THE MERRY SUMMER OVER AND NO HARVEST STORED.
From Cologne to Frankfort is about 140 miles, and swiftly our train sped
along up the Rhine--the lovely stream about which poets have raved for
twenty generations. What classic ground! What scenes have its waters
reflected, its mountains looked upon! In the old days its rolling floods
made a deep impression on the stout Roman heart. More than one army,
carrying with it the hearts of the Roman world, had crossed that river
and plunged into the unknown forests beyond, only to go down in the
shock of conflict with the brave but barbarian foe, leaving not one
solitary survivor to carry back tidings to Rome of the fate of her army.
And down through all the linked centuries the history of the Rhine has
been the history of giant armies marching against each other, and of
brothers slaughtering brothers. To-day the plains of Germany and France
bear a million of armed men, ranged face to face, with only the Rhine
between, eagerly awaiting the signal to pour a deadly rain on each
other. And for what?
The last face that I saw at the Cologne station was that of Amstel, lit
up with smiles as he waved his hand in adieu. Sitting cozily in the
corner of the carriage, eager to see all that was to be seen, I found,
as all tourists do, much to charm and delight. But my thoughts were on
the bonds I had to sell, and I was glad enough when at 5 o'clock our
train drew into the depot at Frankfort.
Alighting I took a cab and drove to the Hotel Landsberg, and, although
tired, the scenes and surroundings were too novel for me to think of
sleep. So I dined and went out to view the city, but as I will have
occasion to refer to the place again, I will leave any description of it
until another chapter.
In London there was an American banking house that has since failed, but
which at this time was doing a large business in the way of issuing
letters of credit. The firm was patronized chiefly by Americans. It
issued credits, or letters of credit, without inquiry, to any one
applying for them. While in London I called at their office, 449 Strand,
and paying $750 was given a credit for L150, which I took under an
assumed name. I wanted this letter to serve as an introduction to some
of the bankers at Frankfort, and to open the way for the negotiation of
the bonds. The Frankfort correspondents of the London firm were Kraut,
Lautner & Co., on the Gallowsgasse. The next morning I repaired to the
office of this firm, and producing my letter was very cordially
received, and invited to make my headquarters in their office during my
stay at Frankfort, which for the next day or two I did. However, I
called on several other bankers, also feeling the way, and finally
selected the firm of Murpurgo & Wiesweller, bankers widely known and of
enormous wealth. I had several talks with Murpurgo, and told him I was
arranging to purchase a number of copper mines in Austria, and if the
deal was closed I should sell a large block of American bonds and use
the cash I realized to pay for the purchase of the mines. I suppose he
thought to make a good thing out of it, and was eager to purchase.
My reader will recall that payment upon all United States bonds payable
to bearer, as mine were, could not be stopped, and so far as the
innocent holder was concerned he was perfectly secure. But the custom
among bankers was, whenever any bonds were lost by theft or fraud, to
send out circulars containing the numbers, asking that the parties
offering them might be questioned and held. But as American bonds were
sold in millions all over the Continent, and were passing freely from
hand to hand, as a matter of fact, little or no attention was paid to
such circulars, but, of course, had strangers of disreputable appearance
offered bonds in large sums, the lists might have been scrutinized and
awkward questions asked. Therefore I felt a trifle nervous, and
determined to run no chance of losing my bonds--at least not all of
them. So I resolved to go to Wiesbaden, some fifteen miles away, stop at
some hotel under a different name, leave the bonds there, and take the
morning train for Frankfort, conduct my negotiations, and return to
Wiesbaden every evening. It was at this time easy to lose one's identity
in Wiesbaden, for the town then was, along with Baden-Baden, the Monte
Carlo of the Continent, and adventurers, men and women, from all over
Europe flocked there in thousands to chance their fortune in the
gambling halls. Although a little in advance of this portion of my
history, I will here relate an adventure of mine there, some years after
the period of which I am speaking.
I will, however, preface my narrative with a brief account of the
history of the place. The city of Wiesbaden, previous to the
Franco-German war of 1870, was the chief town of one of those petty
principalities which were plentifully sprinkled over the face of Europe.
