MONACO.
I heard a thousand blended notes
While in a grove I sat reclined,
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad ones to the mind.
To her fair works did Nature link
The human soul that through me ran;
And much it grieved my heart to think
What man had made of man.
WORDSWORTH.
Spots of blackness in creation to make its colours felt.
_Modern Painters._
"Now this is first rate," said the old captain, as he stepped off the
pier at Folkestone on to the steamer. "Ah, Donovan, my lad, if we
were going for a good cruise it would do you all the good in the
world, better than a dozen Monacos, eh? Not so profitable, you say?
Well, perhaps not, but I wish I was captain of the _Metora_ again, a
prime little steamer she was, you wouldn't think much of such a tub
as this if you'd been aboard the _Metora_."
Donovan, with the delicious sense of returning strength, rolled
himself up in his railway-rug, and with his elbow resting on the deck
railing looked out seawards. The captain was in great spirits, the
breath of sea air seemed to awake his better self, and he was besides
very happy in having his favourite companion with him again.
"Now that you're about again, milord, I shall be a different man," he
said, cheerily; "I've been dreadfully down in the mouth since you
were ill, I missed you frightfully; and there was Noir as grim as
death, and even Sweepstakes as cross as could be. You wouldn't
believe what a bother we had with that bird, milord; just after you
were laid up he caught, somehow or other, one of his old couplets
which always enrages Noir. I suppose I'd said it, and he'd
remembered it, for day and night that creature said nothing but,
"He who prigs what isn't his'n;"
you know the old rhyme!"
"There's something uncanny about Sweepstakes," said Donovan,
laughing, "he has a good deal of the wizard about him. It's to be
hoped he'll be quiet on the journey, or Noir will threaten to wring
his neck."
"Yes, he doesn't approve of our menagerie," said Rouge, adjusting the
covering of the parrot's cage, "though I will say that the dog is a
marvel of obedience."
"I back the winner!" screamed Sweepstakes, as the bell sounded and
the steamer began to move. "Now be gentle, be gentle."
"Hullo! the creature is beginning to talk," said Donovan, "you'll
have a crowd round him."
And true enough before long they found themselves the centre of an
amused group, to whom the parrot held forth in his choicest language.
But presently Noir came up, and directly the bird caught sight of him
he put his head on one side and began with his most sanctimonious
manner to say,
"He who prigs what isn't his'n
When he's cotched shall go to pris'n."
"You must keep the parrot quiet," said Noir, crossly, "he's
disturbing the whole deck."
The passengers at once disclaimed this, and expressed their
admiration of the bird's cleverness, but Noir was not to be baffled,
he drew the black covering over the cage, and Donovan saw by the
frown on his brow that he was vexed by this particular sentence of
the malicious parrot. He sat down on the other side of the cage,
ready to check any further talking, but he could not prevent the mild
refrain which Sweepstakes invariably resorted to when he was snubbed,
and all through the crossing he gently murmured to himself, "When
he's cotched--cotch--cotch--cotched!"
It was a grey day at the end of February, and the English shore was
enveloped in mist, but there was, nevertheless, a strong breeze
blowing. "East-nor'-east," Rouge declared it to be, "and a heavy
swell which would prove fatal to the land-lubbers."
Donovan, though making no pretensions as to his sailing powers,
enjoyed the change and novelty most thoroughly, and, indeed, after
seven or eight weeks of the unwholesome atmosphere of Drury Lane, the
fresh sea-breeze was almost intoxicating. In spite of adverse
circumstances and a naturally melancholy temperament, the young life
within him sprang up to greet the novelty of all around, his eyes
brightened, his taciturnity disappeared, and he and the old captain
sat talking together as happily as two school-boys.
Then came the landing at the sunny little French town, with the
chatter of bad English and broken French, the hurry and bustle of the
passengers, Rouge's anxiety over his precious parrot, and Donovan's
difficulty in steering him safely past the door of the _buffet_, with
all its temptations. After a few minutes' delay, they were off once
more, fairly started now on their route to the south, and Donovan, in
the first exuberance of his new strength, really thought he had found
something to satisfy his restlessness, and to fill the emptiness of
his life. Fair France, with her sunny plains and genial atmosphere,
looked very tempting, Monaco offered plenty of excitement--why should
he not be happy now?
