Part 54

Hypochondriacs are to be met at the celebrated baths, of course; for wherever there are disordered bodies there are disordered minds. No human creature is so ill as he or she who imagines an illness, since the subtlest art of healing cannot reach the shadows of emptiness. I remember an Englishman at Homburg, one of the most robust of fellows, who, after quitting college, had begun reading medical works only to convince himself that he had some deep-seated disease. His belief stimulated his appetite for information. He pored over all the pathological treatises he could find, and every week fancied that he had some new ailment. He travelled everywhere, swallowed entire drug stores, visited every watering-place in civilization. He had been nearly twenty years in pursuit of the health he had never lost, when I made his acquaintance at the Quatre Saisons. Happening to touch on the subject of hygiene, I set him off upon countless theories, and upon the bitterest denunciation of physicians. He informed me confidentially that he had a serpent in his stomach, and that he felt it every day gnawing his vitals. He felt sure that he had swallowed it in an embryo state, years before, in India, and that he would never be well until the reptile was by some means expelled. He was a man of ruddy complexion, and of nearly two hundred pounds avoirdupois, which induced me to tell him that serpents must agree with him, and that, if he could swallow four or five more, he would live a thousand years. He assured me he could not be mistaken, and that he had hope that the water of a certain spring would insure his recovery. After tasting of that particular spring, I expressed my conviction that no well-regulated snake would endure being deluged by such an obnoxious liquid day after day, and that his frequent draughts, without any result, proved conclusively that the reptile was in his mind, and not in his stomach. This style of bantering seemed to please him, and when I made it clear to him that I was not a professional physician, he was willing to follow my advice. I urged him to give up doctors and medicines of every sort; to take a great deal of exercise, and to cease thinking of himself as a valetudinarian. He promised to follow my prescription for six months, and the ensuing winter I met him again in Naples, a radically changed man. He had cleared his brain of all its cobwebs, and thanked me heartily for the sagacious course I had recommended. “I am delighted to know,” he added, “that you are not a physician, for if you were, you couldn’t help being a fool.”

[Sidenote: STOUT WOMEN.]

The stout women on the shady side of life who visit the springs under the impression that they are ailing are extremely amusing. They must know they are shams; but they imagine that it is genteel and attractive to be delicate; and so, notwithstanding their excellent appetite and liberal proportions, they insist they are going into decline, when their chief danger is from apoplexy. They will entertain you by the hour with their lack of appetite, their loss of sleep, and their extreme fragility. You may credit their story unless you happen to see them at dinner, or hear them sleeping audibly on the sofa soon after, or find them performing social duties which would tire out Samson.

L.

GAMING AND GAMESTERS ABROAD.

FOREIGN AND DOMESTIC SUMMER RESORTS.—THE ADVANTAGE OF THE FORMER.—MYSTERIOUS CHARACTERS.—A TRIO OF CELEBRATED GAMESTERS.—THEIR EXTRAORDINARY HISTORY.—TRAGIC FATE OF A YOUNG RUSSIAN OFFICER.—TEMPTATION, DESPAIR, AND SUICIDE OF A BEAUTIFUL ENGLISH GIRL.—A LUCKY BANKER’S CLERK.—A HUNGARIAN HANGING HIMSELF FOR A WARNING.—ECCENTRICITIES OF CROUPIERS.—A CALM-BLOODED HOLLANDER.—THE SKELETON IN THE CLOSET.—ROSE-STREWN ROADS TO RUIN.

