To illustrate, I recall when on a certain season the lucky sport of
print and fancy was an Englishman. In one of those farragos of
stupidity and inaccuracy which are syndicated and sent from abroad to
America, I found the following piece with the stuff and nonsense
habitually worked off on the American press as “foreign
correspondence”:
“Now and then the newspapers report authentic instances of large sums
having been won at the gaming tables at Monte Carlo. One of the most
fortunate players at Monte Carlo for a long time past has been a Mr.
Darnbrough, an Englishman, whose remarkable run of luck had furnished
the morsels of gossip in the capitals of Continental Europe recently.
“If reports are true, he left the place with the snug sum of more than
1,000,000 francs to the good as the result of a month’s play. But this,
I hear, did not represent all of Mr. Darnbrough’s winnings. The story
goes that on the opening day of his play he staked 24,000 francs,
winning all along the line. Emboldened by his success, he continued
playing, winning again and again with marvelous luck. At one period, it
is said, his credit balance amounted to no less than 1,850,000 francs;
but from that moment Dame Fortune ceased to smile upon him. He lost
steadily from 200,000 to 300,000 francs a day, until, recognizing that
luck had turned against him, he had sufficient strength of will to turn
his back on the tables and strike for home with the very substantial
winnings that still remained.
“On another occasion a well-known London stock broker walked off with
little short of £40,000. This remarkable performance occasioned no
small amount of excitement in the gambling rooms, as such an unusual
incident does invariably.
“Bent on making a ‘plunge,’ he went from one table to another, placing
the maximum stake on the same number. Strange to relate, at each table
the same number won, and it was his number. Recognizing that this
perhaps might be his lucky day, the player wended his way to the
trente-et-quarante room and put the maximum on three of the tables
there. To his amazement, he discovered that there also he had been so
fortunate as to select the winning number.
“The head croupier confided to a friend of the writer who happened to
be present that that day had been the worst in the history of the
Monaco bank for years. He it was also who mentioned the amount won by
the fortunate Londoner, as given above.”
It is prudent of the space-writers to ascribe such “information” as
this to “the head croupier,” because it is precisely the like that such
an authority would give out. People upon the spot know that nothing of
the kind happened, and that no person of that name had appeared upon
the scene. The story on the face of it bears to the knowing its own
refutation, being absurd in every detail. As if conscious of this, the
author proceeds to quality it in the following:
“It is a well-known fact that one of the most successful players at the
Monte Carlo tables was Wells, who as the once popular music-hall song
put it, ‘broke the bank’ there. He was at the zenith of his fame, about
twenty years ago, when his escapades—and winnings—were talked about
widely and envied in European sporting circles and among the
demi-monde.
“In ten days, it was said, he made upward of £35,000 clear winnings at
the tables after starting with the modest capital of £400. It must not
be forgotten, however, that at his trial later Wells denied this,
stating that all he had made was £7,000 at four consecutive sittings.
He made the statement that, even so, he had been a loser in the end.
“The reader may take his choice of the two statements, but among
frequenters of the rooms at Monte Carlo it is generally considered
impossible to amass large winnings without risking large stakes. Even
then the chances are 1,000 to 1 in favor of the bank. Yet occasionally
there are winnings running into four or five figures, and to human
beings the possibility of chance constitutes an irresistible
fascination.
“Only a few years ago a young American was credited with having risen
from the tables $75,000 richer than when first he had sat down. It was
his first visit to Monte Carlo and he had not come with any system to
break the bank or with any ‘get-rich-quick’ idea. For the novelty of
the thing he risked about $4,000, and lost it all in one fell swoop
without turning a hair. Then he ‘plunged’ with double that amount, but
the best part of that, too, went the same way. Nothing daunted, he next
ventured $10,000. This time fickle fortune favored him. He played on
with growing confidence and when his winnings amounted to the
respectable sum of $75,000 he had the good sense to quit and to leave
the place despite the temptation to continue.”
V
The “man who broke the bank at Monte Carlo,” and gave occasion for the
song, was not named “Wells” and he was not an Englishman. He was an
American. I knew him well and soon after the event had from his own
lips the whole story.
He came to Monte Carlo with a good deal of money won at draw-poker in a
club at Paris and went away richer by some 100,000 francs (about
$20,000) than he came.
