Produced by David Widger
THE MARTINS OF CRO' MARTIN
By Charles Lever
With Illustrations By Phiz.
In Two Volumes
Vol. II.
Boston: Little, Brown, And Company.
1906
THE MARTINS OF CRO' MARTIN.
CHAPTER I. MR. HERMAN MERL
This much-abused world of ours, railed at by divines, sneered down by
cynics, slighted by philosophers, has still some marvellously pleasant
things about it, amongst which, first and foremost, _facile princeps_,
is Paris! In every other city of Europe there is a life to be learned
and acquired just like a new language. You have to gain the acquaintance
of certain people, obtain admission to certain houses, submit yourself
to ways, habits, hours, all peculiar to the locality, and conform to
usages in which--at first, at least--you rarely find anything beyond
penalties on your time and your patience. But Paris demands no such
sacrifices. To enjoy it, no apprenticeship is required. You become
free of the guild at the Porte St. Denis. By the time you reach the
Boulevards you have ceased to be a stranger. You enter the “Frères” at
dinner hour like an old habitué. The atmosphere of light, elastic gayety
around you, the tone of charming politeness that meets your commonest
inquiry, the courtesy bestowed upon your character as a foreigner, are
all as exhilarating in their own way as your sparkling glass of Moët,
sipped in the window, from which you look down on plashing fountains,
laughing children, and dark-eyed grisettes! The whole thing, in its
bustle and movement, its splendor, sunlight, gilded furniture,
mirrors, and smart toilettes, is a piece of natural magic, with this
difference,--that its effect is ever new, ever surprising!
Sad and sorrowful faces are, of course, to be met with, since grief has
its portion everywhere; but that air of languid indifference, that
look of wearied endurance, which we characterize by the classic term of
“boredom,” is, indeed, a rare spectacle in this capital; and yet now
at the window of a splendid apartment in the Place Vendôme, listlessly
looking down into the square beneath, stood a young man, every line
of whose features conveyed this same expression. He had, although not
really above twenty-four or twenty-five, the appearance of one ten
years older. On a face of singular regularity, and decidedly handsome,
dissipation had left its indelible traces. The eyes were deep sunk,
the cheeks colorless, and around the angles of the mouth were those
tell-tale circles which betray the action of an oft-tried temper, and
the spirit that has gone through many a hard conflict. In figure he was
very tall, and seemed more so in the folds of a long dressing-gown
of antique brocade, which reached to his feet; a small, dark green
skull-cap, with a heavy silver tassel, covered one side of his head, and
in his hand he held a handsome meerschaum, which, half mechanically, he
placed from time to time to his lips, although its bowl was empty.
At a breakfast-table covered with all that could provoke appetite, sat a
figure as much unlike him as could be. He was under the middle size,
and slightly inclined to flesh, with a face which, but for some strange
resemblance to what one has seen in pictures by the older artists, would
have been unequivocally vulgar. The eyes were small, keen, and furtive;
the nose, slightly concave in its outline, expanded beneath into
nostrils wide and full; but the mouth, thick-lipped, sensual, and
coarse, was more distinctive than all, and showed that Mr. Herman Merl
was a gentleman of the Jewish persuasion,--a fact well corroborated by
the splendor of a very flashy silk waistcoat, and various studs, gold
chain, rings, and trinkets profusely scattered over his costume. And
yet there was little of what we commonly recognize as the Jew in the
character of his face. The eyes were not dark, the nose not aquiline;
the hair, indeed, had the wavy massiveness of the Hebrew race; but Mr.
Merl was a “Red Jew,” and the Red Jew, like the red partridge, is a
species _per se_.
[Illustration: 018]
There was an ostentatious pretension in the “get up” of this gentleman.