Since the old Roman days the town had been famous for its hot springs,
and consequently for its hot baths, and a good many people--during the
Winter particularly--resorted there to bathe and to drink the waters. As
a matter of course, the townspeople, as the custom of such places is,
have recorded many a marvelous cure, ranging all the way from headache
to hydrophobia. But still the town was of little importance save
locally. The petty ruler, with a title longer than his income, lived in
the pretentious castle, beguiling the time by smoking cheap cigars or
ordering on banquets whose piece de resistance consisted of Gebratene
Gans und Kartoffeln, the unlucky bird being tribute in kind from the
farmyard of some peasant subject living in a miserable hut on black
bread.
But a change was impending. A mighty wizard had visited the place, with
an eye quick to see the possibilities of the situation, with a brain to
plan and a hand to execute. His name was Francois Blanc, the head of the
great gambling establishment at Homburg. Vast as were his ambition and
achievements, he was a man of the simplest tastes.
To see him--as I often have--in his seedy coat, his old-fashioned
spectacles on the tip of his nose, one would have taken him for a
country advocate whose wildest dreams were of a practice of two thousand
thalers a year, with an old gig and wheezy mare to haul him around the
country side from client to client. Before his Wiesbaden days he had
been the guiding spirit in the direction of the splendid gambling halls,
the Casino at Homburg. Blanc was impervious to flattery; a hard-headed,
silent man, a man without enthusiasm and without weaknesses, who kept a
lavish table and ate sparingly himself, who had a wine cellar rivaling
that of the Autocrat of All the Russias and yet contented himself with
sipping a harmless mineral water; who kept and directed a huge gambling
machine--a mighty conglomeration of gorgeously decorated halls, wine
parlors and music rooms, crammed day and night by giddy and excited
throngs, but himself never indulging in anything more exciting than an
after-dinner game of dominoes or a quiet drive with his wife through the
country lanes.
Thus this Francois Blanc, with perfect equanimity, watched the thousand
thousands of butterflies and moths of society scorch their wings in the
terrific flame that glowed in his Casino, while he looked on, a cynical
observer, despising the fools enraptured with roulette and fascinated
with rouge-et-noir.
But one thing he was not afraid of, and that was spending money. To
compass his business ends he laid it out lavishly, and in the end he
drew all Europe to Wiesbaden. Still broader and still deeper he laid the
foundations of the fortune that ultimately grew to colossal proportions.
But he did not make Wiesbaden famous without keen opposition. He made
the fortune of the beggarly Prince Karl and the whole hungry crowd of
royal highnesses in spite of themselves. At every fresh opposition he
simply opened his purse and a golden shower fell on them.
It required a hard head to withstand the attacks made on him when it
became known that he had bought up both prince and municipality, and
proposed to make Wiesbaden par excellence the gambling city of the
Continent. But, despite of all, he pushed on his plans to wonderful
success. A great park was laid out and stately buildings arose, all
dedicated to the goddess of chance. Slim was the chance the votaries of
the game had in his gorgeous halls. He threw out his money in millions,
but he knew the weak, foolish heart of man, the egotism of each and
every one of us, that leads us to ignore for ourselves the immutable law
of numbers. So he counted upon his returns, and never counted in vain.
As I say, he had a hard head to withstand the attacks made upon him.
Every day the post brought hundreds of letters containing propositions
of threats from people who had lost their money and demanded its return
with fierce threats, pitiful supplications and warnings of intended
suicide, place, date and hour carefully specified, so there could be no
mistake, and more than one attempt was made upon his life. But the
equanimity of Francois Blanc was equal to all adventures. Threats,
prayers, temptations, left him untouched. This man of ice,
self-possessed, cold, indifferent to the ruin of the thousands of
victims of his will, had a fad or fancy. It was for raising red and
white roses, and while the mad throngs were fluttering in frenzy around
the tables in his halls at Homburg, Wiesbaden and Monte Carlo, he, hoe
or trowel in hand, would be training and transplanting his roses,
solicitous over an opening bud or deploring the ravages of an insect;
or, again, refusing all invitations, would sit down with his wife to a
dinner of boiled turnips and bacon, washed down with a glass of Vichy
water and milk. This was the town and these the scenes constantly
occurring there.
