“Who cares a snap for Germany?” says she. “Why, we have the whole world before us—the courts, the cities, the theatres, the fun!” She was infectious in her gaiety, and Papon and I grinned like idiots. “I want to live before I die!” She said that more than once; another of her mottoes, I suppose.
So we talked and joked as the coach rattled along, and she sang little Spanish songs—gay, catchy ditties—and coaxed me to sing, too. I gave them “Garryowen”, which she liked, being Irish, and “The British Grenadiers”, at which she and Papon laughed immoderately. I was in good spirits; it was gradually dawning on me at last that I was going to get away high, wide, and handsome, jewels and all, and I was warm at the thought that all the time the brilliant, lovely Lola never suspected what she was helping me to escape with.
At our village we discovered there was a train south next day, so we put up at the local inn, a decent little place called Der Senfbusch—the Mustard-Pot—I remember Lola laughing over the name. We had a capital dinner, and I must have drunk a fair quantity, for I have only vague memories of the evening, and of going to bed with Lola in a great creaking four-poster which swayed and squealed when we got down to business—she giggled so much at the row we made that I was almost put off my stroke. Then we had a night-cap, and my last memory of her before she blew out the candle is of those great eyes and smiling red lips and the black hair tumbling down over my face as she kissed me.
“Your poor head,” says she, stroking my bristling skull. “I do hope it grows curly again—and those lovely whiskers, too. You’ll wear them again for me, won’t you, Harry?”
Then we went to sleep, and when I woke I was alone in the bed, with the sun streaming bright in at the window, and a most devilish headache to keep me company. I ploughed out, but there was no sign of her; I called for Papon, but no reply. The landlord must have heard me, for he came up the stairs to see what I wanted.
“Madame—where is she?” says I, rubbing my eyes.
“Madame?” He seemed puzzled. “Why—she has gone, sir. With her servant. They went to the station above three hours ago.”
I gaped at him, dumbfounded.
“What the devil d’ye mean—gone? We were travelling together, man—she can’t have gone without me?”
“I assure you, sir, she has gone.” He fumbled beneath his apron. “She left this for your excellency, to be given to you when you woke.” And the lout held out a letter, smirking.
I took it from him; sure enough, there was Lola’s hand on the cover. And then an awful thought struck me—I sped back into my room, blundering over a chair, and tearing open the cupboard door with a mounting fear in my throat. Sure enough—my valise was gone.
I couldn’t believe it for a moment. I hunted under the bed, behind the curtains, everywhere in the room, but of course it was not to be seen. I was shaking with rage, mouthing filthy curses to myself, and then I flung down on the bed, beating at it with my fists. The thieving slut had robbed me—God, and after what I had been through for that swag! I called her every foul name I could think of, futile, helpless curses—for it didn’t take an instant’s thought to see that there was nothing I could do. I couldn’t lay an accusation of theft for stuff I had lifted myself; I couldn’t pursue, because I hadn’t the means. I had lost it—everything, to a lovely, loving, tender harlot who had charmed me into carelessness—aye, and drugged me, too, by the state of my tongue and stomach—and left me stranded while she went off with my fortune.
I sat there raging, and then I remembered the letter, crumpled in my fist, and tore it open. God! It even had her coat-of-arms on the sheet. I cleared my eyes and read:
My dear Harry,
My need is greater than thine. I cannot begin to guess where you came by such a treasure trove, but I know it must have been dishonestly, so I do not shrink from removing it. After all, you have a rich wife and family to keep you, and I am alone in the world.
You will find a little money in your coat pocket; it should get you out of Germany if you are careful.
Try not to think too hardly of me; after all, you would have played me false when it suited you. I trust we shall not meet again—and yet I say it with some regret, dear worthless, handsome Harry. You may not believe it, but there will always be a place for you in the heart of Rosanna.
P.S. Courage! And shuffle the cards.