His moustache, his beard, his wrist-buttons, his shirt-studs, the
camellia in his coat,--all, even to the heels of his boots, had been
made studies, either to correct a natural defect, or show off what he
fancied a natural advantage. He seemed to have studied color like a
painter, for his dark brown frock was in true keeping with the tint
of his skin; and yet, despite these painstaking efforts, the man was
indelibly, hopelessly vulgar. Everything about him was imitation, but it
was imitation that only displayed its own shortcomings.
“I wonder how you can resist these oysters, Captain,” said he, as he
daintily adjusted one of these delicacies on his fork; “and the Chablis,
I assure you, is excellent.”
“I never eat breakfast,” said the other, turning away from the window,
and pacing the room with slow and measured tread.
“Why, you are forgetting all the speculations that used to amuse us
on the voyage,--the delicious little dinners we were to enjoy at the
'Rocher,' the tempting dejeuners at 'Véfour's.' By Jove! how hungry you
used to make me, with your descriptions of the appetizing fare before
us; and here we have it now: Ardennes ham, fried in champagne; Ostend
oysters, salmi of quails with truffles--and such truffles! Won't that
tempt you?”
But his friend paid no attention to the appeal, and walking again to the
window, looked out.
“Those little drummers yonder have a busy day of it,” said he, lazily;
“that's the fourth time they have had to beat the salute to Generals
this morning.”
“Is there anything going on, then?”
But he never deigned an answer, and resumed his walk.
“I wish you'd send away that hissing teakettle, it reminds me of a
steamboat,” said the Captain, peevishly; “that is, if you have done with
it.”
“So it does,” said the other, rising to ring the bell; “there's the same
discordant noise, and the--the--the--” But the rest of the similitude
would n't come, and Mr. Merl covered his retreat with the process of
lighting a cigar,--an invaluable expedient that had served to aid many a
more ready debater in like difficulty.
It would be a somewhat tedious, perhaps not a very profitable task, to
inquire how two men, so palpably dissimilar, had thus become what the
world calls friends. Enough if we say that Captain Martin,--the heir of
Cro' Martin,--when returning from India on leave, passed some time at
the Cape, where, in the not very select society of the place, he met Mr.
Merl. Now Mr. Merl had been at Ceylon, where he had something to do with
a coffee plantation; and he had been at Benares, where opium interested
him; and now again, at the Cape, a question of wine had probably some
relation to his sojourn. In fact, he was a man travelling about the
world with abundance of leisure, a well-stocked purse, and what our
friends over the Strait would term an “industrial spirit.” Messes had
occasionally invited him to their tables. Men in society got the habit
of seeing him “about,” and he was in the enjoyment of that kind of
tolerance which made every man feel, “He's not _my_ friend,--_I_ didn't
introduce him; but he seems a good sort of fellow enough!” And so he
was,--very good-tempered, very obliging, most liberal of his cigars,
his lodgings always open to loungers, with pale ale, and even iced
champagne, to be had |for asking. There was play, too; and although Merl
was a considerable winner, he managed never to incur the jealous enmity
that winning so often imposes. He was the most courteous of gamblers; he
never did a sharp thing; never enforced a strict rule upon a novice of
the game; tolerated every imaginable blunder of his partner with bland
equanimity; and, in a word, if this great globe of ours had been a
green-baize cloth, and all the men and women whist-players, Mr. Herman
Merl had been the first gentleman in it, and carried off “all the
honors” in his own hand.
If he was highly skilled in every game, it was remarked of him that he
never proposed play himself, nor was he ever known to make a wager: he
always waited to be asked to make up a party, or to take or give the
odds, as the case might be. To a very shrewd observer, this might have
savored a little too much of a system; but shrewd observers are, after
all, not the current coin in the society of young men, and Merl's
conduct was eminently successful.
Merl suited Martin admirably. Martin was that species of man which,
of all others, is most assailable by flattery. A man of small
accomplishments, he sang a little, rode a little, played, drew, fenced,
fished, shot--all, a little--that is, somewhat better than others in
general, and giving him that dangerous kind of pre-eminence from which,
though the tumble never kills, it occurs often enough to bruise and
humiliate. But, worse than this, it shrouds its possessor in a triple
mail of vanity, that makes him the easy prey of all who minister to it.
