Lola Montez Conquers the Spaniards (7 page)

Ensconced in the drawing room with a fine sherry, I turned to Juan, my chin held high. “May I ask—who am I to be in your play?”

I saw Concepción's nostrils flare before she took a small sip from her glass. Her husband answered, “A very important—no, crucial—role.”

“Do I have a great many lines?” I tried not to flap or spill my sherry, but the very thought of my first role on stage was making me long to dash about. “Perhaps I could begin learning them now.”

“No, no,
cariña,
you don't want to grow stale. Trust me with this. All in good time.”

And with that I had to be content.

Concepción began her work with me the very next morning. She was to teach me Spanish, as quickly and thoroughly as possible in a short period of time. I surmised she had done this before, teaching their five children the language of her blood now that they were no longer in Spain. Four of the children were still quite little and came trooping in and out of the library where she and I worked. Odilia was ten and an independent creature; Leopoldina, at seven, and Cecilia at six, were sweet and needy, and at first I shared my lessons with them. Their son, Josep, was only two and was the apple of his parents' eyes.

Their oldest daughter was named Clotilde; she was a short but precocious sixteen, aggressively interested in young men. She was standoffish with me at first, but when she heard I came from London she wanted to know all about “those odd, pale people with the long faces and bad teeth.” Her father was indulgent of Clotilde, petting her and providing whatever she desired. Concepción treated their firstborn almost as an equal, and certainly as a rival for her husband's affection. Those two females were in the throes of mutual jealousy the whole time I stayed with them. It was quite exhausting.

I remained, day and night, under either Grimaldi's or his wife's supervision. And I was worked like a fiend. Luckily, I was very good and
getting better daily—my shooting was improving by leaps and bounds, and my Spanish as well. Grimaldi usually arranged it so that we would have the shooting gallery to ourselves, though sometimes I caught a glimpse of the dark-skinned Spanish fellow looking severe on the staircase. A bodyguard, I told myself, and tried to relax. He was obviously paid to look out for me,
ergo
I was safe.

I rejoiced when, one day in the third week, Juan announced that I would be accompanying them to the theatre that night—the Comédie Française, no less, where a play by Alexandre Dumas was enjoying a revival. The only bits of Paris I had seen were the hotel (for such a short time), the gallery, and the Grimaldi mansion. I was hungry to see the real Paris at last.

“You have heard of Monsieur Dumas, of course?”

“Of course,” I said (though I hadn't).

“We will meet him in the café afterward,” Juan told me. “Be careful of his roving hands, Rosana.” He was a fine one to talk.

The play was called
Mademoiselle de Belle-Isle.
It was rather silly but fun, though I was more taken by the opulence of the theatre itself and spent much of the evening looking down from our box at the composition of the audience. Beneath us were the less fortunate rabble, who had to sit below the stage and look up at the actors. Surrounding that lower level were three tiers of magnificent private boxes, where all of the privileged sat, and conversed, and went in and out of one another's loges with much laughter and merriment. Directly across from us was the box of Monsieur Dumas, a large, rolling thunder of a man, laughing immoderately at his own jokes. At his side sat a rotund little woman, a slight melancholic-seeming young man, and a young pretty woman dressed in very bright colours. “Wife, son, and courtesan of the moment,” Concepción whispered behind her fan. “The son is besotted. It will end badly, no doubt.” How interesting, I thought, and all out in the open! Clotilde, who was leaning forwards to hear every word on stage, hissed at her mother, “Be quiet!” All heads down below turned to look up. Concepción waved her fan regally; the heads returned to the action.

After curtain call, and leaving a short interval for the milling stream of audience members to disperse, Grimaldi led his cortege backstage.
This was what I really longed to see—the actors, in their own skins—and I could barely contain my excitement. Clotilde, I think, was disgusted by my
naïveté
: She had grown up around these people, and for her it was merely the usual end to a theatrical evening. Concepción, I noticed, seemed tense as we moved through the entrails of the building. I wondered whether she missed the thrill of performing. Grimaldi looked angry. And then, there we were in the corridor of the dressing rooms. There was the unmistakable smell of greasepaint, of still-warm costumes and wigs—and here came the actors. The Grimaldi adults' response was fascinating: All of a sudden, their faces changed. They became animated, congratulating everyone, warmly and individually, clasping hands, murmuring endearments. Just moments before, they had appeared so unhappy and resentful.