For mere recreation and pleasure the foreign watering-places have great advantages over those at home. Saratoga cannot be compared to Baden any more than Long Branch to Biarritz. The promenades and promenaders beyond the sea have far more pleasantness and variety; the scenery is more picturesque, and the general comfort and satisfaction immeasurably greater. There is much less of that desire of one to outdo the other, much less feverish unrest, much less ambition and anxiety for display. Each person lives according to his or her means; has no heart-burnings or envy on account of people in more fortunate circumstances. The gardens of the spas are delightful, and when the bands play, as they do at stated intervals, and the fountains flash in the sunbeams or the moonlight, and the gay throng passes to and fro, and easy prattle is interspersed with merriment and laughter, all the externals for enjoyment are furnished. The promenades, like the gaming saloons, are as a gay masquerade. On them and in them are men and women of every grade, and they all mingle together, though without recognition, as a well-dressed and well-bred democracy. Balls and concerts are given every week; and these, with dining, and wining, and driving, and flirting, and the countless follies and jollities of fashionable life, make the season pass swiftly in one round of delicate dissipation and refined revelry. Such extremes and excesses as we have are not observable there. The social tone is more elegant, although a fairer outside may conceal darker and deeper deeps. To an observer and student of human nature, the German spas are certainly more attractive and retentive than our own summer resorts. They do not weary you after a few days, or weeks at most, but draw you back to them year after year with a freshness of flavor and the spice of a new zest.

[Sidenote: MYSTERIOUS CHARACTERS.]

This continuity of charm is shown by the large number of regular habitués which each of the four springs has. I have met at Baden and Wiesbaden elderly couples who had been coming there since their early marriage, and who regarded the places and the play as indispensable to their contentment. You see there, season after season, mysterious characters that you never see anywhere else,—men apparently wealthy, with fine manners and a grand air, who, for aught you know to the contrary, may be pirates or highwaymen. Eccentric women flock there, too, about whom there are endless rumors, but no authentic information. They may be duchesses or demi-mondists, actresses or adventuresses, leaders of the ton or ladies of the sidewalk. So long as they conduct themselves properly, no one cares to inquire who they are or whence they come. The atmosphere of the Taunus and the Black Forest is free, and not a taint of Puritanism is in it. They whose position is fixed are so much assured thereof that they do not fear any passing wind which may blow between them and their nobility.

[Sidenote: REMARKABLE ADVENTURESSES.]

One of the oldest known frequenters of Homburg is the Countess Kisselef, the former wife of the Russian minister to Rome. She has never missed a season for forty years, and recently she has been a permanent resident of the little capital. She must be seventy now; is so broken in health, and infirm of body, that she is forced to hobble about with a cane and a crutch. Age and debility have not, however, lessened her passion for roulette, the only game she plays. Her passion for it is ineradicable, and the story is, that her husband long ago separated from her because she would not give up gambling, to which she devoted the greater part of her income. Having married her, it is said, for her fortune,—originally several millions of roubles,—he was angry that she should risk at the tables what he wished to use for himself. Her losses are reported to have been immense,—I have heard them estimated at a million and a half of dollars,—and yet she has quite enough left to enable her to bet freely in the Cursaal. Her gray hair, aquiline nose, sharp chin, and large and crippled figure are familiar to everybody. She is usually one of the first persons seated at the table, and some minutes before eleven o’clock you may see her helped into the room by the lackeys, or some of her own servants. She occupies a particular chair, and she is always in it, except when she goes to dinner and to sleep; taking no rest even on Sunday, when the game is generally more animated than on any other day.

The countess is very much attached to Homburg, where she has put up many handsome buildings, opened several new streets, and in many ways contributed to its improvement. Exceedingly homely as she is now,—she reminds me of a feminine grenadier wounded in different campaigns,—she is reputed to have been beautiful once, and to have been a fascinating and dangerous coquette. Such tales are told of nearly all women known in society who are noticeably ugly and obese. I can’t believe that the Countess Kisselef could ever have been charming. I should sooner expect her to break the bank at Homburg ten times a day in her present old age, than think it possible for her to have broken a masculine heart in all the freshness of her youth. A woman of her form and feature might be formidable as a foe, but never perilous as a friend. The aged countess has had her obituary written several times, but she was still alive, and still watching the ivory ball, the last season, and will be, I am sure, for many seasons to come. [The gambling tables were closed last year because the license expired with 1872, and the countess can hardly survive. Roulette has so long been her sustenance that she must perish if deprived of it for many seasons.]