Now for my adventure. In 1870, just before the war cloud burst, covering
all that part of the world, I was stopping for some weeks at the Hotel
Nassau. It stands in the main street, opposite the park gate leading to
the Casino. All the world went to Wiesbaden to be amused. However
fashionable frivolity and vice may be elsewhere, here it was strictly de
rigueur, and to pretend to decency and sobriety would be to stamp one's
self a heathen and barbarian, all unversed in the glorious
flower-wreathed Primrose Way of our orb.
The daily routine for the throng began with coffee in bed at 8 a.m.,
then dressing gowns were donned, and the bath in underground floors of
the hotel were sought and a bath had in the hot mineral waters, which
were conducted to all the hotels direct from the hot springs of the
town. Half an hour in the bath, then a light breakfast, preparatory to
sallying out for an hour on the Spaziergang around the Quellen to drink
the water, listen to the band, see and be seen, but, above all, to
gossip and tell lies. At 11 a.m. the gambling began in the Casino, and
with a rush the seats around the tables would be filled. Then speedily
there would be rows behind rows of eager players or spectators, and what
a sight it all was to the cool-headed observer.
With what keen interest all watched the result of the first turn of the
card at the card tables and the color of the first hit at roulette. For
all gamblers are superstitious, and are devout believers in omens. Those
whose luck or pocketbooks held out gambled steadily on, or, if luck
turned against them, would leave the table, go to do some fantastic
thing to change their luck and then return. At 2 p.m. the band (a very
fine one) played in the Musik Saal, and most of the idlers and morning
players gathered there to listen to the music and to drink and dine.
Here in this hall the intrigues begun on the promenade or in the
gambling-rooms were helped along by the ample opportunities of meeting,
with the passions stimulated by the music and the wine. At 4 o'clock
many took an afternoon nap. Then came the chief event of the day, the
ponderous table d'hote. At 9 p.m. every one flocked to the Casino, and
the game went merrily on until midnight. Then to bed, each and all with
more or less Rudesheimer or Hochheimer stowed away.
At the time of which I speak many were my idle days, in which I was free
to seek pleasure. I used to find much enjoyment in frequenting the
Casino to watch the people and to play the role of "looker-on in
Vienna," which, by the way, is a star role and therefore rather
agreeable. One evening while watching the rouge-et-noir I noticed a lady
just in front of me, magnificently dressed in all, save that there was
an entire absence of jewelry. She was literally dressed to kill, and,
although near 50, yet to the casual observer she seemed no more than 40,
or even less. She was a well-preserved woman of the world, and was known
as the Countess de Winzerole. This was the adventuress who had married
Van Tromp some two years before. What a career had been that of this
woman!
She had been mistress from first to last of a dozen men, noblemen,
diplomats, soldiers, but being an inveterate gambler, one after another
saw, with dismay, the cash, estates, diamonds, carriages, costly furs
and laces he showered upon her all go whirling into the ever-open maw of
the Casino, or in the drawing-room games of the bon-ton in Paris or
Petersburg. One brave youth, an officer in the Prussian Guards, had, in
his infatuation for the Countess, and impregnable, as he thought,
against bankruptcy by reason of his great fortune, tried to satisfy her
cravings for splendor of entourage and her infatuation for gambling. The
result was that one day the crack of a pistol-shot was heard in the
Countess' chamber, and the servants rushing in found the young bankrupt
dead, lying across the bed, with a bullet through the heart. The next
day a horde of clamorous creditors besieged the house, where the
Countess calmly told them she had sent for her bankers and on the morrow
they would be paid. That night his comrades buried their dead friend
with military honors. At midnight the cortege passed the hotel, and all
eyes watched the lovely Countess robed in white as she appeared, her
bosom heaving with emotion, while she waved a farewell to her dead
lover. Ten minutes later she fled through the back door and over the
garden wall, falling into the arms of another lover waiting there. He
himself did not go the way of the last, but half of his fortune did; so
one morning, leaving a polite note of farewell, he, taking for companion
the dressing maid of his mistress, embarked for America.