At this point, Dumas and his coterie arrived; back-thumping hugs, cheek kisses, and jovial shouts of triumph resounded. The rest of the actors emerged from their rooms, shorn of wigs, white powder, and hoopskirts—they seemed tiny now, with their newly scrubbed faces.

“To the café!” Dumas shouted. “On me!” Grimaldi added, “Second round's on me,” and the company cheered. It didn't take long for the corridor to empty; everyone moved to the stage door and off into the night.

“Rosana,” Juan reassured me, as we followed, “I did not introduce you just then, as actors cannot take in much information so soon after coming away from applause. All they can absorb at that point is flattery or mutual admiration: ‘Did I show well?' ‘They loved me tonight, didn't they?' And so on. After a drink, their euphoria will begin to modulate into something approaching reality; then we shall introduce the dark beauty in our midst.” Clotilde snorted derisively, and her father bestowed a kiss upon her head. “They already know
this
dark beauty. It is our guest's turn tonight.”

“She's no guest. She's—”

“Hush.”

By the time we arrived at the Café de Paris, most of the actors had flung off their coats and settled around tables, all in one unwieldy throng. Alexandre Dumas was on his feet, waving money around, handing it over as the drinks arrived. The writer was immense in girth and stature,
as well as in self-regard; a self-made man, you could see he would not let anyone forget it. Grimaldi managed to attract the attention of the nearest waiter as we squeezed ourselves in to the midst of the laughing group, while Dumas bellowed, “I have never refused money to anybody, except my creditors!” I was in a fever of exhilaration. To be in Paris, at the pinnacle of the society I so longed to join—surely it couldn't be too far out of reach now, not with Juan's patronage and my own active enterprise. I was almost there!

“In France,” Dumas was announcing to the table at large, “some little obscure bauble that sells no copies is considered brilliant! Success is ignored—no,
hated
—by the Académie Française. They may regard you as an amusing fellow but you are not respected.” Someone remonstrated, but he shot them down: “No, no, I tell you! Bores enjoy priority!”

“For heaven's sake, sit down now,” said the small round woman, tugging aggressively on the writer's lapel.

Concepción leaned towards me to whisper, “The fat lady is Ida Ferrier. They married two years ago, and already they have had more lovers between them than you can believe. His son hates her with a passion.”

Grimaldi added, out of the corner of his mouth, “She was a reasonably good actress, and she used to be slim, almost thin.” When Concepción made a disparaging sound, he took her hand. “As Hugo says, my dear, ‘There is a skeleton in every woman.' Though speaking for myself, I prefer that skeleton to be well covered.”

“Not
that
well covered, I hope,” she snarled.

“You have a point, beloved.”

Dumas was looking around for something else to say as Grimaldi rose to his feet, glass in hand. “Esteemed company, congratulations again on your current success! May it continue apace!” Everyone cheered, and drank. “While I have your attention,” Juan went on, “allow me to introduce—”

“Another of your agents?” someone called. “You're in too deep, Juan!”

“—my protégée, from England, Miss Eliza Rosana Gilbert.” And he gestured me to my feet. Greetings were murmured, while a number of the men applauded and called, “
Belle femme
!” I heard surprised whispers, “A woman. This one's a woman!”

Ida Ferrier called, in a shrill voice, “Always before they have been men, Juan, and not very savory-looking men; men that would as soon stab you in the back, I'd have thought. Mutineers and bandits, with long waxed mustaches and glass eyes and scars.” The group was nodding, and she turned to me, “What is it that he will have you do,
jeune fille?
”

Alexandre Dumas wiped his scarlet lips and for the first time gave me the benefit of his full attention. At that moment, that very second, I sensed he was a dangerous man, in usual and unusual ways.

