THE "GOLDEN WEST"
I
As this was before the days when actresses in search of publicity
announce that they are _not_ going to Hollywood, Lola had to hit on a
fresh expedient to keep her name in the news. Ever fertile of
resource, the one she now adopted was to give out that this would be
her "positively last appearance, as she was abandoning the stage and
becoming a nun." The scheme worked, and the box-office coffers were
filled afresh. But Lola did not take the veil. Instead, she took a
trip to California, sailing by the Isthmus route in the summer of
1853.
A ridiculous book, _The Wonderful Adventures of Mrs. Seacole_, with an
introductory puff by a windbag, W. H. Russell, has a reference to this
project:
Came one day Lola Montez, in the full zenith of her evil
fame, bound for California, with a strange suite. A
good-looking, bold woman, with fine, bad eyes and a
determined bearing; dressed ostentatiously in perfect male
attire, with shirt collar turned down over a lapelled coat,
richly worked shirt front, black hat, French unmentionables,
and natty polished boots with spurs. She carried in her hand
a riding-whip.... An impertinent American,
presuming--perhaps not unnaturally--upon her reputation,
laid hold jestingly of the tails of her long coat; and, as a
lesson, received a cut across his face that must have marked
him for some days. I did not wait to see the row that
followed, and was glad when the wretched woman rode off on
the following morning.
Russell was not a fellow-passenger in the ship by which Lola
travelled. Somebody else, however, who did happen to be one, gives a
very different description of her conduct on the journey:
"We had not been at sea one day," says Mrs. Knapp, "before all the
saloon occupants were charmed by this lovely young woman. Her vivacity
was infectious, and her _abandon_ was always of a specially airy
refinement."
The arrival of Lola Montez at San Francisco would have eclipsed that
of any Hollywood heroine of the present era. A vast crowd, headed by
the City Fathers, "in full regalia," gathered at the quay. Flags
decked the public buildings; guns fired a salute; bands played; and
the schoolchildren were assembled to strew her path with flowers as
she stepped down the gangway; and, "to the accompaniment of ringing
cheers," the horses were taken from her carriage, which was dragged by
eager hands through the streets to her hotel. "The Countess
acknowledged the reception accorded her with a graceful inclination."
"What if Europe has exiled her?" demanded an editorial. "This is of no
consequence. After all, she is Lola Montez, acknowledged Mistress of
Kings! She is beautiful above other women; she is gorgeous; she is
irresistible; and we are genuinely proud to welcome her."
Enveloped in legend, the reputation of the newcomer for "eccentricity"
had preceded her. She lived up to this reputation, too, for, when the
spirit moved her (and it did so quite often), she would dance in the
beer gardens "for fun"; she had her hair cut short, when other women
were affecting chignons; and--wonder of wonders--she would "actually
smoke cigarettes in public." Clearly, a trifle ahead of her period.
By the way, while she was in San Francisco, Lola is said to have
renewed her acquaintance with the mysterious Jean François Montez,
who, during the interval since they last met, had turned over a fresh
leaf and was now married. But according to a chronicler: "The family
felicity very soon succumbed to the lure of the lovely Lola." Without,
too, any support for the assertion, a contributor of theatrical gossip
dashed off an imaginative column, in which he declared her, among
other things, to have been "the petted companion of Louis Napoleon";
and also "the idolised dancer of the swells and wits of the capitals
of the Old World, with the near relatives of royalty and the beaux of
Paris for her intimates."
This was going too far. Lola, much incensed, shook her dog-whip and
threatened reprisals.
"What's the matter with you?" demanded the journalist, astonished at
the outburst, "it's good publicity, isn't it?"
"Yes, but not the sort I want," was the response.
Still, whether she wanted it, or not, Lola was soon to have a good
deal more "publicity." This was because she suddenly appeared with a
husband on her arm.
Although the bridegroom, Patrick Purdy Hull, was a fellow-editor, the
_Daily Alta_, of California, considered that the news value of the
event was not worth more than a couple of lines:
"On the 2nd inst. Lola Montez and P. P. Hull, Esq., of this
city (and late of the _San Francisco Whig_) were married at
the Mission Dolores."
