Part 30

In the early days at the diamond mines, there was a good deal of rioting and trouble. There was not much observance of law, mainly for the reason that there was no law. But at present, every thing is orderly and peaceable. The diamond fields are partly in regions controlled by the British government, and partly in the Republic of the Orange Free States. The latter country became known to many Americans through the Centennial Exhibition at Philadelphia, in 1876. It had a small display, but a very attractive one. First and foremost, of course, were the diamonds in the rough, which included many specimens of stones, varying in color and size. Then came a quantity of the soil in which the gems are found, and then the pebbles which accompany the diamonds. Copper, iron, and other ores were exhibited; many excellent specimens of leather were displayed; there was a collection of stuffed birds; there were tusks of ivory, skins of various wild beasts, specimens of wool, and a model of the carts used to convey it to the coast. The great business of the country is in grazing, and the sheep and cattle in its limits may be counted by millions. Its population is estimated at about one hundred thousand, of which three-fourths are whites. Of late years, the farmers have found an excellent market for many articles of produce, by taking them to the diamond mines.

[Sidenote: SCENE AT AN AUCTION.]

The scene at the sale of edibles is a curious one. As the fields became thickly populated, there was a great demand for fruits and vegetables, and the farmers sent in everything they could spare. At one time, oranges sold for twenty-five cents each, potatoes for seven cents a pound, and eggs one dollar and twenty-five cents a dozen. Nearly everything was sold at auction, the farmers arranging the things in lots to suit purchasers, and then submitting them to the care of the market master. The scene at an auction is thus described:

“At seven o’clock in the morning, the market master mounts a stool, and business commences. An eager crowd surrounds him, of all colors and nations, yelling, talking, laughing, and making themselves merry, when suddenly a dead silence falls on the reckless assemblage, as a pail of eggs are held up to their gaze. ‘Now, how much for the eggs, at per dozen?—one shilling bid?’ A dozen heads bob in the affirmative. Two shillings; three. The price rises, until the man with the long purse becomes their owner. Up goes a pumpkin. A rush by the crowd. Every eye seeks that of the auctioneer. Every man wants to bid; but in the twinkling of an eye it’s gone. ‘For how much?’ an outsider asks of another. ‘Cheap at three “bob”’ (shillings), he answers. Up goes another pumpkin, and another, until very likely a whole wagon-load is disposed of, at prices which make the old Boer’s face wrinkle with smiles. Next there is a scramble to get exactly over a heap of fine potatoes which are to be sold. Two or three weaker ones get upset in the rush, while a dense circle of giant and muscular diggers surrounds the center of attraction. Of course the unlucky outsiders have no chance of catching the market-master’s eye, and, in self-defense, form an opposition circle around the next pile, each one mentally calculating the amount of ‘tin’ he is prepared to stake on the produce before him. This exciting work goes on until nine o’clock, when the crowd of diggers, having purchased everything eatable, leave for their claims, while the lucky owners of the wagons crowd into the little market-office, eager to receive the price of their loads, and to ‘trek’ away from the city of tents.”

[Sidenote: STRUGGLING WITH NATURE.]

The diamond fields are subject to heavy rains, and also to very sudden and furious winds. The amount of dust and flies in circulation, is quite uncalculable. One visitor says that the flies, troublesome as they are, are much more agreeable than the dust. “Although persecuting one most incessantly by day, night puts a stop to their torments, while no sooner does a puff of air come from yonder plain, than you inhale a volume of dust—not the earthy, loamy dust of agricultural land, but the whitish-gray lung powder which has been refined by the action of shovel and sieve, until it is as light as air. It impregnates your food, your hair is like a door mat, and your eyes have a chronic soreness, as though a thousand delicate needles were pricking into the eyeballs, while your body is chafed and sore from the friction of dusty clothes. All this is unpleasant; but we will suppose that the gentle wind has increased to a howling tempest, that storm clouds fill the sky, and tents shake to the breeze; then, and then only, do the diggers reach the climax of misery. From hundreds of sieves, and hundreds of conical dust heaps, the wind gathers its load, and, like some malicious fiend, sweeps through the camp, turning the light of day into a hideous yellow twilight, circling around unprotected tents, and through all the seams and cracks, filling them full of floating dust. The diggers sneeze, cough, weep, and for relief rush into the open air, or more properly, into an air of lime, where, utterly choked and blinded, they fall on their faces, there to gasp for breath, like a dying turtle, and curse the day they saw the fields.

