose. But I forbid you absolutely to address me in public.'
And he turned over on his side, away from me. But I was satisfied; no doubt he would go, and denounce 'Donna Lola'. He had his own score to pay off, and was just the sort of mean hound who would do it, too.
Sure enough, when the fashionable crowd was arriving at Her Majesty's the following Monday, up rolls Lord Ranelagh with a party of bloods, in two coaches. I was on hand, and tailed on to them at the door; he noticed me, but didn't say anything, and I was allowed to follow into the omnibus-box which he had engaged directly beside the stage. One or two of his friends gave me haughty stares, and I took my seat very meek, at the back of the box, while his lordship showed off at the front, and his friends and he talked and laughed loudly, to show what first-rate bucks they were.
It was a splendid house—quite out of proportion to the opera, which was 'The Barber of Seville'. In fact, I was astonished at the gathering: there was the Queen Dowager in the Royal Box, with a couple of foreign princelings; old Wellington, wrinkled and lynx-eyed, with his Duchess; Brougham, the minister, the Baroness de Rothschild, Count Esterhazy, the Belgian ambassador, and many others. All the most eminent elderly lechers of the day, in fact, and I hadn't a doubt that it wasn't the music they had come for. Lola Montez was the attraction of the night, and the talk through the pit was of nothing else. Rumour had it that at certain select gatherings for the highest grandees in Spain, she had been known to dance nude; it was also being said that she had once been the leading light of a Turkish harem. Oh, they were in a fine state of excitement by the time the curtain went up.
My own idea of theatrical entertainment, I admit, is the musichall; strapping wenches and low comedians are my line, and your fine drama and music bore me to death. So I found 'The Barber of Seville' a complete fag: fat Italians screeching, and not a word to be understood. I read the programme for a bit, and found more entertainment in the advertisements than there was on the stage—'Mrs Rodd's anatomical ladies stays, which ensure the wearer a figure of astonishing symmetry'; I remember thinking that the leading lady in 'The Barber' could have profited by Mrs Rodd's acquaintance. Also highly spoken of were Jackson's patent enema machines, as patronised by the nobility when travelling. I wasn't alone, I noticed, in finding the opera tedious; there were yawns in the pit, and Wellington (who was near our box) began to snore until his Duchess dug him in the ribs. Then the first act ended, and when the applause died away everyone sat up, expectant; there was a flourish of Spanish music from the orchestra, and Lola (or Rosanna) shot dramatically on to the stage.
I'm no authority on the dance; the performer, not the performance, is what I pay to see. But it seemed to me that she was damned good. Her striking beauty brought the pit up with a gasp: she was in a black bodice, cut so low that her breasts seemed to be in continual danger of popping out, and her tiny pink skirt showed off her legs to tremendous advantage. The slim white neck and shoulders, the coal-black hair, the gleaming eyes, the scarlet lips curled almost in contempt—the whole effect was startling and exotic. You know these throbbing, Spanish rhythms; well, she swayed and shook and stamped her way through them in splendid passion, and the audience sat spellbound. She was at once inviting and challenging; I doubt if there was any gesture or movement in the whole dance that a magistrate could have taken exception to, and yet the whole effect of it was sensual. It seemed to say 'Bed me—if you dare', and every man in the place was taking her clothes off as he watched. What the women thought I can't imagine, but I guess they admired her almost as much as they disliked her.[16]
When she finished abruptly, with a final smash of her foot and clash of cymbals from the orchestra, the theatre went wild. They cheered and stamped, and she stood for a moment still as a statue, staring proudly down at them, and then swept straight off the stage. The applause was deafening, but she didn't come back, and there were sighs and a few groans when the curtain went up again on the next act of the opera, and those damned Macaronis began yelping again.
