Becoming Lola

by Harriet Steel

  *

  Her first week at the theatre was a moderate success. She found she kept up quite easily with the steps she needed to perform. Hércule turned out to be a charming native of Granada who taught her to smoke in the Spanish fashion – inhaling the smoke deep into her lungs. At first, she felt dizzy and he laughed at her, but she soon became accustomed to the habit.

  Time passed and, as she grew more familiar with Seville, it surprised her to discover that unlike in England, here it was acceptable for unmarried women to meet and talk freely with their suitors. It seemed a sensible arrangement. At least the parties to a marriage would have a good chance of understanding each other before they agreed to marry. She might never have made her own mistake if she had known Thomas better.

  One evening, she walked along La Cristina, the fashionable promenade by the Guadalquivir. She had stopped to light her cigarillo at one of the posts wrapped around with smouldering, sulphur-coated rope that the Sevillian authorities provided for the purpose, when someone called her name. She turned to see Bibiana, one of her fellow chorus girls, walking on the arm of her young man.

  ‘Eliza, come and meet Felipe, mi novio. We are going to eat ices at our favourite café. Will you join us?’

  In the café, they chatted in a mixture of Spanish and English – both Bibiana and Felipe spoke a little of the latter - and watched the crowds strolling by. A young man dressed in blue velvet breeches with silver filigree buttons and carrying a long, white stick attracted Eliza’s gaze. He wore an egg-yolk yellow sash around his waist and his black jacket was cut short to the waist and lavishly decorated with arabesques of scarlet leather and silver thread. His three-cornered hat was high crowned and glossy black.

  ‘A majo,’ Bibiana remarked. ‘They like to show off the traditional costume.’

  ‘It’s splendid. I’m surprised more people don’t wear it.’

  Felipe frowned. ‘We are a modern people now, not just picturesque curiosities for foreign artists to paint.’

  Bibiana shot him a reproving look.

  ‘Forgive me, I did not mean to be rude, but it is important to say it.’

  Eliza smiled. ‘I’m sorry too. I didn’t mean to give offence.’

  ‘If Eliza wants to see some of the old ways,’ Bibiana observed, ‘we should take her to visit the gypsies up in the caves.’

  Felipe raised an eyebrow. ‘It’s a long way and often dangerous.’

  ‘Eliza’s brave,’ said Bibiana. She had heard the story of the robber and seen the dagger.

  ‘Well, if she would like to come, we’ll take her.’

  *

  A few nights later, mounted on donkeys, they trotted out of the city and up into the wild countryside beyond. Eliza had not ridden since the days in India with Thomas, and the donkey could not match her old mare’s smooth gait, but she felt exhilarated by the cool crisp air and the stark beauty of the landscape. She breathed in the scent of wild fennel and thyme.

  The moonlight had turned the stony path to a ribbon of mother of pearl and cast fantastical shadows on the rocks through which it wound. Her donkey picked its way gingerly and she leant to pat its neck, feeling the rough tufts of gaily coloured wool that decorated the harness. ‘Well done, little fellow,’ she murmured.

  ‘Nearly there,’ Felipe said, drawing up in front of her. At that moment, there was a sharp command and a shadowy figure stepped out from behind a rock. He wore faded brown breeches and a ragged jacket. A wolfskin cap was pulled low over his eyes.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Felipe whispered. ‘He’s one of the gypsies. He won’t hurt us but we have to lead the donkeys from here. The path gets much rougher.’

  He dismounted and went up to the gypsy. Eliza heard a few words pass between them, then the chink of coins. A few minutes further on, the gypsy motioned them to tie their donkeys to a nearby tree. He went to a place where a large piece of coarse hessian hung against the rocks and pushed it aside. Inside the cave, the gypsy families sat around a central fire. One old man stood up and spoke in rapid, guttural Spanish that Eliza couldn’t follow.

  ‘He’s saying we are welcome,’ Bibiana whispered. ‘He asks if we’ll eat with them.’