“This sometimes continues for hours: business is suspended; people desert their claims, and shut themselves up in their dwellings; the streets are abandoned to the dogs, and no one has rest until the wind falls, or a blessed shower turns dust to mud. Whirlwinds of any size or power are always considered unpleasant visitors, and in Du Toit’s Pan they still keep up their reputation. They do not actually tear things upside down, and ruin whole tracts of country, as our Western tornadoes do, but they have an elevating influence, which tents, unfortunately, find it hard to resist, and try their hand at some mischievous trick, which involuntarily makes the sufferer shake his fist at the receding column, as if it was some naughty boy with a smart pair of legs. Now, a broad-brimmed hat leaves its owner’s head with a rush, and when he clears his sight, and spies it majestically revolving two or three hundred feet above him, and evidently having a through ticket for the distant plain, his heart sinks within him, and he mournfully descends his heap to purchase another, or lets his ‘angry passions rise,’ and flails his Caffre for ‘hooraying’ at the exciting spectacle. Again, a digger is industriously sorting on a light table. He has nearly finished his work, when, on looking up, he sees that which makes him shut his eyes, hermetically seal his lips, and bob his head under the table. It is an unlucky position, for the whirlwind upsets the table on his head. It skins his face, and then dives down the adjoining hole, on top of some affrighted black, while the column of wind and sand rushes on, increasing in size and power until it appears on the edge of the camp, to the dismay of all ladies on the streets, all cooks in their canvas or open-air kitchens, and all owners of crazy or dilapidated tents. A minute or two more, it is a thing of the past. The damage is done. The column is far out on the dreary plain, and people resume their occupations.

“One spring day, a tent-maker who lived by us, had placed a large and light frame tent upon the edge of the road, without fastening it in any way to the ground. He was warned not to leave it so exposed, but it being a calm day, the advice was neglected. About an hour after, he was inside, busy decorating its walls with red tape, when a sudden and violent whirlwind swept off the claims in all its dusty majesty, and careering down the road, encountered the unfortunate tent. A moment more, it rose in the air like a balloon, the astounded tent-maker vainly hanging to its ribs, until, seeing it was bound to go up, he dropped out, like an apple from a tree. Up it went, whirling with frightful velocity, and pursuing the course of the road, until it knocked fiercely against the gable of a neighboring canteen. In went the roof, while out came the inmates, amidst the smash of bottles and the running of brandy. On and on, and round and round, went the tent, until, espying a jaunty little canvas house which defied wind and rain, in a fit of jealousy it went into it, and, with a grand smash, both lay in ribbons on the ground, while the disgusted tent-maker settled a bill for two ruined houses, instead of being paid for erecting one.