Through all this Ranelagh had sat forward in his chair, staring at her, but never said a word. He didn't pay the least attention to the opera, but when Lola came on for her second dance, which was even more tempestuous than the first, he made a great show of examining her through his glasses. Everyone else was doing the same, of course, in the hope that her bodice would burst, which it seemed likely to do at any moment, but when the applause broke out, wilder than ever, he kept his glasses glued to his eyes, and when she had gone he was seen to be frowning in a very puzzled way. This was all leading up to the denoument, of course, and when she bounced on, snapping her fan, for the third time, I heard him mutter to his nearest neighbour
'You chaps keep your eyes on me. I'll give the word, mind, and then we'll see some fun.'
She swirled through the dance, showing splendid amounts of her thighs, and gliding about sinuously while peeping over her fan, and at the finish there was a perfect torrent of clapping and shouting, with bouquets plopping down on to the stage and chaps standing up and clapping wildly. She smiled now, for the first time, bowing and blowing kisses before the curtain, and then suddenly, from our box there was a great hissing in unison, at which the applause faltered and died away. She turned to stare furiously in our direction, and as the hissing rose louder than ever there were angry shouts and cries from the rest of the theatre. People craned to see what the row was about, and then Ranelagh climbs to his feet, an imposing figure with his black beard and elegant togs, and cries out, very distinctly:
'Why, this is a proper swindle, ladies and gentlemen! That woman isn't Lola Montez. She's an Irish girl, Betsy James!'
There was a second's silence, and then a tremendous hullabaloo. The hissing started again, with cries of 'Fraud!' and 'Impostor!', the applause began and sputtered out, and angry cat-calls and boos sounded from the gallery. In a moment the whole mood of the theatre had changed; taking their cut from Ranelagh and his toadies, they began to howl her down; a few coins clattered on the stage; the conductor, gaping at the audience with his mouth open, suddenly flung down his baton and stamped out; and then the whole place was in a frenzy, stamping and calling for their money back, and shouting to her angrily to get back to the bogs of Donegal.
She was standing blazing with fury, and when she moved towards our box some of the chaps scrambled back to get out of harm's way. She stood a moment, her bosom heaving, her eyes sweeping the box—oh, yes, she recognised
I must say I was delighted; I hadn't thought it could go off so well. As we crowded out of the place—' The Barber', of course, was entirely forgotten in the sensation—I came up to Ranelagh's elbow and congratulated him; I couldn't have paid her out so splendidly myself, and I told him so. He gave me a cold nod and sailed off, the snobbish bastard, but I wasn't in a mood to mind too much; that was me quits with Mistress Lola for her brickbats and insults, and I went home in high good humour.
She was finished on the London stage, of course. Lumley dismissed her, and although one or two attempts were made to present her at other theatres, the damage was done. All sorts of people now seemed to remember her as Mrs James, and although she wrote a letter of denial to the press, no one believed it. A few weeks later she had disappeared and that, thought I, was the end of Lola Montez so far as I was concerned, and good riddance. A brilliant bed-mate, I don't deny, in her way, and even now the picture of her kneeling naked among the bed-clothes can set me itching—but I'd never liked her particularly, and was glad to see her sent packing.
But it wasn't the end of her, by any means. Although it was some years before I saw her again—in circumstances that I couldn't have dreamed of—one heard of her from time to time through the papers. And always it was sensational news; she seemed to have a genius for thrusting herself into high places and creating scandal. First there was a report of her horse-whipping a policeman in Berlin; next she was dancing on the tables during a civic banquet in Bonn, to the outrage of Prince Albert and our Queen, who were on a State visit at the time. Then she was performing in Paris, and when the audience didn't take to her she stripped off her garters and drawers and flung them at the gallery; she started a riot in the streets of Warsaw, and when they tried to arrest her she held the peelers off with pistols. And of course there were scores of lovers, most of them highly-placed: the Viceroy of Poland, the Tsar of Russia (although I doubt if that's true), and Liszt the musician.[18] She took up with him two or three times, and once to get rid of her he locked her in a hotel room and sneaked out by the back door.