We seldom consider how much locality influences our intimacies, and how
impossible it had been for us even to know in some places the people we
have made friends of in another. Harry Martin would as soon have thought
of proposing his valet at “Brookes's,” as walk down Bond Street with Mr.
Merl. Had he met him in London, every characteristic of the man would
there have stood out in all the strong glare of contrast, but at the
Cape it was different. Criticism would have been misplaced where all was
irregular, and the hundred little traits--any one of which would have
shocked him in England--were only smiled at as the eccentricities of a
“good-natured poor fellow, who had no harm in him.”
Martin and Merl came to England in the same ship. It was a sudden
thought of Merl's, only conceived the evening before she sailed; but
Martin had lost a considerable sum at piquet to him on that night, and
when signing the acceptances for payment, since he had not the ready
money, somewhat peevishly remarked that it was hard he should not have
his revenge. Whereupon Merl, tossing off a bumper of champagne, and
appearing to speak under the influence of its stimulation, cried out,
“Hang me, Captain, if you shall say that! I 'll go and take my passage
in the 'Elphinstone.'” And he did so, and he gave the Captain his
revenge! But of all the passions, there is not one less profitable to
indulge in. They played morning, noon, and night, through long days of
sickening calm, through dreary nights of storm and hurricane, and they
scarcely lifted their heads at the tidings that the Needles were in
sight, nor even questioned the pilot for news of England, when he
boarded them in the Downs. Martin had grown much older during that same
voyage; his temper, too, usually imbued with the easy indolence of his
father's nature, had grown impatient and fretful. A galling sense of
inferiority to Merl poisoned every minute of his life. He would not
admit it; he rejected it, but back it came; and if it did not enter into
his heart, it stood there knocking,--knocking for admission. Each time
they sat down to play was a perfect duel to Martin.
As for Merl, his well-schooled faculties never were ruffled nor excited.
The game had no power to fascinate _him_, its vicissitudes had nothing
new or surprising to him; intervals of ill-luck, days even of dubious
fortune might occur, but he knew he would win in the end, just as
he knew that though there might intervene periods of bad weather and
adverse winds, the good ship “Elphinstone” would arrive at last, and, a
day sooner or a day later, discharge passengers and freight on the banks
of the Thames.
You may forgive the man who has rivalled you in love, the banker whose
“smash” has engulfed all your fortune, the violent political antagonist
who has assailed you personally, and in the House, perhaps, answered the
best speech you ever made by a withering reply. You may extend feelings
of Christian charity to the reviewer who has “slashed” your new novel,
the lawyer whose vindictive eloquence has exposed, the artist in “Punch”
who has immortalized, you; but there is one man you never forgive, of
whom you will never believe one good thing, and to whom you would wish a
thousand evil ones,--he is your natural enemy, brought into the world
to be your bane, born that he may be your tormentor; and this is the man
who _always_ beats you at play! Happily, good reader, you may have no
feelings of the gambler,--you may be of those to whom this fatal vice
has never appealed, or appealed in vain; but if you _have_ “played,” or
even mixed with those who have, you could n't have failed to be struck
with the fact that there is that one certain man from whom you never
win! Wherever he is, there, too, is present your evil destiny! Now,
there is no pardoning this,--the double injury of insult to your skill
and damage to your pocket. Such a man as this becomes at last your
master. You may sneer at his manners, scoff at his abilities, ridicule
his dress, laugh at his vulgarity,--poor reprisals these! In his
presence, the sense of that one superiority he possesses over you makes
you quail! In the stern conflict, where your destiny and your capacity
seem alike at issue, he conquers you,--not to-day or to-morrow, but ever
and always! There he sits, arbiter of your fate,--only doubtful how long
he may defer the day of your sentence!