I sat there, speechless, goggling at it. So help me God, if I could have come at her in that moment, I would have snapped her neck in cold blood, for a lying, canting, thieving, seducing, hypocritical, smooth-tongued, two-faced slut. To think that only yesterday I had been laughing up my sleeve about how she was helping me on my way home with a fortune unsuspected, while she was going to have to go back to regular whoring to earn a living! And now she was away, beyond hope of recovery, and my britches arse was hanging out again, and she would live in the lap of luxury somewhere on my hard-gotten booty. When I thought of the torture and risk I had gone through for that priceless haul, I raved aloud.
Well, it was no wonder I was put out then. Now, after so many years, it doesn’t seem to matter much. I have that letter still; it is old and worn and yellow—like me. She never became like that; she died as lovely as she had always been, far away in America—having lived before she died. I suppose I’m maudlin, but I don’t think particularly hard of her now—she was in the game for the same things as the rest of us—she got more of them, that’s all. I’d rather think of her as the finest romp that ever pressed a pillow—the most beautiful I ever knew, anyway. And I still wear my whiskers. One doesn’t forget Lola Montez, ever. Conniving bitch.
Of course, when you’re old and fairly well pickled in drink you can forgive most things past, and reserve your spite for the neighbours who keep you awake at night and children who get under your feet. In youth it’s different, and my fury that morning was frightful. I rampaged about that room, and hurled the furniture about, and when the landlord came to protest I knocked him down and kicked him. There was a tremendous outcry then, the constable was summoned, and it was a damned near thing that I wasn’t hauled before a magistrate and jailed.
In the end, there was nothing for it but to pack up what little I had and make back for Munich. I had a little cash now, thanks to Lola—God, that was the crowning insult—so that at long last I was able to make for home, weary and angry and full of venom. I left Germany poorer than I came in—although of course there was still £250 of Lola’s (or Bismarck’s) money in the bank at home. I had two sabre cuts and a gash on my arm, a decent grasp of the German language, and several white hairs, I imagine, after what I’d been through. Oh, that was another thing, of course—I had a scalp that looked like a hog’s back for bristles, although it grew right in time. And to make my temper even worse, by the time I reached the Channel I heard news that Lola was in Switzerland, fornicating with Viscount Peel, the old prime minister’s son—no doubt he was well peeled, too, by the time she had finished with him.
I’ve only once been back to Germany. Indeed, I don’t include it even among the garrulous reminiscences that have made me the curse of half the clubs in London—those that’ll have me. Only once did I tell the tale, and that was privately some years ago, to young Hawkins, the lawyer—I must have been well foxed, or he was damned persuasive—and he has used it for the stuff of one of his romances, which sells very well, I’m told.
He made it into a heroic tale, of course, but whether he believed it or not when I told it, I’ve no idea; probably not. It’s a good deal stranger than fiction, and yet not so strange, because such resemblances as mine and Carl Gustaf’s do happen. Why, I can think of another case, connected with this very story, and I saw it when the Duchess Irma came to London in the old Queen’s diamond year—they were related, as I’ve said. It’s the only time I’ve seen Irma since—I kept well in the background, of course, but I had a good look at her, and even at seventy she was a damned handsome piece, and set me itching back over the years. She was a widow then, Carl Gustaf having d
ied of a chill on the lungs back in the ’60’s, but she had her son with her; he was a chap in his forties, I should say, and the point is that he was the living spit of Rudi von Starnberg—well, that can only have been coincidence, of course. It gave me quite a turn, though, and for a moment I was glancing nervously round for a quick retreat.
Rudi I last heard of with the Germans when they marched on Paris; there was a rumour of his death, so he’s probably been stoking Lucifer’s fires these thirty years and good luck to him. Unlike Mr Rassendyll I did not exercise myself daily in arms in expectation of trying another round with him: one was enough to convince me that with fellows like young Rudi the best weapon you can have is a long pair of legs and a good start.