  A huge pot hung on a tripod over the fire and in a while, an old woman dressed in a faded green dress ladled food into wooden bowls. Eliza took hers and smiled her thanks. She watched everyone dive into the food with their hands and followed suit.

  The meal was simple but tasty: rice with a few pieces of coarse, garlicky chorizo and scraps of strongly flavoured meat.

  ‘Goat,’ Bibiana whispered. ‘It’s good, yes?’

  Flagons with long spouts were passed round. The wine was strong and almost black. Eliza felt her head swim.

  ‘There will be dancing now,’ Bibiana said as the meal ended.

  The dying fire was shovelled away from the middle of the cave and the light now came from the oil lamps smoking on the walls. A striking young woman stood up and came forward. Her black hair hung to her waist and she wore a flounced, blue dress powdered with stars. Her bare calves were tattooed with henna lilies and birds and her feet were shoeless. Skeins of amber beads swathed her neck and wrists. She had a long, sallow face with an aquiline nose. Eliza suspected that as she aged, she would become as gnarled as the older women in the cave, but for now, she was beautiful, with a presence so commanding Eliza couldn’t take her eyes off her.

  The girl raised her arms above her head and a pair of black castanets snapped between her slim fingers. A guitar struck up and she began to dance, languorously at first then with mounting intensity. Her undulating limbs seemed to write poetry on the air. As she strutted and stamped, it seemed to Eliza that it was the poetry of avenging contempt.

  ‘El Olano,’ Bibiana whispered. ‘A poisonous spider has walked up her skirt. You will see: she will find it and crush it to death.’ She smiled. ‘It shows how she would do the same to a lover if he betrayed her.’

  When the last chords died away, the girl stood completely still then shouts of ‘Brava! Brava, Lola!’ set the echoes flying around the cave.

  A man walked into the circle.

  ‘Brava, Lola,’ Eliza heard him say more softly. He put his arms around the girl and they kissed as if there was no one else in the world.

  Eliza felt a pang of envy twist her heart. How she wanted to be like the girl. No, that was not quite the truth: she wanted to be her - to have the power to bewitch her onlookers with her dance and then be held in arms of the man she loved, savouring his kisses and hearing him speak her name like a caress.

  Part 2

  1843 - 1846

  Lola

  Chapter 14

  Few English newspapers reached Seville, and those that did were weeks old, but in a while, Eliza managed to ascertain that the court cases Thomas had brought against her and Lennox were both over. Lennox had paid a hundred pounds in compensation.

  ‘So that is my price,’ she muttered. ‘But at least I am free of Thomas at last.’

  There was no need to stay out of England now, she reasoned. She doubted her career was likely to progress any further in Spain. In London, however, if she presented herself as a real Spanish dancer, she would be more of a rarity and perhaps any deficiencies in her dancing might not be so obvious.

  The more she thought about it, the more convinced she became it was time to go back and try her luck. As her new name, she chose Lola for the gypsy dancer and Montez for the family who had welcomed her so warmly.

  At Southampton, she waited while the Spanish consul scanned her papers. She felt a qualm when she saw him frown.

  ‘It is not clear to me where you come from in Spain, Dona Montez,’ he said. ‘Forgive me for saying so, but your accent is unusual.’

  ‘I have lived in many places, no doubt that it why.’

  ‘There are some irregularities here,’ he said after a few more moments, ‘and certain documents I would expect to see are missing.’

  Silently, Lola cursed the back-street trader who
had prepared the papers and promised her they would pass the keenest scrutiny.

  ‘So much was lost when my husband died,’ she sighed. She dabbed her eyes with a small lace handkerchief and gave the consul a wan smile. ‘It is very painful for me to remember those terrible times. All I want now is to go to my friends in London.’ A lie, but she had already decided that it would be best not to appear friendless.

  The consul rolled up the papers and re-tied them with their red ribbon. ‘Then I will not detain you. I wish you luck, Dona Montez, and a safe journey.’