It is something in the vague indistinctness of this power--something
that seems to typify the agency of the Evil One himself--that at once
tortures and subdues you; and you ever hurry into fresh conflict with
the ever-present consciousness of fresh defeat! We might have spared our
reader this discursive essay, but that it pertains to our story. Such
was the precise feeling entertained by Martin towards Merl. He hated
him with all the concentration of his great hatred, and yet he could not
disembarrass himself of his presence. He was ashamed of the man amongst
his friends; he avoided him in all public places; he shrunk from
his very contact as though infected; but he could not throw off his
acquaintance, and he nourished in his heart a small ember of hope that
one day or other the scale of fortune would turn, and he might win back
again all he had ever lost, and stand free and unembarrassed as in the
first hour he had met him! Fifty times had he consulted Fortune, as
it were, to ask if this moment had yet arrived; but hitherto ever
unsuccessfully,--Merl won on as before. Martin, however, invariably
ceased playing when he discovered that his ill-luck continued. It was
an experiment,--a mere pilot balloon to Destiny; and when he saw the
direction adverse, he did not adventure on the grand ascent. It was
impossible that a man of Merl's temperament and training should not have
detected this game. There was not a phase of the gambler's mind with
which he was not thoroughly familiar.
Close intimacies, popularly called friendships, have always their
secret motive, if we be but skilful enough to detect it. We see people
associate together of widely different habits, and dispositions the most
opposite, with nothing in common of station, rank, object, or pursuit.
In such cases the riddle has always its key, could we only find it.
Mr. Martin had been some weeks in Paris with his family, when a brief
note informed him that Merl had arrived there. He despatched an answer
still briefer, asking him to breakfast on the following morning; and it
was in the acceptance of this same invitation we have now seen him.
“Who's here just now?” said Merl, throwing down his napkin, and pushing
his chair a little back from the table, while he disposed his short, fat
legs into what he fancied was a most graceful attitude.
“Here? Do you mean in Paris?” rejoined Martin, pettishly,--for he never
suffered so painfully under this man's intimacy as when his manners
assumed the pretension of fashion.
“Yes,--of course,--I mean, who's in Paris?”
“There are, I believe, about forty-odd thousand of our countrymen and
countrywomen,” said the other, half contemptuously.
“Oh, I've no doubt; but my question took narrower bounds. I meant, who
of _our_ set,--who of us?”
Martin turned round, and fixing his eyes on him, scanned him from head
to foot with a gaze of such intense insolence as no words could have
equalled. For a while the Jew bore it admirably; but these efforts,
after all, are only like the brief intervals a man can live under water,
and where the initiated beats the inexperienced only by a matter of
seconds. As Martin continued his stare, Merl's cheek tingled, grew red,
and finally his whole face and forehead became scarlet.
With an instinct like that of a surgeon who feels he has gone deep
enough with his knife, Martin resumed his walk along the room without
uttering a word.
Merl opened the newspaper, and affected to read; his hand, however,
trembled, and his eyes wandered listlessly over the columns, and then
furtively were turned towards Martin as he paced the chamber in silence.
“Do you think you can manage that little matter for me, Captain?” said
he at last, and in a voice attuned to its very humblest key.
“What little matter? Those two bills do you mean?” said Martin,
suddenly.
“Not at all. I 'm not the least pressed for cash. I alluded to the Club;
you promised you 'd put me up, and get one of your popular friends to
second me.”
“I remember,” said Martin, evidently relieved from a momentary terror.
“Lord Claude Willoughby or Sir Spencer Cavendish would be the men if we
could find them.”
“Lord Claude, I perceive, is here; the paper mentions his name in the
dinner company at the Embassy yesterday.”
“Do you know him?” asked Martin, with an air of innocence that Merl well
comprehended as insult.
“No. We 've met,--I think we 've played together; I remember once at
Baden--”
“Lord Claude Willoughby, sir,” said a servant, entering with a card,
“desires to know if you 're at home?”
“And won't be denied if you are not,” said his Lordship, entering at the
same instant, and saluting Martin with great cordiality.