They were to travel straight on to Nice, a rash project for a
semi-invalid, but naturally the Frewins consulted their own wishes,
and Donovan, though tired enough when they reached Paris, preferred
going on with them to staying for the night alone, for he was still
not at all fit to be left quite to himself; old Mrs. Doery had only
resigned her post a few days before, and he shrank from entire
self-dependence. So the night journey was undertaken, and he sat
back in his corner watching his sleeping companions, sometimes dozing
himself for a few minutes, but oftener wide awake, and fully
conscious of his weary misery, bearing it with a sort of philosophic
endurance, and thinking a good deal of the life he had left behind
him, of his parting conversation with Mrs. Doery, of the interview
which by this time she had probably had with his step-father, of the
luck which he had had at the club a few nights ago, which had enabled
him to pay his doctor's bill and start comfortably on his foreign
trip, and of sundry passages which had impressed him in Renan's book.
An odd medley, truly, in an utterly unregulated but well-disposed
mind--well-disposed, that is, as far as it was capable of seeing the
light.
At last the long night wore away; as they passed Lyons, with its
gleaming lights and its broad river; the first faint grey of dawn was
quivering on the horizon, and gradually the pale morning twilight
began to steal into the railway carriage, falling with a most ghastly
effect on the faces of the sleepers--Noir, with his hard, grim
features, Rouge serenely comfortable and animal-like, a priest with a
heavy face, which nevertheless looked quite spiritual compared with
the old captain's, and four average Frenchmen in every variety of
night _déshabillé_ and posture. Donovan glanced at them curiously,
then, with that shivering misery which invariably accompanies the
dawn, he once more looked out over the grey landscape. His cough
began to be troublesome, nor did his discomfort end till the sun had
risen; in the early morning, when they stopped for a minute at
Orange, he dashed out of the carriage, held face and hands under the
pump on the platform, and, somewhat refreshed by the cold water, got
in again, to endure as well as he could the long day of travelling.
A night's rest at Nice set him up again, however, and he was as eager
as either of his companions to go on to Monaco the next morning. The
day, too, was so gloriously bright, and the air so exhilarating, that
he fancied himself stronger than he really was. Nor was the
exquisite scenery altogether wasted on him; it is to be doubted
whether it has any effect on the _habitués_ of Monte Carlo who daily
pass through it, but Donovan was a stranger, not yet seized with the
gaming mania, which seems to destroy all the nobler faculties.
Leaving Nice behind them, with its green hills and clustering white
villas, they sped on through a very paradise of beauty. To the right
lay the Mediterranean, with its wonderfully deep blue, broken here
and there by the tiniest foam-wreathed breakers, gleaming whiter than
snow; to the left rose the Maritime Alps with their softly mantling
olive groves, while in the distance every now and then a snowy peak
stood out clearly against the blue sky.
The three Englishmen certainly took their own fashion of enjoying it
all, there was no studying of Murray or Baedeker, not a single
exclamation of wonder or admiration. Rouge looked sleepily at the
sea, and thought of his voyages in the _Metora_; Noir, who for the
last day or two had been engrossed with his "system," and had done
nothing but cover sheets of paper with dots, barely looked up from
his employment; Donovan looked at all the beauty silently, with no
lack of admiration, but with a certain sadness, his one definite
thought being how much Dot would have enjoyed it. In a very short
time they reached their destination; old Monaco on its rocky
promontory, new Monaco, with its gay white houses and red-tiled
roofs, Monte Carlo, with its gorgeous casino--all lay as it were in a
nutshell. Strange little Principality! one of the most ancient in
Europe, originally a sort of garden of Eden, but now a perfect
hot-bed of vice! Noir, who knew the place well, had his own reasons
for avoiding the fashionable Condamine. He took his companions to an
out-of-the-way hotel in old Monaco, where at the expense of a stiff
climb they would be free from some of the objections of the more
frequented quarter.