Obviously regarding this as a somewhat meagre allowance, a New York
journal furnished fuller details:
Among the recent domestic happenings of the times in
California, the marriage of the celebrated Lola Montez will
attract most attention. This distinguished lady has again
united herself in the bonds of wedlock, the happy young man
being Patrick Purdy Hull, Esq., formerly of Ohio, and for
the past four years employed in the newspaper business in
San Francisco.
Mr. Hull was a fellow-passenger with the fascinating
Countess on her trip to California; and the acquaintance
then formed fast ripened into an attachment which
terminated fatally to his bachelorhood. The nuptials were
consummated [_sic_] at the Holy Church of the Mission
Dolores in the presence of a highly respectable gathering of
prominent citizens.
[Illustration: _The "Spider Dance." Cause of much criticism_]
The "prominent citizens" included "Governor Wainwright, Judge Wills,
Captain McMichael, Mr. and Mrs. Clayton, and Beverley Saunders, Esq."
An attempt was made to keep the ceremony secret; and, with this end in
view, the invited guests were pledged not to divulge it beforehand. On
the previous evening Captain McMichael, being something of a
tactician, announced to them: "We do not yet know for certain that the
affair will ever come off, and we may all be jolly well sold." When
they assembled at the Mission Church, it looked as if this would
happen, as neither of the couple appeared. Suddenly, however, they
drove up in a carriage and entered the church. The "blushing bride,"
says a reporter who had hidden behind a pillar, "carried a bouquet of
orange blossoms, and the organ played 'The Voice that breathed o'er
Eden'"; and another chronicler adds: "On the conclusion of the
ceremony, all adjourned to partake of a splendid spread, with wine and
cigars _ad lib._" But this was not all, for: "Governor Wainwright,
giving a significant wink, kissed the new-made bride, Mrs. Hull. His
example was promptly followed by Mr. Henry Clayton, 'just to make the
occasion memorable,' he said. 'Such is the custom of my country,'
remarked Madame Lola. She was not kissed by anybody else, but she none
the less had a pleasant word for all."
II
It was at Sacramento that Lola and her new husband began their married
life. The conditions of the town were a little primitive just then;
and even in the principal hotel the single guests were expected to
sleep in dormitories. The cost of board and lodging (with bed in a
bunk) was 150 dollars a week. As for the "board," standing items on
the daily menu would be boiled leg of grizzly bear, donkey steak, and
jack-rabbit. "No kickshaws" was the proud boast of every chef.
In addition to his editorial labours (which were not unduly exacting),
Hull was employed by the Government on census work, preparing
statistics of the rapidly increasing population. But Lola, much to his
annoyance, did not add to his figures for the Registrar-General's
return. The footlights proved a stronger lure than maternity; and,
almost immediately after her marriage, she accepted an engagement at
one of the theatres, where she appeared as Lady Teazle. A countess in
that part of the world being a novelty, the public rallied to the
box-office in full force and "business" was phenomenal. Still,
competition there, as elsewhere. Some of it, too, of a description
that could not be ignored. Thus, Ole Bull was giving concerts at the
Opera House, and causing hardened diggers to shed tears when he played
"Home Sweet Home" to them on his violin; Edwin Booth, "supported by a
powerful company," was mouthing Shakespeare, and tearing passion to
tatters in the process; and a curious freak, billed as "Zoyara, the
Hermaphrodite" (with a "certificate of genuineness, as to her
equestrian skill and her virtues as a lady, from H.M. the King of
Sardinia") was cramming the circus to capacity every afternoon and
evening. Yet, notwithstanding His Majesty's "certificate," it is a
fact that its recipient "married" a woman member of the troupe. "The
long sustained deception has been dropped," says a paragraphist, "and
the young man who assumed the name of 'Madame Zoyara' is now to be
seen in correct masculine attire."
Still, despite all this, Lola kept her public. After all, a countess
was a countess. But, before long, there was a difference of opinion
with the manager of the theatre in which she was appearing. Lola, who
never brooked criticism, had "words" with him. High words, as it
happened; and, flourishing her whip in his face, she tore up her
contract and walked out of the building.