Bismarck—well, all the world knows about him. I suppose he was one of the greatest statesmen of the age, a shaper of destiny and all the rest of it. He got to his feet for me, though, when I looked down my nose at him—I like to think back on that. And it is queer to consider that but for me, the course of history in Europe might have been very different—though who’s to know? Bismarck, Lola, Rudi, Irma, and I—the threads come together, and then run very wide, and are all gathered together again, and go into the dark in the end. You see, I can be philosophical—I’m still here.43
I wasn’t feeling so philosophical, though, when I journeyed back from Munich to London, and arrived home at last, soaked and shivering with weariness and our damned March weather. I seem to have come home to that front door so many times—covered with glory once or twice, and other times limping along with my boots letting in. This was one of the unhappier homecomings, and it wasn’t improved by the fact that when I was let into the hall, my dear father-in-law, old Morrison, was just coming downstairs. That was almost the last straw—my bloody Scotch relatives were still on the premises when I had hoped that they might have gone back to their gloomy sewer in Renfrew. The only bright spot I had been able to see was that I would be able to celebrate my return in bed with Elspeth, and here was this curmudgeon welcoming me in true Celtic style.
“Huh!” says he; “it’s you. You’re hame.” And he muttered something about another mouth to feed.
I gripped my temper as I gave my coat to Oswald, bade him good afternoon, and asked if Elspeth was at home.
“Oh, aye,” says he, looking me over sourly. “She’ll be glad tae see ye, nae doot. Ye’re thinner,” he added, with some satisfaction. “I take it Germany didnae agree wi’ ye—if that’s where ye’ve been.”
“Yes, it’s where I’ve been,” says I. “Where’s Elspeth?”
“Oh, in the drawin’-room—takin’ tea wi’ her friends, I suppose. We have all the fashionable habits in this hoose—includin’ your ain faither’s intemperance.”
“He’s well again?” I asked, and Oswald informed me that he was upstairs, lying down.
“His accustomed position,” says old Morrison. “Weel, ye’d better go up, sir, and be reunited wi’ the wife ye’ll have been yearning for. If ye make haste ye’ll be in time for tea, from her fine new silver service—aye, a’ the luxuries o’ the Saltmarket.” And to the sound of his whining I ran upstairs and into the drawing-room, feeling that tightness in my chest that I always felt when I was coming back again to Elspeth.
She gave a little cry at the sight of me, and rose, smiling, from behind the tray from which she had been dispensing tea to the females who were sitting about, all bonnets and gentility. She looked radiantly stupid, as ever, with her blonde hair done a different way, in ringlets that framed her cheeks.
“Oh, Harry!” She came forward, and stopped. “Why—Harry! Whatever have you done to your head?”
I should have expected that, of course, and kept my hat on, or worn a wig, or anything to prevent the repetition of that dam-fool question. Oh, well, I was home again, and in one piece, and Elspeth was holding out her hands and smiling and asking:
“What did you bring me from Germany, Harry?”
(The end of the second packet of The Flashman Papers)
APPENDIX I:
The Prisoner of Zenda
Whether Flashman’s real-life experiences in Germany provided Anthony Hope with the basis of his famous romance, The Prisoner of Zenda, is a matter which readers must decide for themselves. Flashman is quite definite in the text in two places—especially where he refers to “Hawkins”, which was Hope’s real name. There is certainly some similarity in events, and names like Lauengram, Kraftstein, Detchard, de Gautet, Bersonin, and Tarlenheim are common to both stories; Flashman’s “Major Sapten” is literary twin brother to Hope’s “Colonel Sapt”, and no amateur of romantic fiction will fail to identify Rudi von Starnberg with the Count of Hentzau.
APPENDIX II:
Lola Montez
Although several of the notes following this appendix refer to Lola Montez, she deserves fuller mention than can be conveniently included there. She was, after all, one of the most remarkable adventuresses in history, with an intellect and personality to match her looks; for these gifts, rather than her capacity for scandalous behaviour, she is worth remembering.
