I
At Monte Carlo, in the spring of the year 189-, I used to notice an old
fellow in a grey suit and sunburnt straw hat with a black ribbon. Every
morning at eleven o'clock, he would come down to the Place, followed
by a brindled German boarhound, walk once or twice round it, and seat
himself on a bench facing the casino. There he would remain in the sun,
with his straw hat tilted forward, his thin legs apart, his brown hands
crossed between them, and the dog's nose resting on his knee. After an
hour or more he would get up, and, stooping a little from the waist,
walk slowly round the Place and return up hill. Just before three,
he would come down again in the same clothes and go into the casino,
leaving the dog outside.
One afternoon, moved by curiosity, I followed him. He passed through the
hall without looking at the gambling-rooms, and went into the concert.
It became my habit after that to watch for him. When he sat in the Place
I could see him from the window of my room. The chief puzzle to me was
the matter of his nationality.
His lean, short face had a skin so burnt that it looked like leather;
his jaw was long and prominent, his chin pointed, and he had hollows
in his cheeks. There were wrinkles across his forehead; his eyes were
brown; and little white moustaches were brushed up from the corners of
his lips. The back of his head bulged out above the lines of his lean
neck and high, sharp shoulders; his grey hair was cropped quite close.
In the Marseilles buffet, on the journey out, I had met an Englishman,
almost his counterpart in features—but somehow very different! This old
fellow had nothing of the other's alert, autocratic self-sufficiency.
He was quiet and undemonstrative, without looking, as it were, insulated
against shocks and foreign substances. He was certainly no Frenchman.
His eyes, indeed, were brown, but hazel-brown, and gentle—not the
red-brown sensual eye of the Frenchman. An American? But was ever an
American so passive? A German? His moustache was certainly brushed up,
but in a modest, almost pathetic way, not in the least Teutonic. Nothing
seemed to fit him. I gave him up, and named him “the Cosmopolitan.”
Leaving at the end of April, I forgot him altogether. In the same month,
however, of the following year I was again at Monte Carlo, and going one
day to the concert found myself seated next this same old fellow. The
orchestra was playing Meyerbeer's “Prophete,” and my neighbour was
asleep, snoring softly. He was dressed in the same grey suit, with the
same straw hat (or one exactly like it) on his knees, and his hands
crossed above it. Sleep had not disfigured him—his little white
moustache was still brushed up, his lips closed; a very good and gentle
expression hovered on his face. A curved mark showed on his right
temple, the scar of a cut on the side of his neck, and his left hand was
covered by an old glove, the little finger of which was empty. He woke
up when the march was over and brisked up his moustache.
The next thing on the programme was a little thing by Poise from Le joli
Gilles, played by Mons. Corsanego on the violin. Happening to glance at
my old neighbour, I saw a tear caught in the hollow of his cheek, and
another just leaving the corner of his eye; there was a faint smile on
his lips. Then came an interval; and while orchestra and audience were
resting, I asked him if he were fond of music. He looked up without
distrust, bowed, and answered in a thin, gentle voice: “Certainly. I
know nothing about it, play no instrument, could never sing a note; but
fond of it! Who would not be?” His English was correct enough, but with
an emphasis not quite American nor quite foreign. I ventured to remark
that he did not care for Meyerbeer. He smiled.
“Ah!” he said, “I was asleep? Too bad of me. He is a little noisy—I know
so little about music. There is Bach, for instance. Would you believe
it, he gives me no pleasure? A great misfortune to be no musician!” He
shook his head.