"Get somebody else," she said. "I'm through."
The difference of opinion appears to have arisen because Lola elected
to consider herself "insulted" by a member of the audience while she
was dancing, and the manager had not taken her part. The next evening,
accordingly, she made a speech in public, giving him a "bit of her
mind." The result was, declared the _San Francisco Alta_, "the
Countess came off the victor, bearing away the _bravas_ and bouquets.
At the conclusion of her address she was hailed by thunderous cheers,
amid which she smiled sweetly, dropped a curtsey, and retired
gracefully."
Much to their surprise, those who imagined that the honours of the
evening went to Lola read in the next issue of the _Californian_ that
"the applause was all sham, the paid enthusiasm of a hired house."
This was more than flesh and blood could stand. At any rate, it was
more than Lola could stand; and she sent the editor a fierce letter,
challenging him to a duel. "I must request," was its last passage,
"that this affair of honour be arranged by your seconds as soon as
possible, as my time is quite as valuable as your own: MARIE DE
LANDSFELD-HULL (LOLA MONTEZ)."
The editor of the _Californian_ did not accept the suggestion. Instead, he
applied the necessary balm, and the pistols-for-two-and-coffee-for-one
order was countermanded.
III
A woman of moods, when Lola made a change, it was a complete one. She
made one now. The artificiality of the towns, with their false
standards and atmosphere of pretence, had begun to pall. She wanted to
try a fresh _milieu_. Everybody was talking just then of Grass Valley,
a newly opened-up district, set amid a background of the rugged
Sierras, where gangs of miners were delving for gold in the bowels of
Mother Earth, and, if half the accounts were true, amassing fortunes.
Why not go there and see for herself? It would at least be a novel
experience.
No sooner said than done. Hiring a mule team and wagon, and
accompanied by Patrick Hull, she started off on a preliminary tour of
inspection of the district.
Travelling was unhurried in those leisurely days. There were several
stoppages; and the roads were rough, and long detours had to be made
to avoid yawning canyons. "At the end of two weeks from the time they
left Sacramento behind them, Pat Hull and his charming bride wheeled
across the mountains into Grass Valley."
"There were about 1600 people in the township of Marysville at this
period," says a chronicler, "and 1400 of them were of the masculine
sex. The prospect of sudden riches was the attraction that drew them.
England and the Continent were represented by some of the first
families. A dozen were graduates of Oxford and Cambridge; there were
two young relatives of Victor Hugo; there were a number of scions of
the impoverished nobility of Bohemia; and several hundred Americans.
Among the latter was William Morris Stewart, a Marysville lawyer, who
was afterwards to become a senator and attorney-general."
Grass Valley at this period (the autumn of 1853) was little more than
a wilderness. The nearest town of any size was Nevada City, fringed by
the shadows of the lofty Sierras. Between the gulches had sprung up as
if by magic a forest of tented camps and tin-roofed shanties, with
gambling-booths and liquor saloons by the hundred, in which bearded
men dug hard by day, and played faro and monte and drank deep by
night. Fortunes were made--and spent--and nuggets were common
currency. The cost of living was very high. But it cost still more to
be ill, since a grain of gold was the accepted tariff for a grain of
quinine.
The whole district was a melting-pot. Attracted by the prospect of the
precious metal that was to be wrung from it, there had drifted into
the Valley a flotsam and jetsam, representatives of all nations and of
all callings. As was natural, Americans in the majority; but, with
them, Englishmen and Frenchmen and Germans and Italians, plus an
admixture of Chinamen and Kanakas; also an undesirable element of
deserters from ships and convicts escaped from Australia. To keep them
in some sort of order, rough justice was the rule. Mayors and sheriffs
had arbitrary powers, and did not hesitate to employ them. Judge Lynch
was supreme; and a length of hemp dangling from a branch was part of
the equipment of every camp.