“During the summer months, rain-storms, with heavy thunder and lightning, are frequent. They generally approach with a violent breeze, sharp lightning, and loud thunder. The clouds are all in motion, crossing and meeting each other, while along the face of the nimbus, or storm-cloud, is a heavy gray pall of vapor. This is much lower than the rain-cloud, and when close to the earth, portends a fearful storm. The gathering blackness, increased by clouds of dust, the zigzag lightning, the hoarse, reverberating sound of the thunder, and the moaning wind, all strike the spectator with awe. He gazes around him out on the distant plain, where all is dreary and somber; at the immense gray mounds of the claims, deserted, and looking ghostly and unearthly against their pitchy background—and the storm is upon us. Some ominous rain-drops strike the tent, a flash of lightning blinds, a peal of thunder stuns, and the gates of heaven open. The war of the tempest drowns all other sound, the tent shakes and trembles beneath the blast, while rivers of water course down the street, cutting great gullies in the road, and quickly undermining any protective earth-work the digger has placed around him. Soon the canvas begins to leak, and the inmates of the tent stand in dripping silence, listening to the war of the elements. One night, our Caffres were drowned out by one of these heavy storms. They generally slept in a large, circular fire-place of three feet deep, just sufficient to keep the cold from them, and thus were snugly ensconced when it began to rain. Above the fire-place was a hollow which drained into it. As this drainage was very unpleasant, and often, in heavy rains, flooded out the fire, we built a dam against it as a protection. On the night in question, it rained so fast the hollow was soon a sheet of water, which pressed with such force against the dam that it gave way. In an instant, the fire-place was full to overflowing, and the Caffres, thus rudely awakened, gave one mighty yell as the waters covered them. Aroused by the noise, I peeped forth as they were struggling out, their black heads showing around the edge of the fire-place like those of so many hippopotami. After getting out, and giving some hearty shakes, they commenced fishing up their bed-clothes from the treacherous flood. Long before sunrise, next morning, they were at the tent door, calling loudly for ‘soupies,’ or what we denominate ‘eye-openers,’ and certainly their condition, after what they had gone through, demanded relief.”

[Sidenote: THE LUCKY ONES.]

Some of the stories told about the diamond finds are decidedly attractive. Some of the earlier miners made large fortunes in a short time. They had nothing to pay for their ground, and found from one to twenty diamonds every day. When the price of claims went up, they sold out, anywhere from two to ten thousand dollars, and went home. One man made fifty thousand dollars in a month, divided his claim into six parts, sold each part for one thousand five hundred dollars, and went away satisfied. A ship was wrecked on the coast. The captain, of course, was a very unfortunate man. Not knowing what to do, he went to the diamond fields, where he stayed three months, and went away with seventy-five thousand dollars. A Dutch Boer found, in one day, thirty-one diamonds, which weighed respectively thirty-three carats, eighteen, fifteen, nine, seven and a half, and other smaller ones. He went away from the fields, and on returning, after an absence of a month, his black servants, whom he had left in charge, turned over to him more than three hundred diamonds. One man found a stone, at the end of four days’ work, which brought him, in clean cash, eighty thousand dollars.

[Sidenote: A CURIOUS FACT ABOUT DIAMONDS.]

A curious fact about the diamond is that it sometimes bursts. The experts at the Cape can generally determine, by examining a stone, whether it will burst or not. When first taken out, a small speck is seen in it. If it is put aside in a dry place, it is in fragments by the next morning. The miners keep such a stone in water or oil, generally, until they find somebody green enough to buy it. The bursting is caused by disappearance of moisture in the stone, and, of course, it is retained there as long as the stone is kept moist.

XXVII.

THE UNDER-WORLD OF PARIS.

THE IMMORALITY AND LICENTIOUSNESS OF THE CAPITAL.—COMPARISON WITH OTHER CITIES.—FRENCH ETHICS AND LITERATURE.—DIFFERENT GRADES OF THE DEMI-MONDE.—THE TRUE STORY OF CAMILLE.—THE GARDENS ON THE SEINE.—THE DANCES AND THE DANCERS.—THE PETITS SOUPERS OF THE COCOTTES.—AFTER-MIDNIGHT SCENES.—ACTRESSES AND CHAMPAGNE.—ADVENTURESSES AND CHÂTEAU MARGAUX.—INTERIOR OF A THIEF’S DEN AND MURDERER’S CELLAR.—BLOODTHIRSTY VIRAGOES AND DESPERATE CUTTHROATS.