Before long they had set off for an afternoon at Monte Carlo, all
three in good spirits; Noir with implicit faith in the system of play
which he was about to try; Donovan exulting in the sense of novelty
and excitement; Rouge ready to be amused by anything, and eager to
try his luck so far as the restricted allowance which his son made
him would permit. Driving up the long hill they were set down at
last at the entrance to the casino. This, then, was the goal they
had been making for, this the place where fortunes were won--or lost,
this the refuge for all who craved excitement, for all who would fain
banish thought. It felt half dream-like to Donovan, a palace of the
genii, transported straight from one of the "Arabian Nights."
Passing into the beautiful vestibule, with its great marble columns,
gorgeously decorated roof and walls, and handsome mosaic floor, the
impression grew upon him, but was speedily dashed into the world of
cold realities by a word from Noir.
"Come, we won't waste time. You'll have to give your name at the
_bureau_, and get your ticket. Of course, by-the-way, you're
twenty-one? Else they won't admit you."
"All right," replied Donovan. "I was of age last spring," and
therewith came memories which brought a look of hard resentment to
his face.
Having given the name which he used, he picked up his pink
admission-card, and followed his companions through the double
swing-doors into the _Salle de Jeu_. After all, even in this
enchanted palace, thoughts would intrude themselves. Would this
journey to Monte Carlo prove less satisfactory than he had expected?
It is a strange sight that _Salle de Jeu_. Its richly decorated
walls, its heavy square pillars, coloured and begilt in the Alhambra
style, form the setting to a dark picture. How many wretched faces,
pale with despair, are reflected each day in those mirrors! how many
victims pace restlessly up and down the slippery parquet floor, never
satisfied with gain, half crazed with loss; and yet with what
persistency all throng round the tables, a curiously mixed multitude,
when one pauses to study them--people of all ranks and ages:
florid-looking Germans, sharp-faced Frenchmen, dark, vindictive
Italians, handsome Russians, hard-featured Englishmen; women, too, in
almost as large a proportion as men, and staking with quite as much
_sang-froid_. Round every table sit the favoured few who have
secured chairs, behind these stand the eager crowd absorbed in
watching the whirling roulette-wheel, or the dealing of the cards,
and on the outskirts of all linger the mere lookers-on; Americans
"doing Europe," and including Monte Carlo in their list of things to
be seen, pale-faced invalids from Mentone, English tourists of every
description, who come to see this sight which happily is not to be
met with in many places. A questionable proceeding though in some
ways is this looking on, and yet to those who really study the
gamblers the sight can hardly fail to teach a very grave lesson.
Only, to anyone who expects pleasure in the mere sight, the
disappointment would be great. Monte Carlo merely heard of is one
thing, Monte Carlo seen is a revelation of sin, of infatuation, of
all that is most sad and pitiable; a black spot in creation which
does indeed make the on-looker thankful for all existing purity and
goodness, but which, at the same time, cannot fail to sober and
sadden.
The three companions quickly separated, Rouge remaining at one of the
roulette-tables in the outer room, Noir steadily settling himself at
the first trente-et-quarante table, and in course of time securing a
chair, Donovan wandering restlessly from place to place. He had no
faith in any system, though Noir had tried hard to convert him to
his, but, although he was usually as successful by luck in games of
chance as he was by cleverness in games of skill, his customary good
fortune seemed now to have deserted him. Before long he had not only
lost a great deal more than was at all convenient, but had conceived
a strong dislike to the whole thing. Dispirited by his unbroken
losses, he felt at once that there was nothing here to satisfy him,
nothing to call out his faculties; for he was more than a mere
gambler, he was a first-rate card-player, and to him half the
pleasure of gaming lay in the sense of power, the exultation in his
own skill. In spite of all the talk about "systems," he saw that the
ruling goddess at Monte Carlo was blind chance; she had not dealt
kindly with him, he would waste no more time or money in her gorgeous
shrine.
But now that all excitement was over he began to feel unbearably
weary, he threw himself down on the crimson velvet ottoman in the
middle of the gaming-room, idly scanning the passers-by, men old and
young; croupiers just released from their wearisome duties, and
leaving the room with tired faces from which all other expression had
died; the servants of the casino in their blue and red livery; the
ever-shifting throng of gamblers; the extravagantly-dressed women.