With a full knowledge of all these possible drawbacks, Lola Montez
looked upon Grass Valley and saw that it was good. Perhaps the Bret
Harte atmosphere appealed to her. At any rate, she decided to settle
down there temporarily; and, with this end in view, she persuaded Hull
to buy a six-roomed cottage just above Marysville.
When Lola Montez--for all that she had a wedding-ring on her finger,
she still stuck to the name--arrived there with her new husband, the
conditions of life in Grass Valley were a little primitive. A
telegraph service did not exist; and letters were collected and
delivered irregularly. Transport with the outer world was by stage
coach and mule and pony express. Whisky had to come round by Cape
Horn; sugar from China; and meat and vegetables from Australia. The
fact was, the early settlers were much too busily employed extracting
nuggets and gold dust to concern themselves with the production of any
other commodity.
Mrs. Dora Knapp, a neighbour of Lola Montez in Grass Valley at this
period, has contributed some reminiscences of her life there:
"We, who knew of her gay career among the royalty and
nabobs, were astonished that she should have gone to the
camp. She frequently had letters from titled gentlemen in
Europe, begging her to come back and live on their rich
bounty. It was simply because she was weary of splendour and
fast living that the Countess turned with such fondness to
life in a mining camp."
To Patrick Hull, however, the attractions of the district were not so
obvious. Ink was in his blood. He wanted to get back to his editorial
desk, preferring the throbbing of printing presses to the rattle of
spades and picks and the clanking of drills. Nor did "love in a
cottage" appeal to him. When Lola refused to give up Grass Valley, he
developed a fit of sulks and turned to the whisky bottle for
consolation.
Under the circumstances, matrimonial bliss was impossible. Such a life
was a cat and dog one. Its end arrived very soon.
"Lola Montez and her new husband," says the knowledgeable Mrs. Knapp,
"had not lived together more than a few months before trouble began.
When two such spirits came together, there was bound to be a clash.
The upshot was that one day Lola pushed Patrick down the stairs,
heaved his grip out of the window and ordered him to quit."
Mr. Hull, who could take a hint as well as any man, did "quit." He did
more. He took to his bed and expired. "In his native state," says a
tearful obituary, "he was respected and loved by a large circle. The
family of Manuel Guillen (in whose house he lay), inspired by a
sentiment of genuine benevolence, bestowed upon him all the tender
watchfulness due to a beloved son and brother; and nothing was omitted
that promised cure or promoted comfort."
But this was not until some time after he had received his abrupt
_congé_ from Lola Montez.
Once more, Lola had drawn a blank in the matrimonial market.
IV
With Adrienne Lecouvreur, Lola Montez must often have asked herself,
_Que faire au monde sans aimer?_ "Living without loving" had no appeal
for her. Hence, she was soon credited (or discredited) with a fresh
_liaison_. This time her choice fell on a German baron, named Kirke,
who also happened to be a doctor. There was a special bond between
them, for he had come from Munich, and could thus awaken memories and
tell her of Ludwig, of Fritz Peissner and the other good comrades of
the _Alemannia_, and of the house in the Barerstrasse where she had
once queened it.
"This fourth adventure in matrimony was," says a chronicler,
"copiously consummated." An odd choice of words. But, successful or
not, it was short-lived. One fine day the baron took his gun with him
into the forest. He did not return. "Killed in a shooting accident" (a
fairly common occurrence in the Wild West at that period) was the
coroner's verdict. As a result, Lola was once more without a masculine
protector.
The position was not devoid of an element of danger, for the district
swarmed with lawless gangs, to whom a woman living by herself was
looked upon as fair prey. But Lola was not disturbed. She had plenty
of courage. She knew, too, that the miners had formed themselves into
a "guard of honour," and that it would have gone ill with anybody
attempting to molest her. If the diggers were rough, they were
chivalrous.
In response to a general invitation from the camp, Lola more than once
gave an exhibition of her quality as a _danseuse_. Although the charge
for admission was a hundred dollars, the hall where she appeared was
always crammed to the doors. She expanded out, too, in other
directions; and a picturesque account of her life at this period says
that she slept under the stars ("canopy of heaven" was the writer's
more poetical way of putting it) and wore woollen underclothing
knitted by herself. Another detail declares that she held a "weekly
soirée in her cottage, attended by the upper circles of the camp, a
court of littérateurs and actors and wanderers"; and that among the
regular guests were "two nephews of Victor Hugo, a quartet of
cashiered German barons, and a couple of shady French counts."