  At the station, locomotives screeched and steamed, filling the glass and iron canopy over the platforms with sooty vapour. Luggage carts trundled by and she picked out one piled high with brass-bound, leather trunks, emblazoned with gilded coronets. She observed with interest the distinguished-looking gentleman giving instructions to the sweating porter. When he stopped at a first-class carriage and went up the steep steps, she halted abruptly.

  ‘I’ll get in here,’ she told her own porter. ‘Take my bags down to the luggage car.’

  She slipped a few coins into his hand. As she disappeared into the train, he looked at them with disappointment. The amount was considerably less than he had expected from a woman who bore herself like a lady of quality, but come to think of it, her black cloak and dress had been a bit rusty. He shrugged and pushed the trolley onwards. You got all sorts on Southampton station.

  The train steamed through the fields of Hampshire and Lola sat back in the plush velvet seat opposite the Earl of Malmesbury. She congratulated herself on her choice. He seemed very ready to be affable.

  ‘Tell me more, Dona Montez,’ he said, stretching out his long legs.

  She gave him her most soulful look and continued the story she had rehearsed so many times on the voyage home.

  ‘My late husband, Don Diego Montez, was executed for his support of the liberal cause in the civil war. I had no other family and I could not bear to stay in Spain alone. It was dangerous too, so I came to England. Don Diego left me a little property in London. I hope to sell it.’

  ‘And you have no one to turn to? No friends?’

  She shook her head. ‘No, but as a young girl, I trained as a dancer. Before I married, I was a principal at the Teatro Real in Seville. I will try to make my living from that.’

  ‘Your courage is admirable, Dona Montez. If I can be of any assistance, I hope you will not hesitate to ask me.’

  ‘You are so kind. I was not sure what I would find in England. Some people say the English are very cold.’

  ‘Slanderous! I must do my utmost to prove that is a base lie.’

  She lowered her eyelashes. ‘I am so glad to hear you say this,’ she said softly. ‘Especially as I think no one will deny we Spanish are a very passionate race.’

  *

  The first act of The Barber of Seville romped to its end at Her Majesty’s Theatre and Benjamin Lumley, the theatre’s manager, felt a twinge of apprehension go through him. He had taken a risk employing this unknown woman to perform the interval dances, but the Earl of Malmesbury had been most pressing and he was a very important patron of the theatre. Of course, Spanish dancers were becoming all the rage now; that should give a good chance of success. He just hoped that this Dona Montez knew how to dance as well as she knew how to charm.

  Through the peep hole at the back of the stage, Lola surveyed the audience. In the lighted auditorium, she saw row upon row of men in evening dress, their black and white alleviated here and there by bright spots of women’s dresses.

  She placed her hands on her hips and smiled. In a tight, black velvet bodice that segued into a yellow and black striped skirt, she knew that she looked her best. A mantilla of delicate black lace, fastened at each temple by a crimson camellia, covered her hair.

  After the singers had taken their bows, the curtain was lowered for a few moments to allow the stage hands to change to the backdrop for her performance. She heard the crackle of stiff, heavy paper as they rolled it down. She closed her eyes and pictured the painted vista of the Alhambra with its marble domes, silvery fountains and emerald and blue peacocks. Tonight she would be in Spain and the audience with her.

  ‘Places!’ a voice shouted. The corps de ballet’s satin slippers pattered over the bare boards as they hurried to their positions to await her entrance. She looped the strings of her castanets around her wrists and stepped onto to the stage. An expectant hush fell.

  She strutted through a bolero and finished to a smattering of applause, but it was far less warm than she had hoped for. The corps de ballet joined her in the next dance. This time, to her relief, the response was more encouraging. When the music ended, she came to the footlights. Her heart fluttered as a sea of faces looked up at her. Were they smiling? She hoped so. Brava, brava, Lola, she repeated under her breath.

  ‘Ladies and Gentlemen! Thank you for your kindness. When I came to London, a refugee from my homeland, I did not dare to hope that your country would welcome me as generously as it has done. I would like to show my gratitude by performing a dance that is very close to my heart. I learnt it when I was a child from the gypsies who live high in the hills and caves of Andalusia. It is the story of a young girl who is attacked by a dangerous spider, and must defend herself.’ She waved an imperious hand to the conductor.