Realising at length that his peace was in danger of molestation, he
rose to go, and found his way across the vestibule to the beautiful
music-hall, where the finest orchestra in Europe is made a bait to
draw great crowds to the casino. Wearily he leant back in one of the
luxurious arm-chairs and listened to the closing strains of a grand
symphony. The concert was nearly over; he was so weary that he
almost fell asleep, but in, the last piece suddenly came to himself
with a thrill of pain. With exquisite expression, with unrivalled
delicacy of light and shade, the orchestra was playing a selection
from "Don Giovanni," and now through the great hall there rang Dot's
favourite air "Vedrai Carino."
It did him good in spite of the pain. When the audience dispersed,
and he strolled out into the gardens, a child's pure gentle face
haunted him; there among the palms, and aloes, and flowering cactus
two visions of the past were with him, Dot's radiant beauty, and the
quiet maidenly grace of a stranger whom he had involuntarily taken as
his standard of what a woman should be. From what evil these two
guardian angels shielded him who can say?
Before long he wisely went in search of the old captain, whom he
found in low spirits, having lost every five-franc piece in his
possession.
"We've both had enough of this," said Donovan, not sorry to have the
old man's arm to lean on. "I'm about cleared out too, and, what's
worse, I feel awfully seedy."
"Humph!" ejaculated the captain. "In for a second go of
inflammation, I'll be bound."
"Well, Rouge, if I am," said Donovan, slowly, "you'll just have to
bolt and bar the door and nurse me yourself. Do you understand?"
The captain nodded assent, and little more was said as they made
their way back to the hotel.
The surmise proved perfectly true, however, and that night Donovan
was again tossing to and fro in weary misery, haunted by whirling
roulette wheels and stony-faced croupiers, raving about the endless
losses and the tantalizing gains which always eluded his grasp. The
relapse was the natural consequence of all the fatigue he had gone
through, and had it not been for the old captain's devoted though
rough nursing, and for the care of an exceedingly clever French
doctor, he would most likely have sunk under it.
However, he struggled through, and woke one morning, after a long
sleep, to realise for the first time his position. There he was
lying as weak as any baby, surrounded by mosquito net curtains, in an
odd-looking foreign room; there was poor Waif lying at the foot of
the bed, keeping anxious guard over him; there was Rouge sitting by
the open window smoking. Where was he? What was this new place?
Not Drury Lane, for the dingy green paper was changed to a gorgeous
blue one, and the ceiling was decorated, or defaced, with bluewash
studded with glaring white stars, in the middle of which grew by some
strange anomaly a great clump of red and yellow roses. Donovan,
though not artistic, was strangely irritated by looking at the horrid
daub. He called the old captain to him.
"So I've been ill again," he said, interrogatively.
"Very," replied Rouge. "In fact, milord, we as good as gave you up
at one time, you wouldn't believe what an anxious time I've had of
it, with Noir all day long up at that casino, and no one here who
could speak a word of English."
"You have been nursing me?"
"Well, of course, what else could I do?" said Rouge.
"Thank you, captain," said Donovan, adding resolutely, after a
minute's pause, "I shall get well now."
He was as good as his word, and from that day recovered rapidly; not
that he cared much to get well, but he was anxious to free himself
from the state of dependence he was now in, for dependence was
uncongenial to his nature, and to submit to rough and ready
attendance is never pleasant. Before many days had passed he was up
and dressed, just able to drag himself across the room, and to
relieve the monotony of the long hours by such amusement as he could
find at either of the windows. One of these faced the Place du
Palais. There just opposite to him he could see the Prince's Palace,
could count the slow minutes by the clock in the tower, speculate
when the cannon and the great pile of cannon-balls would be used,
study the two sentries who, in their red and blue uniforms, kept
guard over the entrance gate, and watch the few passers-by. From the
other window a much wider view was obtained. Here he could see the
whole of the beautiful bay, and the exquisite loveliness of the place
made him long to quit his room.