Her real name was Marie Dolores Eliza Rosanna Gilbert, and she was born in Limerick in 1818, the daughter of a British Army officer. He was probably Scottish; her mother was part-Spanish, and Lola was brought up in India, in Scotland, and on the continent. When she was 18 she ran off with a Captain James, and after living in India, returned to England in 1841. She seems to have begun on her long succession of lovers while still in her ’teens, and James divorced her in 1842. Her career as a Spanish dancer followed, and after a series of Continental appearances, lovers, and scandals, she became the mistress of Ludwig of Bavaria. It has been suggested that his interest in her was purely intellectual; that is a matter of opinion. What is not to be doubted is that she was the ruler of Bavaria—and there have been worse governors of nations—until the revolution of 1848 forced her to leave the country. She later went to America, where she lectured on such subjects as beauty and fashion, and died in New York in 1861, when she was only 43.
Apart from Captain James she had two other husbands, a young officer named Heald, who died, and a San Francisco editor, Patrick Hall, who divorced her.
This is the briefest outline of her short life; there is no room to include all the lovers, real and reputed (apart from those mentioned by Flashman, gossip included even Lord Palmerston), or the endless catalogue of scandals, scenes, escapes, and triumphs. These can be found in her biographies, of which The Magnificent Montez, by Horace Wyndham, is particularly recommended.
Flashman’s account of Lola’s behaviour, and his assessment of her character, seem both authentic and fair. His enthusiasm for her looks and personality were generally shared (even by his old Indian acquaintance, the Hon. Emily Eden); there is ample evidence of her promiscuity, her optimistic cheerfulness, her sudden furious rages, and her tendency to physical violence—the men she horsewhipped included a Berlin policeman, the boots of a Munich hotel, and the editor of the Ballarat Times, Australia. But none of her contemporaries has left such an intimate portrait of her as Flashman has, or come closer to explaining the magnetism she exerted. And in spite of his conduct towards her, he obviously respected her deeply.
Notes
1. The Minor St James Club may have been new to Flashman in 1842, but it was notorious to fashionable London. Its proprietor, a Mr Bond, was successfully sued in that year by a disgruntled punter who received £3500 in respect of his losses. (See L. J. Ludovici’s The Itch for Play.)
2. Mr Wilson’s performances were a great success all over England, especially with exiled Scots like Mrs Flashman. His repertoire included “A Nicht wi’ Burns”, and a lecture on the ’45 Rebellion, as well as popular songs. He died during a tour of the United States.
3. Horse-drawn omnibuses had been running in London since Flashman was a small boy; possibly he is referring to a new service. Their conductors, or “cads”, had a reputation for violence and obscenity which lingers in the word to this day.
4. Raiding of gambling-hells was common after the Police Act of 1839, which permitted forced entry. Flashman’s observations on the proprietors’ precautions and their right to sue the police are accurate. (See Ludovici.)
5. Hughes’ passing reference to Speedicut certainly brackets him with Flashman, and can therefore be taken to be highly uncomplimentary. Flashman shows him in a new light, which prompts the thought that Speedicut may have been one (or both) of the anonymous companions in “Tom Brown” who spared the fags in the blanket-tossing episode and was later in favour of only partially roasting Tom before the fire.
6. The “barbed wire” comparison must have occurred to Flashman at some later date; it was not in common use before the 1870’s.
7. Nick Ward claimed the championship of England after beating Deaf James Burke in September, 1840, and Ben Caunt in February, 1841. He lost a return bout with Caunt three months later.
8. The second Marquis of Conyngham was among the victims fleeced at Mr Bond’s Minor Club; he lost at least £500 on two occasions in 1842.
9. Flashman’s description of Bismarck evokes a different picture from the popular impression of the Iron Chancellor, but it tallies with those details of his early life which biographers seldom dwell on at length. Bismarck’s taste for playful violence, his boorish conduct in public places, his whoring, carousing, and riotous behaviour (the habit of firing a pistol into the ceiling to announce his arrival to friends, for example), and his 25 duels in his first term at Göttingen, all testify to a nature not invariably statesmanlike. He appears, in fact, to have been an unpleasant young man, brilliant beyond his years but given to cynicism and arrogance. He was as tall, strong, and handsome as Flashman remembers him, with blond-red hair and aristocratic bearing.
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