  ‘Play for me: El Olano.’

  At first, as she mimed the search for the spider, the audience watched in silence then some of them started to clap and cheer her on. The mood was infectious. When she had thoroughly crushed her imaginary insect, displaying as much as she dared of her shapely ankles and calves, the theatre erupted in applause.

  After she had given an encore and left the stage for the last time, a throng of admirers jostled to get into her dressing room. Laughing and joking, she accepted their compliments. But amid all the excitement, she didn’t notice Lumley’s absence. He was talking with a small group of men who had stopped him by the stage door. All of them were well known in society and connoisseurs of the arts.

  ‘What the devil’s going on, Lumley,’ one of them growled. ‘That looked like little Eliza James on stage. Surely you remember her? She went about with a young fellow called Lennox a year or two ago when she already had a husband in India. When he found out, he divorced her for adultery. She’s no more Spanish than my dog.’

  Lumley felt a flush creep up his neck. If the damned woman has lied to me, he thought, I have a disaster on my hands. It was not worth risking his reputation for a quick profit. Lax morals were not uncommon amongst dancers but an adulterous wife was a different matter, and the disaster would be compounded if she wasn’t Spanish at all. He had made a great point of her authenticity, and the public didn’t relish being tricked out of the price of their ticket.

  ‘I engaged her in good faith, gentlemen’ he spluttered. ‘But I assure you, if what you say is true, tonight will be the last time she appears on my stage.’

  ‘Glad to hear it,’ one of the other men cut in. ‘Her Majesty’s has always had an excellent reputation. I’m sure you wouldn’t want anything to change that.’

  Lumley’s hands were clammy. ‘You have my word as a gentleman. If she has lied to me, I will dismiss her at once.’

  *

  Lola rose late the next morning and read her reviews. She was gratified to see they were flattering. Lumley had sent a note requesting her to visit him but she didn’t bother to go until early evening. When she arrived, his gloomy face surprised her.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ she asked. ‘Surely I was a great success?’

  ‘There is more to it than that,’ he muttered.

  Lola’s face darkened as he levelled the accusations against her.

  ‘I have been insulted,’ she spat. ‘I insist that I be given the chance to face my accusers personally.’

  ‘So none of this is true?

  ‘Not a word. I have a right to defend myself and I shall.’

  ‘But these are men from eminent families.’ />
  Lola drew herself up to her full height. ‘And I am a Montez!’

  She saw how he frowned and chewed his thumbnail.

  ‘Will you take their word or mine?’ she snapped.

  Lumley leant across the desk towards her. ‘Forgive me, Dona Montez, my theatre’s reputation is at stake. No doubt there has been some misunderstanding, but I think it would be better if your engagement came to an end.’

  ‘I thought in England I would be free from persecution, but I see I was wrong.’

  ‘I’m sorry. There is nothing I can do.’

  ‘You’ll regret this. I have many friends in the aristocracy.’

  Lumley leant back in his chair. He was starting to feel angry. ‘Then I suggest you look to them for help. Good afternoon, Dona Montez.’

  *

  The newspapers were soon at war over her identity. She had a choice: to flee or to fight. She chose the latter.

  Sir, she wrote to the editor of The Age, Since I have had the honour of dancing at Her Majesty’s Theatre, when I was received by the English public in so kind and flattering a manner, I have been cruelly annoyed by reports that I am not the person I claim to be, and that I have long been known in London as a disreputable character. I entreat you sir, to allow me, through the medium of your respected journal, to assure you and the public in the most positive and unqualified manner, that there is not one word of truth in such a statement.

  I am a native of Seville and in the year 1833, when I was ten years old, was sent to a catholic lady in Bath, where I remained seven months and was then taken back to my parents in Spain. From that period until April last when I landed in England, I never set foot in this country and I never saw London before in my life. The imperfect English I speak I learned in Bath, and from an Irish nurse, who has been many years in my family.