And so the days dragged on, and little by little he regained his
strength, would crawl out to the almost deserted Promenade St. Barbe,
and sit on one of the green benches under the plane-trees, or,
passing through the curious old archway which leads by a footpath
from old to new Monaco, he would stretch himself out on the low stone
wall, and rest among a sort of jungle of flowering cactus and pink
geranium, while before him stretched a glorious panorama; the
beautiful blue of the Mediterranean, Monaco with its gay-looking
houses, the mountains skirting the water here clothed with olive
groves, there craggy, bare, and brown, or glistening pearly grey in
the sunlight. Then just facing him, half way up the mountain side,
the pretty little town of Roccabruna, till--the slope of the mountain
hiding Mentone and its bay--the chain gradually lessened, and ended
in the long low promontory of Bordighera. Only one conspicuous
object stood out always as a blot on the fair landscape--the casino,
with its gilded roof and its two minarets.
Donovan had wisely resolved to keep clear of modern Monaco, but he
began rather to weary of the narrow bounds of the old town. True he
had, as usual, made friends among the children; his favourite
resting-place on the wall happened to be on the way to the school,
and troops of little brown-eyed, bare-headed girls and boys passed
him every day, and soon learnt to crowd round the strange English
gentleman and his wonderful dog, and to bring him presents of flowers
or unripe nespoli. But, as he grew stronger, he began to hate the
feeling of imprisonment, until, happening one morning to notice a
little boat on the sea with its white lateen sail, he conceived the
happy idea of taking a daily cruise. The old captain was always
ready to accompany him, and the hours which they spent in the _Ste.
Dévote_, as their boat was named, did each of them untold good.
Meanwhile each evening Noir, returning about eleven o'clock, when the
casino closed, would bring in one or two acquaintances who, not
satisfied with the day's gambling, were anxious for play. In this
manner Donovan made an easy living.
Noir tried in vain to induce him to go once more to Monte Carlo; he
himself had been remarkably lucky, and he rarely let a day pass
without remonstrating with Donovan on what he alternately called his
"cowardice," his "laziness," and his "puritanical fanaticism."
This last accusation was so novel that it called forth one of
Donovan's rare laughs.
"Come, this is quite a new line," he said, when Noir's tirade was
ended. "You are the first person in the world who ever gave me such
an honourable name. Zealous folks have addressed me as 'infidel
dog,' and 'blind atheist,' and 'miserable agnostic,' but 'fanatic
Puritan' is a title to which I never dreamt of aspiring! In the
strength of it you must allow me to gang my ain gait!"
"Please yourself," said Noir, crossly. "Do you know Berrogain's last
name for you--for the young man who is too virtuous to be ensnared?
You are the young Bayard, the----"
"He's welcome to call me what he pleases," interrupted Donovan,
sharply. "All I know or care for is that he loses hundreds of francs
to me every evening we play. It's not the least good talking.
You'll never see me in that _Salle de Jeu_ again. You with your
system, and Berrogain with his luck, may do very well. Fortune
wasn't so kind to me, and I'd rather depend on my own brains."
Sweepstakes ended the discussion by reiterated injunctions to "be
gentle," and the words, coming in after a hot dispute, amused both
speakers, and really did put a stop to the quarrel.
Noir finished his lunch, and set off for his afternoon at Monte
Carlo, leaving his father and Donovan to such amusement as they could
find in a long sail in the _Ste. Dévote_. Strangely enough, however,
it so happened that the infallible "system" failed dismally on that
very afternoon. Noir was singularly unfortunate, lost almost all
that he had previously won, and returned to the hotel at night
crestfallen and dispirited. He had burnt his fingers, and for the
time had lost all desire to risk a fresh effort.
Rather sulkily he consented the next morning to go for a walk with
Donovan, and, _déjeuner_ over, the two set out towards the quaint
little town of Roccabruna. As they passed through old Monaco and
down the sunny road, a furious rattling attracted their notice. All
the small boys of the place had armed themselves with impromptu
policemen's rattles made of odd bits of wood and iron, and were
swinging them round with frightful energy.
"What is all this infernal row about?" grumbled Noir.