The catch-line of the song is misleading. There is no such thing as
“breaking the bank at Monte Carlo.” This particular player won so fast
upon two or three “spins” that the table at which he played had to
suspend until it could be replenished by another “bank,” perhaps ten
minutes in point of time. There used to be some twenty tables. Just how
one man could play at more than one of them at one time a “foreign
correspondent,” but only a “foreign correspondent,” might explain to
the satisfaction of the horse-marines.
I very much doubt whether any player ever won more than 100,000 francs
at a single sitting. To do even that he must plunge like a ship in a
hurricane. There is, of course, a saving limit set by the Casino
Company upon the play. It is to the interest of the Casino to cultivate
the idea, and the letter writers are willing tools. Not only at Monte
Carlo, but everywhere, in dearth of news, gambling stories come cheap
and easy. And the cheaper the story the bigger the play. “The Jedge
raised him two thousand dollars. The Colonel raised him back ten
thousand more. Both of ’em stood pat. The Jedge bet him a hundred
thousand. The Colonel called. ‘What you got?’ says he. ‘Ace high,’ says
the Jedge; ‘what you got?’ ‘Pair o’ deuces,’ says the Colonel.”
Assuredly the “play” in the Casino is entirely fair. It could hardly be
otherwise with such crowds of players at the tables, often covering the
whole “layout.” But there is no such thing as “honest gambling.” The
“house” must have “the best of it.” A famous American gambler, when I
had referred to one of his guild, lately deceased, as “an honest
gambler,” said to me: “What do you mean by ‘an honest gambler’?”
“A gambler who will not take unfair advantage!” I answered.
“Well,” said he, “the gambler must have his advantage, because gambling
is his livelihood. He must fit himself for its profitable pursuit by
learning all the tricks of trade like other artists and artificers.
With him it is win or starve.”
Among the variegate crowds that thronged the highways and byways of
Monte Carlo in those days there was no single figure more observed and
striking than that of Leopold the Second, King of the Belgians. He had
a bungalow overlooking the sea where he lived three months of the year
like a country gentleman. Although I have made it a rule to avoid
courts and courtiers, an event brought me into acquaintance with this
best abused man in Europe, enabling me to form my own estimate of his
very interesting personality.
He was not at all what his enemies represented him to be, a sot, a
gambler and a roué. In appearance a benignant burgomaster, tall and
stalwart; in manner and voice very gentle, he should be described as
first of all a man of business. His weakness was rather for money than
women. Speaking of the most famous of the Parisian dancers with whom
his name had been scandalously associated, he told me that he had never
met her but once in his life, and that after the newspaper gossips had
been busy for years with their alleged love affair. “I kissed her
hand,” he related, “and bade her adieu, saying, ‘Ah, ma’mselle, you and
I have indeed reason to congratulate ourselves.’”
It was the Congo business that lay at the bottom of the abuse of
Leopold. Henry Stanley had put him up to this. It turned out a gold
mine, and then two streams of defamation were let loose; one from the
covetous commercial standpoint and the other from the humanitarian.
Between them, seeking to drive him out, they depicted him as a monster
of cruelty and depravity.
A King must be an anchorite to escape calumny, and Leopold was not an
anchorite. I asked him why I never saw him in the Casino. “Play,” he
answered, “does not interest me. Besides, I do not enjoy being talked
about. Nor do I think the game they play there quite fair.”
“In what way do you consider it unfair, your Majesty?” I asked.
“In the zero,” he replied. “At the Brussels Casino I do not allow them
to have a zero. Come and see me and I will show you a perfectly equal
chance for your money, to win or lose.”
Years after I was in Brussels. Leopold had gone to his account and his
nephew, Albert, had come to the throne. There was not a roulette table
in the Casino, but there was one conveniently adjacent thereto, managed
by a clique of New York gamblers, which had both a single “and a double
O,” and, as appeared when the municipality made a descent upon the
place, was ingeniously wired to throw the ball wherever the presiding
coupier wanted it to go.
I do not believe, however, that Leopold was a party to this, or could
have had any knowledge of it. He was a skillful, not a dishonest,
business man, who showed his foresight when he listened to Stanley and
took him under his wing. If the Congo had turned out worthless nobody
would ever have heard of the delinquencies of the King of the Belgians.