VI
The body of Lola Montez, Countess of Landsfeld, and Canoness of the Order of St. Thérèse, has now been crumbling in the dust of a distant grave, far from her own kith and kindred, for upwards of seventy years. Her name, however, will still be remembered when that of other women who have filled a niche in history will have been forgotten.
Lola Montez was no common adventuress. By her beauty and intelligence and magnetism she weaved a spell on well nigh all who came within her radius. Never any member of her sex quite like this one. Had she been born in the Middle Ages, superstition would have had it that Venus herself was revisiting the haunts of men in fresh guise. But she would then probably have perished at the stake, accused of witchcraft by her political opponents. As it was, even in the year 1848 a sovereign demanded that a professional exorcist should "drive the devil out of her."
To present Lola Montez at her true worth, to adjust the balance between her merits and her demerits, is a difficult task. A woman of a hundred opposing facets; of rare culture and charm, and of whims and fancies and strange enthusiasms each battling with the other. Thus, by turns tender and callous, hot-tempered and soft-hearted; childishly simple in some things, and amazingly shrewd in others; trusting and suspicious; arrogant and humble, yet supremely indifferent to public opinion; grateful for kindness and loyal to her friends, but neither forgetting nor forgiving an injury. Men had treated her worse than she had treated them.
For the rest, a flashing, vivid personality, full of resource and high courage, and always meeting hard knocks and buffets with equanimity. Lola Montez had lived every moment of her life. In the course of their career, few women could have cut a wider swath, or one more colourful and glamorous. She had beauty and intelligence much above the average. All the world had been her stage; and she had played many parts on it. Some of them she had played better than others; but all of them she had played with distinction. She had boxed the compass as no woman had ever yet boxed it. From adventuress to evangelist; coryphée, courtesan, and convert, each in turn. At the start a mixture of Cleopatra and Aspasia; and at the finish a feminine Pelagian. Equally at home in the company of princes and poets and diplomats and demireps, during the twenty years she was before the public she had scaled heights and sunk to depths. Thus, she had queened it in palaces and in camps; danced in opera houses and acted in booths; she had bent monarchs and politicians to her will; she had stood on the steps of a throne, and in the curb of a gutter; she had known pomp and power, riches and poverty, dazzling successes and abject failures; she had conducted amours and liaisons and intrigues by the dozen; she had made history in two hemispheres; a king had given up his crown for her; men had lived for her; and men had died for her.