Donovan, rather amused by the comical effect of the energetic
_gamins_ and their clumsy rattles, accosted a brown-eyed boy, and
asked him the meaning of it all.
"It is the Holy Thursday, monsieur," was the answer. "We crush the
bones of the wicked Judas, the betrayer. This evening, in the
church, it will be very beautiful. The priests will wash our feet,
the lights will be extinguished, and all the people will crush the
bones of Judas. A great noise it will be, monsieur. It will
resemble the thunder!"
Donovan rejoined Noir with a bitter smile on his face. This then was
Christianity! They walked on in perfect silence.
The day was gloriously fine and bright, the April air soft and balmy,
the atmosphere in that state of almost intoxicating clearness only to
be met with in the South. Certainly the two men were a strange
contrast to their surroundings; the elder grim, clouded,
dissatisfied, the younger worn with suffering, weary with the
weariness of a life-long unrest, and bearing on his handsome features
that peculiar expression of constant inward struggle which often
gives pathos to the hardest face.
Around them were the thick olive groves, above the clear deep blue of
the cloudless sky. It was a paradise of peace and loveliness that
these two were treading together. How far it influenced them it
would be hard to say, but probably both owed more to it than they
knew. Roccabruna, with its cavernous houses and quaint archways, did
not greatly interest them. They had come for exercise rather than
for lionising and, contented with a very brief survey of the little
antique place, they struck off to the left, along a somewhat rough
and rugged mule-path, and walked on silently in the direction of
Mentone, each bend bringing them to fresh loveliness, to glimpses of
new rocky heights, to little silvery impetuous waterfalls, to
different views of the exquisite coast and of the Mediterranean,
which at its very bluest spread out before them in calm beauty. At
last Donovan spoke.
"Have you had enough of Monaco yet? Shall we go?"
"Certainly, I'll go to-morrow, if you'll come back on the old footing
to London," said Noir, with a quick glance at his companion.
"To that you've had your answer already," he replied, coldly. "I
shall never go back to the old life. I told you so."
"Saint!" said Noir, with his most disagreeable sneer.
"Saint or devil, I'm not going to do it," said Donovan, his voice
rising. "Call me what names you like, but understand once for all
that when I say a thing I mean it."
Noir knew that this was true enough, knew, as he looked at the firm
resolute face, that he might more easily move the rocks at Monaco
than turn this fellow from his purpose.
"A month at Paris might not be amiss," he suggested, after a pause.
"Berrogain is going back next week; he's made his fortune now--broke
the bank yesterday."
"I am ready to go, then," said Donovan. "The sooner we're out of
this place the better."
"Paris would not be bad," mused Noir, half to himself; "we shall come
in for the meeting at Chantilly; perhaps induce Darky Legge to come
over. Yes, that'll do; are you agreed?"
"Agreed? Oh, yes," replied Donovan, shortly; and then, as they
passed a little wayside chapel in the midst of an olive grove, he
said, with an abrupt change of tone, "Let us rest here; one doesn't
often get shade like this."
And throwing himself down under one of the gnarled old trees, with
arms crossed pillow-wise beneath his head, he lay watching the
glimpses of blue through the graceful network of branches above him,
and the still bluer depth of sea down below, against which the dark
outlines of an iron cross stood out distinctly. Noir filled his
pipe, and sat with his back against the trunk of the olive, not
caring to attempt any further conversation.
"Life," thought the elder man, depressed by his losses, "was
particularly worthless and uninteresting just at that time." "Life,"
thought the younger, perplexed by his increasing difficulties,
troubled within and without, "life was more than a man could well
stand; it was weary, and profitless, and utterly hateful."
Thus they mused, each following his natural bent, each calling that
"life" which was in reality death, each wondering that they found it
so barren and worthless. Neither could understand that the very
sense of insatiety which came to them in their selfish lives was the
token of those higher affinities within them, those faint needings
and longings for the Omnipresent Fire Divine, which He can--nay,
surely _does_, everywhere kindle.
By-and-by, the one with a shrug, the other with a sigh, the reveries
were ended, the burden of the so-called "life" was taken up once
more; the two walked on slowly, past the beautiful villas and the
fragrant orange groves, to Mentone.