At the time I met her the Countess' reputation was too well known and
her beauty too much fallen off for her to make any more grand catches. A
local banker at Wiesbaden became very friendly. However, the friendship
lost all its warmth when the banker's stout wife one day caught them
together, and having already provided herself with a whip in
anticipation, visited them both with a jealous woman's rage and a sound
thrashing.
Now, the Countess spent her time around the tables, following the
winners and getting douceurs from them. These were by no means
small--most of them being gifts pure and simple, given from mere
goodness of heart or sheer prodigality for there were too many gay and
beautiful women flocking around ready to smile on winners in the game
for the Countess now to make even a temporary conquest. However, at
this period she lived well--even extravagantly--but, of course, saved
nothing. As related, I first met the Countess here at the table where
the game was going on. She had just staked and lost her last gulden. She
was betting on the black, and four times in succession the red had won.
She turned, and looking in my face, implored me to bet a double
Frederick on the red. I instantly placed the money on the red and won.
She begged me to transfer the stake to the black. I did so, and black
won. Placing her hand on the stake, she said: "Sir, leave it; black will
win again." Sure enough, it did. She seized the cash, $80, and handing
me a double Frederick, said in her most bewitching manner: "Oh, sir; be
generous and let me keep this!" I said: "Certainly, madame." She
promptly staked it, and in two turns of the cards it was gone.
We met several times the next few days, but merely bowed without
speaking.
One afternoon, entering the Musik Saal, I took a small table, and,
ordering a bottle of wine, sat down to listen to the music and watch the
throng. The Countess came in, and seeing me alone, came straight to me,
shook hands warmly and sat down. I, of course, invited her to have a
glass of wine. We soon finished that bottle and ordered another. We had
what was to me a most amusing talk. She was a character--had been
everywhere and spoke all the modern languages. She assured me that I was
a very charming gentleman. In paying my bill I incautiously displayed a
gold piece or two, and, seeing she was going to ask me to give her one,
I saved her the trouble by placing one in her hand. In time we became
quite good friends. Twice I paid her board bill in order to rescue her
wardrobe from the clutches of her landlord, and once I saved her from
the hands of an irate washerwoman. When, after a time, I left Wiesbaden,
I left her as gay, as prosperous and as extravagant as ever.
I did not see Wiesbaden again for over two years, but the second week
of January, 1873, found me there. The Prussian Government now ruled in
the town, and refused to renew the license of M. Blanc. It had expired
fourteen days before my arrival. What a change had fallen on the town!
The Casino was gloomy and cold, the gay crowds had fled. All the life
and movement of the street and promenade was forever a thing of the
past. I had located there simply as a precaution, disposing of large
amounts of bonds in Frankfort, fifteen miles away, and returning to
Wiesbaden each night. At this time I put up at the Hotel Victoria, near
the railroad station. One Saturday, going up to Frankfort rather late,
my business detained me until after dark. On reaching the station I
happened to look into the third-class waiting-room, and there I spied a
figure alone that looked familiar. I soon recognized the Countess. From
her appearance and surroundings it was plain that there was now no
wealthy lover at her beck and call. Because she looked so unhappy I gave
her a cordial greeting, which she returned rather wearily. It was very
cold, and I was clad in furs from head to foot; besides, I was,
apparently, on the full floodtide of fortune, having with me then a very
large sum of money, some of which she could have had for the asking.
I said: "Come, Countess; let us go together first class to Wiesbaden."
She replied that she lived at Bieberich, a small town on the Rhine, four
miles below Mayence, and four miles from Wiesbaden. As the train was
starting I bade her good-bye, but asked permission to call on her the
next day. She consented, giving her address as Hotel Bellevue.
The next morning was very cold, but I enjoyed that, so, after a light
breakfast, I started over the hills for a walk to the town, arriving
there soon after noon. I found the hotel, a fifth-rate one, and
entering, was shown to the room of the Countess. What a change for her
from the past! Her room was a small one, plastered, but unpapered, and
with a few articles of furniture of the cheapest. The poor woman was
too evidently in a state of frightful depression, and well she might be.
Hers had been a butterfly existence, life all one Summer holiday, no
hostages given to fortune, no bond taken against future wreck or change.