Obviously, a somewhat mixed gathering. For all this, however, the
receptions were "merely convivial assemblies, with champagne and other
wine, served with cake and fruit _ad lib_, and everyone smoked. The
two Hugo neighbours were always there, as well as a son of Preston
Brooks, the South Carolina congressman. A dozen of us looked forward
to attending these _salons_, which we called 'experience-meetings.'
Senator William M. Stewart, then a young lawyer in Nevada, said he
used to count the days between each. Every song, every story, every
scrap of humour or pathos that any of the young men came across would
be preserved for the next gathering. Occasionally, our charming
hostess would have a little fancy-dress affair at the cottage, and,
clad in the fluffy and abbreviated garments she had once worn on the
stage, show us that she still remembered her dancing-steps."
When not engaged in these innocent relaxations, Lola would give
herself up to other pursuits. Thus, she hunted and fished and shot,
and often made long trips on horseback through the forests and sage
bush. Having a fondness for all sorts of animals, on one such
expedition she captured a bear cub, with which she returned to her
cabin and set herself to tame. While thus employed, she was visited by
a wandering violinist, who, falling a victim to her charms, begged a
lock of her hair as a souvenir of the occasion. Thereupon, Lola,
always anxious to oblige, struck a bargain with him. "I have," she
said, "a pet grizzly in my orchard. If you will wrestle with him for
three minutes, you shall have enough of my hair to make a bow for your
fiddle. Let me see what you can do." The challenge was accepted; and
the amorous violinist, merely stipulating that the animal should be
muzzled, set to work and secured the coveted guerdon.
Something of a risk, perhaps. Still, it would have been a more serious
one if Lola had kept a rattlesnake.
Appearances are deceptive, and Bruin was less domesticated than Lola
imagined. One day, pining perhaps for fresh diet, he grappled with his
mistress and bit her hand. The incident attracted a laureate on the
staff of the _California Chronicle_, who, in Silas Wegg fashion,
"dropped into verse:"
LOLA AND HER PET
One day when the season was drizzly,
And outside amusements were wet,
Fair Lola paid court to her Grizzly
And undertook petting her pet.
But, ah, it was not the Bavarian
Who softened so under her hand,
No ermined King octogenarian,
But Bruin, coarse cub of the land.
So, all her caresses combatting
He crushed her white slender hand first,
Refusing his love to her patting,
As she had refused hers to _Pat_!
Oh, had her pet been him whose glory
And title were won on the field,
Less bloodless had ended this story,
More easy her hand had been _Heald_!
This doggerel was signed "F.S.", initials which masked the identity of
Frank Soule, the editor of the _Chronicle_.
V
Never without her dog-whip, Lola took it with her to her cottage in
Grass Valley. There she soon found a use for it. A journalist, in a
column account of her career, was ungallant enough to finish by
enquiring "if she were the devil incarnate?" As the simplest method of
settling the problem, "Lola summoned the impertinent scribbler and
gave him such a hiding that he had no doubts left at all."
Shortly afterwards, there was trouble with another representative of
the press. This was with one Henley Shipley, the editor of the
_Marysville Herald_, who, notwithstanding that they were "regularly
attended by the _élite_ of the camp," had described her "Wednesday
soirées" as "disgraceful orgies, inimical to our fair repute."
Thereupon, says a sympathiser, the aspersed hostess "took her whip to
him, and handed out a number of stinging and well merited cuts."
The opportunity being too good to miss, the editor of the _Sacramento
Union_ set to work and rushed out a special edition, with a long
description of the incident:
This forenoon our town was plunged into a state of ludicrous
excitement by the spectacle of Madame Lola Montez rushing
through Mill Street, with a lady's delicate riding whip in
one hand and a copy of the _Marysville Herald_ in the other,
vowing vengeance on "that scoundrel of an editor," etc. She
met him at the Golden Gate Saloon, a crowd, on the _qui
vive_, following in her footsteps. Having struck at him with
her whip, she then applied woman's best weapon--her tongue.