[Sidenote: A FORTUNATE WOMAN.]

The Princess Suvarroff, also a Russian, is one of the notabilities of Baden. Her career, if report be true, must have been eventful. A native of Siberia, she went to St. Petersburg while very young, and her father occupying a high position in the army, she was received into the best society, and, by her beauty, grace, and accomplishments, soon became the centre of a large and admiring circle. She had lovers by the dozen; and although many men of rank sued for her hand, she refused every offer, declaring she preferred freedom to the highest title and the largest income. At last the Czar, wishing to perpetuate the name of Suvarroff, then dependent on a single scion,—the prince of that name,—urgently requested that she should take the prince for a husband. The imperial request is equivalent to a command, and the charming flirt, unwilling to forfeit the favor of the court, consented, even with the knowledge that her husband would be her husband only in name. She has since had several children; and though their paternity is not easily traceable, they are called Suvarroffs, and the object of the Czar is therefore attained. The princess has had, and still has, all the liberty she could desire. She goes where she chooses, and does what she likes. Baden is her favorite resort, and _rouge-et-noir_ her favorite pastime. She has been remarkably successful in her ventures, being one of the very few players who have won more than they have lost. Her reputation for luck has long been established, and the consequence is, she is perpetually asked to place the money of others upon the green cloth, which she often does, as she is extremely good-natured and obliging. Considerably over forty now, she is still handsome, and her ease and grace of manner, with her richness of attire, indifference to conventionality, and brilliancy of conversation, render her noticeable at all times and in all places.

[Sidenote: A NOTED GAMESTER.]

Señor Garcia, one of the most renowned of Continental gamesters, and one of the lions of the spas, died very recently in Geneva, bankrupt in hope and fortune. He was born at Saragossa, of a good Spanish family, and inherited large wealth at his maturity. This he wasted in dissipation, materially assisted by his fondness for _trente-et-quarante_. He afterwards inherited some twenty thousand francs by the death of a relative in France, and, with this as a stake, he won nearly two millions of dollars. For several years he lived luxuriously, driving the finest of horses, wearing the rarest of diamonds, giving the superbest of dinners. His turnouts were conspicuous in all the capitals of Europe, and, though he spent money like Fortunatus, there seemed to be no end to his wealth. No one in this generation has broken the bank of Baden so often, and _tailleurs_ at _rouge-et-noir_ really feared him, so unprecedented had been his successes. His luck deserted him at last, and he lost in the Conversationshaus the last florin he had been able to borrow.

He then went to Monaco, and became a waiter at a fashionable restaurant; but whenever he had a few francs in his purse, he laid them on the table which had swallowed up his riches. His lofty air in the restaurant at Monaco first directed my attention to him, and caused the remark that he had the manners of a prince in the person of a servant. Informed of his antecedents, I no longer wondered that his appearance was above his station. He was a great favorite of the patrons of the establishment where he was employed, and the gratuities bestowed upon him were large and frequent. He received them, I remember, as if it were a condescension on his part, and as if the givers ought to be eternally grateful to him for his generous acceptance. He made numerous efforts to propitiate the goddess who had deserted him, but she was as obdurate as a woman whose vanity had been wounded. After various shifts, he breathed his last in miserable lodgings, leaving behind him but twenty sous as a mournful memento of his dangerous vice and his once splendid fortune. The close of his career conveys its own moral. He died as most gamesters die, whatever may have been their occasional prosperity—baffled in his desires, robbed of his gains, derided by destiny.

Garcia had more philosophy than many gamesters have. They who lose everything, after having been for a certain time successful, are often so deeply distressed by their changed condition that they commit suicide.