“Mademoiselle Gilbert,” he murmured, raising his glass. Everyone drank again as his small eyes appraised me, then, without taking a breath, “But I was saying earlier—for theatres to make money, the dancers must wear tights . . . which split! And in the
split
you can tell the sheep from the goats, the talented from the
obviously
talentless.” His eyes on me were malignant; I felt as if I was falling from a great height and clutched at the table. “No, no, God's truth,” he continued, well pleased that he'd seen his insult to a new young girl hit home, and he carried on with his rude joke about theatre managers and dancers' tights.

I sat down, slowly. Clotilde was smiling spitefully at my shattered countenance. I was only another young female with hopeful ambitions; such creatures are perennial and need no encouragement. If one falls by the wayside, three more are sure to follow. Across the table, the odious writer took pause to lick and suck noisily at an enormous cigar. Did anyone else see the blush that rose up from my chest to suffuse my cheeks? It was a fierce blush signaling anger rather than shame. As he got his repulsive cigar lit and put his thick tongue away, the café noise and smoke retreated from my consciousness. He had reminded me, viscerally, of another powerful, conceited man I'd known, another with whom I had experienced immediate and mutual antipathy. That man's name? Sir Jasper Nicolls.

My blood boils as I remember. And when my blood boils, I make enemies for life.

Banished from India at age eight, I lived with my stepfather's parents in Scotland, then was sent to Durham, England, to my stepfather's older sister, Mrs. Catherine Rae. Aunt Catherine and Uncle Herbert longed for children but had none; she found me difficult to manage, although
she tried very hard. When my stepfather was promoted again, no doubt wishing to free his sister from thrall to his young charge, he arranged (from India) for my next move. I was to be ‘put to school' under the aegis of the eminent Major General Sir Jasper Nicolls. There were eight school-age daughters in his household, and perhaps he agreed because arranging the education of one more would hardly cause a ripple. So, in September 1832, my step-aunt and I took the coach from Durham to Reading, in Berkshire. Once again I was being passed from one stranger to another like a sack of unwanted clothing. It's painful to recall how much I hated this, how inferior it made me feel. Like many a lonely girl, I'd convinced myself that I was an exotic princess in captivity and that one day I would escape and wreak my vengeance. My zest, my originality, would not be stifled. I swore it! I was better than that. I was better than any of them! I suppose I was not in any mood to confront my new reality when we finally arrived.

The major general was home from India, on leave, when I was delivered. A stiff military man, very high on his horse about punctuality, obedience, and silence. I barely recall his wife, a headache-ridden, exhausted soul who kept to the upper floors. My fate was in Sir Nicolls's hands, and I'd soon learned how to read what fate had in store for me: His library, on the main floor, was dark and forbidding but I would often creep across the carpet when he was not there, open the desk drawer, and read his diary. Very early on he wrote that he believed “the Gilbert girl” would “come to no good.” I remember running into him one night when he'd caught me almost in the act: I'd managed to close the drawer and skip out from behind his desk, but there he was, an imposing red-faced mountain, looking down at me with distaste. I'd scampered away then, but I secretly spit into his teacup the next morning. That's how it was. And as we'd begun, so we'd unfortunately continued.

I was sent to the Misses Aldridge's in Bath, two spinster sisters who ran a boarding school. Five of the Nicolls girls were also there. At first I'd believed I was meant to feel like one of the Nicolls family—we spent time together, we did each other's hair—but then, at the first holiday, I'd waited with them at the front door, bags packed, full of excitement and anxiety to see fresh scenes, encounter new people. Their father had
written that he was sending the family to Paris for several months—Paris! I was thirteen by then and hungry for life to begin. When the carriage drew up, there was intense consternation from the driver and footman, then a consultation with the Nicolls girls. Edith, the eldest, had to whisper into my ear that she was so very sorry, I had not been invited. I'd pulled my hand away from hers as if I had been stung. I pulled my glove off, flung it down, and stamped away inside, leaving my bags upon the front steps.