The demi-monde is aptly named; for, while it is so eminently worldly, the world rejects it, and in most instances assumes to be unconscious of its existence. In the French capital it is accepted as a fact, and it can hardly be any more dangerous there on that account, than it is in cities where it is ignored. The French have gained the reputation, but without any good reason, of being much more immoral than other nations. We Americans are constantly asserting this, and our iteration has had the effect, no doubt, of inducing us to believe that we are a great deal better than they. Our assumptions are unquestionably loftier, and we are more anxious to hide our defects; but that we have fewer vices, setting aside our pretences, and stripping off our shams, must not be too hastily admitted. It is to the disadvantage of the modern Gauls that on many subjects they are inclined to say what they think, while we are disposed to think what we do not say. They, too, take human nature as they find it, as it has been from the first; having no expectation of changing it by shutting it up on one side, and giving it free vent on the other.

French authors are not at all squeamish or puritanical, and are addicted to the treatment of themes which we discuss only in private. The cities of France, notably Paris, do not robe themselves in external sanctity, careless of the inner quality of their ethical raiment, and, on account of their openness of speech and deportment, they are gravely misjudged.

[Sidenote: THE WORST CITY IN THE WORLD.]

Paris is bad enough, Heaven knows; but that it is the wickedest city on the globe, as is frequently asserted, must be taken with large grains of allowance. The wickedest of cities are numerous. Not only has Paris that reputation, but Vienna, Naples, St. Petersburg, Berlin, London, New York, have it also. Even Boston, the centre of the land of steady habits and high moral ideas, is pronounced by many persons, who know it intimately, as unequalled for private profligacy. Stockholm, in the far and frozen north, where the temperature might be fancied to freeze the evil passions before they could have full play, has often been declared more immoral than Paris, Naples, Vienna, or London. In proportion to the population, there are more illegitimate children born in Stockholm, it is said, than in any other capital of Europe; and as marriage is held to be the best and purest condition of men and women, this extraordinary extent of illegitimacy must be interpreted to the Swedish city’s discredit.

It is all folly to arraign any particular community as worse than another. Communities are like the individuals who make them up. This has certain defects which that has not. Circumstances and conditions produce different results in different places; but, on the whole, mankind, when thoroughly understood, will be found very similar in most of the centres of civilization.

As Paris is acknowledged to be the capital of gayety and pleasure, and as morals are left there to take their natural course rather than to be hampered without benefit, Paris is the best place to observe human nature in its disapproved relations. The demi-monde is opposed to the grand-monde, and ought to represent, therefore, not only women of a peculiar class, but the members of both sexes whom society, as the expression of conventionality, refuses to acknowledge. The demi-monde, in this sense, means the under-world, nowhere so interesting a study as on the Seine.

[Sidenote: CHARACTER OF THE UNDER-WORLD.]

Outwardly, the French capital is most decorous. Vice shows like virtue because it is relieved of grossness; even more, is softened and rounded with grace. You do not see there, as in London or New York, repulsive and revolting scenes. You do not encounter drunken and disgusting men: you do not hear women, who have unsexed themselves, indulging in ribaldry and profanity in the public thoroughfares, or anywhere else in fact. Everybody and everything appears so proper that inexperienced and innocent souls have expressed their astonishment at the ill fame the city has acquired, and have concluded that its bad name is undeserved. Promenading on the Boulevards or riding on the Champs Elysées, they are unable to distinguish the Faubourg St. Germain from the Quartier Latin—the upper-world from the under-world.

It is estimated that more than fifty thousand of the women of Paris live in a state of concubinage, which, in a population of two millions, is something enormous. The proportion is startling, but more from the facility attained there for procuring statistics than from the fact itself. Actualities, whether painful or not, are known and recorded in that capital, instead of being unsuspected, as they are likely to be elsewhere. This vast number of unchaste women are by no means professional courtesans,—probably five thousand would include all of these,—but embrace half a dozen grades of illicit relations.