Self-destruction is something the virtuous Direction has a holy horror of, for it clearly illustrates the natural result of gambling, and has a tendency to discourage timid persons from betting liberally. The Direction doesn’t care a maravedi, of course, how many men hang or women poison themselves, after being ruined at _roulette_ or _rouge-et-noir_, if they will only be obliging enough to die privately, instead of in the face of the public. Every once in a while, some man, whose last stake the _croupier_ has raked in, steps into the beautiful gardens in the rear of the gambling saloons, and blows out his brains, because he believes that an empty purse is more to be dreaded than an occupied coffin.

[Sidenote: AN ILL-STARRED RUSSIAN.]

Two or three years ago, a young Russian officer, a member of a highly influential family, came to Wiesbaden to spend the summer. He had never touched a card,—indeed, he did not know one from another,—and was enjoying himself very well with the pleasant acquaintances he had made there, when an Italian lady, who had been unlucky, asked him, one day, in the Cursaal, to bet a few napoleons for her. She had faith, inasmuch as he was entirely unfamiliar with gambling of any sort, that he might turn the tide of her fortune. He was too gallant to refuse, and, as it happened, he won for her in less than half an hour two hundred napoleons, without understanding a single rule of the game. He then asked her if she was satisfied, and she replied in the affirmative. He quitted the saloon, determined never to play on his own account. He misunderstood himself. He passed a feverish and restless night, and in the morning he was drawn irresistibly to the tables. If he could have such good fortune for another, why should he not have it for himself? He was haunted at once by visions of wealth, and he no longer had the power to resist the tempter.

The young officer took his place at the table, and did not rise from his chair until eleven o’clock that night—the regular hour of closing. He was then ahead of the game nearly one thousand dollars, and the demon of avarice was fully aroused in his soul. Another feverish and restless night, and again the morning found him at his post. For several days he played with varying success, and at the end of a fortnight he had lost all he had, and had drawn the last franc from his bankers in Paris. He then borrowed a considerable sum from his friends at Baden, and that went with the rest. Excitement, and the unusual quantity of wine he had drank, had maddened him. His sole thought and desire was to get more money for play.

In a moment of weakness and frenzy, he forged the name of a wealthy cousin in Moscow upon a bank in St. Petersburg, and asked an acquaintance, to whom he had brought letters of introduction, to cash it for accommodation. The request was granted as soon as made. The Russian hurried to the Conversationshaus, confident that he would win enough to take up the draft, which he had expressed a desire that his friend would hold for a day or two, as he might in the meantime receive a remittance from his father.

The fates were hostile. When the officer laid his wager on black, the red won; and when he trusted the red, the black triumphed.

[Sidenote: PAYING THE DEBT OF NATURE.]

In three hours the entire amount of the draft had melted away. Ruin stared him in the face,—not only financial ruin, but ruin to his good name, his honor, his self-esteem, which he had prized more than life itself. Hopeful as he had been, he had prepared himself for such a desperate emergency. He had a small Deringer pistol in his pocket, and rising from the table, and stepping back two or three paces, he put it closely to his heart, and pulled the trigger.

[Sidenote: SUICIDE FROM REMORSE.]

The _galerie_, intent on the game, did not notice his movement and the first intimation it had of anything unusual was the report of the weapon and the heavy fall of the officer on the floor. The ruined gamester gasped twice or thrice, and his life went out with the blood that crimsoned his bosom.

The players—some of them, at least—were startled for a moment; several of the ladies shrieked, and one, an American, swooned. The _tailleur_ and the _croupiers_ looked on unmoved, and expressed some surprise that the young man had not been polite enough to step into the garden before shooting himself. The _tailleur_ announced that the game would be suspended for half an hour. In that time the body was removed, the blood washed away, and the eternal _Faites votre jeu, messieurs; le jeu est fait; rien ne va plus_, was croaked out once more; the cards were laid, and the coin pushed over, or raked in by the solemnly silent _croupier_.

Women, with the retiring modesty that belongs to their sex, seldom make an exhibition of themselves, even when they are the heroines of their own tragedy.