Meanwhile, her antagonist kept most insultingly cool. All
her endeavours being powerless, the "Divine Lola" appealed
to the miners, but the only response was a burst of
laughter. Mr. Shipley, the editor, then retired in triumph,
having, by his calmness, completely worn down his fair
enemy.
The immediate cause of the fracas was the appearance of
sundry articles, copied from the _New York Times_, referring
to the "Lola Montez-like insolence, bare-faced hypocrisy,
and effrontery of Queen Christina of Spain." The entire
scene was decidedly rich.
One can well imagine it.
Never prepared to accept hostile criticism without a protest, Lola
sent her own version of the occurrence to a rival organ:
"This morning, November 21," she wrote, "the newspaper was
handed me as usual. I scanned it over with little interest,
saw a couple of abusive articles, not mentioning me by name,
but, as I was afterwards told, had been prepared by the
clever pen of this great statesman of the future, and
present able writer, as a climax and extinguisher to all the
past and future glories of Lola Montez. I wonder if he
thought I should come down with a cool thousand or two, to
stock up his fortune and cry 'Grace, Grace!'
"This is the only attempt at blackmail I have been subjected
to in California, and I hope it will be the last. On I read
the paper till I saw my name in good round English, and the
allusions to my 'bare-faced hypocrisy and insolence.'
Europe, hear this! Has not the 'hypocrisy' been on the
other side? What were you thinking of, Alexandra Dumas,
Beringer, Méry, and all my friends when you told me my fault
lay in my too great kindness? Shipley has judged me at last
to be a hypocrite. To avenge you, I, bonnet on head and whip
in hand--that whip which was never used but on a horse--this
time to be disgraced by falling on the back of an ASS....
The spirit of my Irish ancestors (I being three-quarter
Irish and Spanish and Scotch) took possession of my hand;
and, on the most approved Tom Sayers principles, I took his,
on which--thanks to some rings I had--I made a cutting
impression. This would-be great smiter ended the combat with
a certain amount of abuse, of which--to do him justice--he
is a perfect master. _Sic transit gloria_ SHIPLEY! Alas,
poor Yorick!"
[Illustration: _Lola Montez, in "Lola in Bavaria." A "Play with a
Purpose"_]
The atmosphere of Grass Valley could scarcely be described as
tranquil. Its surface was always being ruffled; and it was not long
before Lola was again embroiled in a collision with one of her
neighbours. This time she had a passage at arms with a Methodist
minister in the camp, the Rev. Mr. Wilson, who, with a sad lack of
Christian charity, informed his flock that this new member among them
was "a feminine devil devoid of shame, and that the 'Spider Dance' in
her repertoire was an outrage." There were limits to clerical
criticism. This was clearly one of them. As she could not take her
whip to a clergyman, she took herself. "Resolved to teach the Rev.
Wilson a lesson, she called on him in her dancing dress, while he was
conducting a confirmation class."
"Without," says a member of the gathering, "any preliminaries beyond
saying 'Good afternoon,' she proceeded to execute the dance before the
astonished gaze of the company. Then turning to the minister, she
said, 'The next time you think fit to make me and this dance a subject
for a pulpit discourse, perhaps you will know better what you are
talking about.' She then took her departure, before the reverend
gentleman could sufficiently collect his senses to say or do
anything."
But, notwithstanding these breaks in its monotony, Lola felt that she
was not really adapted to the routine of Grass Valley. Once more, the
theatre called her. Answering the call, she went back to it. But on
the return journey she did not take Patrick Hull. She also shed the
name he had given her, and resumed that of Countess of Landsfeld.
"It looks better on the bills," she said, when she discussed plans for
a prospective tour.
The _Grass Valley Telegraph_ gave her a good "send off" in a fulsome
column; and the miners presented her with a "farewell gift" in the
form of a nugget. "Rough, like ourselves," said their spokesman, "but
the genuine article."