[Sidenote: CAUSE OF PARISIAN WICKEDNESS.]

The causes that contribute to prostitution in France are, first, the unwillingness of men of education and position to marry girls who are poor, and can therefore have no marriage portion. Wedlock among the Parisians is far less sentimental and romantic than it is with us. It a species of one-sided covenant and partnership, in which the wife is expected to be loyal, and the husband to do as he pleases. He cares less for sympathy and affinity than he would if he did not expect to seek them outside of the domestic circle. He marries generally for practical reasons; because it will benefit him socially, or be of substantial advantage. In consequence of this, young women in humble circumstances are little likely to be wedded. They have hearts if they have not incomes, and when their affections are enlisted, they listen to the voice of Nature without waiting for the sanction of the priest. It is not the custom, either, in France for men or women to wed out of their station, though love or passion does not respect social lines or distinctions in that country more than in any other. Hence it may be seen that unwedded wives must be numerous in Paris.

Another cause is the draft that the army makes upon the young men of the country. Compelled to enter the military service before they are married, their habits are such, after they have remained in the army the allotted time, as do not conduce to matrimony. The whole land is drained for the sake of steel-and-gunpowder parade. Thousands and tens of thousands of people who have no interest whatever in, and are only made the worse for, war, are compelled to furnish its sinews at a ruinous cost to themselves.

Still another cause is the number of illegitimate children, who, regarded as the children of the state, are reared and educated by the state, and at a certain age are left to provide for themselves. Many of the young men seek military service, while the young women, for the most part, become what their mothers have been before them. Their tastes and their ideas are superior to their rank. They are unwilling to look for husbands in a lower grade, and cannot secure them in a higher. Gallants and lovers, however, are abundant and persevering, and under the circumstances seldom woo in vain. France, moreover, tolerates, if it does not encourage, relations that other countries raise their hands in holy horror at. It does not act on the conviction that the absence of one virtue expels all the other virtues; it refuses to brand and ostracize a woman because she has merely been unfortunate, or to make her responsible for the wrong she has sustained at the hands of man. France, it must be admitted, is juster to women than other nations are, for it gives them an opportunity to be independent and advance themselves, even though they have committed what we might regard as the unpardonable sin.

[Sidenote: THE DIFFERENT GRADES.]

The first circle of the demi-monde in Paris and other French cities, though it is not so called, includes the educated and rather refined women I have mentioned, who from poverty, dependence, or want of fixed position, cannot marry in the rank to which they properly belong. Their antecedents shape their destiny, and they hardly regard the relation they have been accustomed to consider inevitable as they would regard it had they been differently trained, and had the ethics of the nation been less liberal.

The second circle is represented largely by the grisettes. Many of them marry, and live domestically all their lives; but many others have a gay and coquettish disposition, prefer lovers to husbands, excitement to routine, display to conventionality, and the exhilarations of to-day to the serenities of to-morrow. These are truly of the half world, for they are half married, and yet wholly independent. They live with their masculine friends; take care of their apartments; are their companions at concerts, balls, and theatres, in the evening; and yet they have their regular daily duties at the shops where they are employed. They are not isolated; they have society of their own; are contented, cheerful, and often enjoy themselves better than the women who have been honored by wedlock.

The most showy and best defined type of the demi-monde is the adventuress, who is the popular representative of the entire class. The French playwrights have delineated her fully, and made her familiar to everybody. “Camille,” and “The Marble Heart,” have heroines of this sort. The former drama treats her sentimentally, and the latter cynically. She is not so generous and self-sacrificing as Camille, nor so selfish and sordid as Marco. After Alexandre Dumas wrote “Camille,” and achieved such astonishing success, another Parisian _littérateur_ composed “The Marble Heart” as an offset to it, declaring Marco to be the real, instead of the ideal lorette.

[Sidenote: TRUE STORY OF CAMILLE.]