At Ems, recently, a young English lady of family became engaged to a gentleman in her own grade of life, who could not bear the idea of women gambling. She had been at the baths for several seasons with her father; had frequently staked money at the tables, and had formed a strong attachment thereto. Her father was aware that she played sometimes for amusement, but never suspected how much of a fascination the game had for her. Unknown to him, she had pawned her jewels to obtain money to hazard at _rouge-et-noir_.

After her engagement, her lover told her how much he was shocked to see any members of her sex degrade themselves by gaming, and added that, much as he cherished her, he would rather behold her dead than receiving a fortune from the hands of a _croupier_. Deeply impressed by the earnestness of his words, she resolved never again to take any part in the dangerous excitement. For weeks she adhered to her resolution; but, one evening, while strolling through the Curhaus, she so far forgot herself as to venture a napoleon, and, winning that, to venture and to lose twenty more. For three days she continued to bet secretly, and at the end of the time felt convinced the passion was too strong to be surrendered. Such self-knowledge was terrible indeed, and so deep was her mental distress that she determined to live no longer. Purchasing a vial of laudanum, she went to her own room, and writing a letter to her affianced husband, in which she made a full confession of what she had done, and of the unendurable misery her conduct had caused her, she swallowed the poison, and was found, the next morning, dead in her bed. Her affianced lover was overwhelmed with sorrow, and protested that he should never more know an hour’s peace.

This proved to be only masculine hyperbole; for he was married two years after, and appeared, judging by outward signs, one of the most contented and self-satisfied of men.

[Sidenote: LOVE BRINGS LUCK.]

All this perilous wooing of fortune does not always lead to tragedy. A young man, residing in Frankfort, who had only his salary as a banker’s clerk to live upon, fell in love with a prosperous merchant’s daughter, and his attachment was fully reciprocated. The rich papa, as commonly happens, was unwilling to have a poor son-in-law, and so refused his consent point blank to the union. Entreaties were vain; his daughter’s tears moved him not a whit. He informed the young man that he would give him three years to achieve pecuniary independence in, and if he did not succeed, he must, at the end of that period, abandon all hope of the girl’s hand. In America fortunes are suddenly made; but in Germany, where everything runs in grooves, there is hardly a possibility of earning much money, unaided by capital or powerful influence. For twenty-four months Romeo struggled for his prize, but struggled in vain. He had succeeded in saving only about five hundred dollars; and, knowing this would be considered a contemptible sum by the merchant, he felt that he would be forced to give up all claim to the woman he adored.

Falling asleep, one night, with this subject upon his mind, he dreamed of going to Homburg and increasing his little store tenfold. On awakening, he considered his dream prophetic. He visited Homburg, placed his all upon “color” again and again, and each time “color” won. His five hundred dollars he increased to ten thousand; returned to Frankfort; procured papa’s consent; married the girl, and, as the story goes, has never since been known to risk a florin on a game of chance. So even gambling, great evil as it is, sometimes does good, though instances like this are extremely rare.

A Hungarian merchant from Pesth came to a melancholy end at Baden, a few years ago. He had been to London on business, and on his way home thought he would spend some days at the baths, where a number of his friends were staying. He had scarcely arrived there when he began at _rouge-et-noir_ with a few florins, not having the least intention of playing largely. Like hundreds of others before him, he was drawn into the dangerous rapids before he was well aware of it. He lost not only the money he had with him, but drew on his own firm, obtained advances on his letters of credit, and at the end of a week was absolutely ruined. He had a wife and six children at home, and had not the moral courage to apprise them that they were beggars, to make a resolution never to play more, and commence life anew. Wishing, however, that his fate might be a warning to others, he went late at night to the promenade in front of the Conversationshaus, and when the little town was quiet and asleep, he placed a large placard upon his breast and hanged himself before the main entrance to the beautiful building. The placard, written in French, ran thus:—

[Sidenote: A WARNING THAT WAS LOST.]