Like the butterfly, she had roamed from flower to flower, sipping the
sweet only, or, like the cricket, had merrily piped all the Summer
through, thinking sunshine and bloom eternal. Even when youth and beauty
had fled, and lovers no longer stood ready to attend and serve, she
still found a good aftermath in her happy harvest field on the floors of
the Casino, but when the Casino lights at Wiesbaden went out, then, for
the Countess, had the Winter indeed come.
My walk had given me something of an appetite, and it now being 2
o'clock I at once proposed to have dinner. To my surprise she said she
had already dined, and upon my remarking that it was early for dinner,
she replied that it was, but as she was owing quite a hotel bill she
feared to give any trouble lest the landlord might present his bill, and
in default of payment she was liable to arrest and a very considerable
imprisonment. I need hardly tell my readers that they do these things
differently in Germany than with us. I could easily afford to be
generous with other people's money, and did not mean to see the Countess
suffer for a hotel bill. Ringing the bell, I told the waiter to bring me
some dinner and a bottle of wine. The Countess looked very uneasy over
my order. Of late years she had seen life from the seamy side and had
observed so much of the falseness and cruelty of men that she had
apparently lost all faith in them, and no doubt thought me an
adventurer, one who might possibly dine and order expensive wines,
leaving her to face an angry landlord. While dinner was being prepared
she told me she was in the greatest distress; had not even a single
kreutzer to pay postage, and, worst of all, was owing for two weeks'
board. She had no means to fly, no place to fly to, and if she remained
incarceration awaited her. She had for weeks been writing everywhere to
every one she had known, former lovers, distant, but long-neglected
relatives. The result--dead silence; no response from anywhere. She at
last was alone, caught in the world's great snare, with no friendly hand
to shelter or save. It was a sight to read this woman's face. There
swept over it all the conflicting waves of regrets over might-have-beens
and the gloomy shades of despair. Both proprietor and waiter appeared to
set the table; it was for one, but wineglasses for two were brought
unsolicited. They were officiously anxious to please "Your Highness," as
they christened me. The Countess sat looking gloomily out of the window
across the Rhine, while I watched her face until an infinite pity for
the shipwrecked soul filled my mind. Dismissing the waiter I went to the
window, and standing by her chair I said: "Don't worry any more,
Countess; I will pay your bill." At the same time drawing from an inner
pocket a book crammed with notes, I placed seven 100-thaler notes in her
lap, saying: "This one is for your board bill, and the other six are for
your pocket money." I need not attempt to picture her amazement and
delight. Certainly she appeared very grateful. We had a long
conversation and I was talking to her like a brother. Perhaps had she
still been beautiful and young my manner and language might have been
less brotherly. I told her she had danced and sung, but at last the time
had come for toil, and suggested she should go to Brussels, which is
ever thronged with tourists, where her knowledge of languages and her
savoir faire could be made available in one of the many shops where
gimcracks are sold to travelers. I advised her to offer a small premium
for a position. This she said she would do.
In saying good-bye I promised to see her again the next night, but I
found a telegram awaiting me on my arrival at my hotel which called me
to meet two of my companions at Calais, and I was forced to leave by an
early train. The next time I saw the Countess was at Newgate. She
visited me there, and was in perfect despair over my position and her
inability to serve me. For those who may care to know more of her, I
will say that, following my advice, she went to Brussels and obtained a
position in a Tourist Exchange and within a year married the proprietor,
who was a Councilman and a man of considerable local importance. She
made him a good wife and became a true mother to his five daughters.
When he died he made her guardian to both of them and his wealth. She
became very religious, and to the last was a devout member of the Roman
Church. She died in 1886, thirteen years after the episode at Rieberich.
Her ashes rest in the little graveyard of the Convent des Soeurs de Ste.
Agnes, on the Charleroi road, two miles from the city, and on her
monument is engraved:
TO ELIZABETH, The Beloved Wife, Pious and True. She Served God and
Has Gone to Live with the Angels
[Illustration: "THE LOVELY COUNTESS WAVED A FAREWELL TO HER DEAD
LOVER."--Page 81.]