of Baden. Her career, if report be true, must have been eventful. A
native of Siberia, she went to St. Petersburg while very young, and
her father occupying a high position in the army, she was received
into the best society, and, by her beauty, grace, and accomplishments,
soon became the centre of a large and admiring circle. She had lovers
by the dozen; and although many men of rank sued for her hand, she
refused every offer, declaring she preferred freedom to the highest
title and the largest income. At last the Czar, wishing to perpetuate
the name of Suvarroff, then dependent on a single scion,—the prince
of that name,—urgently requested that she should take the prince
for a husband. The imperial request is equivalent to a command, and
the charming flirt, unwilling to forfeit the favor of the court,
consented, even with the knowledge that her husband would be her
husband only in name. She has since had several children; and though
their paternity is not easily traceable, they are called Suvarroffs,
and the object of the Czar is therefore attained. The princess has
had, and still has, all the liberty she could desire. She goes where
she chooses, and does what she likes. Baden is her favorite resort,
and _rouge-et-noir_ her favorite pastime. She has been remarkably
successful in her ventures, being one of the very few players who have
won more than they have lost. Her reputation for luck has long been
established, and the consequence is, she is perpetually asked to place
the money of others upon the green cloth, which she often does, as
she is extremely good-natured and obliging. Considerably over forty
now, she is still handsome, and her ease and grace of manner, with her
richness of attire, indifference to conventionality, and brilliancy of
conversation, render her noticeable at all times and in all places.
[Sidenote: A NOTED GAMESTER.]
Señor Garcia, one of the most renowned of Continental gamesters,
and one of the lions of the spas, died very recently in Geneva,
bankrupt in hope and fortune. He was born at Saragossa, of a good
Spanish family, and inherited large wealth at his maturity. This
he wasted in dissipation, materially assisted by his fondness for
_trente-et-quarante_. He afterwards inherited some twenty thousand
francs by the death of a relative in France, and, with this as a
stake, he won nearly two millions of dollars. For several years he
lived luxuriously, driving the finest of horses, wearing the rarest
of diamonds, giving the superbest of dinners. His turnouts were
conspicuous in all the capitals of Europe, and, though he spent
money like Fortunatus, there seemed to be no end to his wealth. No
one in this generation has broken the bank of Baden so often, and
_tailleurs_ at _rouge-et-noir_ really feared him, so unprecedented had
been his successes. His luck deserted him at last, and he lost in the
Conversationshaus the last florin he had been able to borrow.
He then went to Monaco, and became a waiter at a fashionable
restaurant; but whenever he had a few francs in his purse, he laid
them on the table which had swallowed up his riches. His lofty air
in the restaurant at Monaco first directed my attention to him, and
caused the remark that he had the manners of a prince in the person
of a servant. Informed of his antecedents, I no longer wondered
that his appearance was above his station. He was a great favorite
of the patrons of the establishment where he was employed, and the
gratuities bestowed upon him were large and frequent. He received
them, I remember, as if it were a condescension on his part, and as
if the givers ought to be eternally grateful to him for his generous
acceptance. He made numerous efforts to propitiate the goddess who
had deserted him, but she was as obdurate as a woman whose vanity had
been wounded. After various shifts, he breathed his last in miserable
lodgings, leaving behind him but twenty sous as a mournful memento of
his dangerous vice and his once splendid fortune. The close of his
career conveys its own moral. He died as most gamesters die, whatever
may have been their occasional prosperity—baffled in his desires,
robbed of his gains, derided by destiny.
Garcia had more philosophy than many gamesters have. They who lose
everything, after having been for a certain time successful, are often
so deeply distressed by their changed condition that they commit
suicide.
Self-destruction is something the virtuous Direction has a holy horror
of, for it clearly illustrates the natural result of gambling, and
has a tendency to discourage timid persons from betting liberally.
The Direction doesn’t care a maravedi, of course, how many men
hang or women poison themselves, after being ruined at _roulette_
or _rouge-et-noir_, if they will only be obliging enough to die
privately, instead of in the face of the public. Every once in a
while, some man, whose last stake the _croupier_ has raked in, steps
into the beautiful gardens in the rear of the gambling saloons, and
blows out his brains, because he believes that an empty purse is more
to be dreaded than an occupied coffin.
[Sidenote: AN ILL-STARRED RUSSIAN.]
Two or three years ago, a young Russian officer, a member of a highly
influential family, came to Wiesbaden to spend the summer. He had
never touched a card,—indeed, he did not know one from another,—and
was enjoying himself very well with the pleasant acquaintances he
had made there, when an Italian lady, who had been unlucky, asked
him, one day, in the Cursaal, to bet a few napoleons for her. She had
faith, inasmuch as he was entirely unfamiliar with gambling of any
sort, that he might turn the tide of her fortune. He was too gallant
to refuse, and, as it happened, he won for her in less than half an
hour two hundred napoleons, without understanding a single rule of
the game. He then asked her if she was satisfied, and she replied in
the affirmative. He quitted the saloon, determined never to play on
his own account. He misunderstood himself. He passed a feverish and
restless night, and in the morning he was drawn irresistibly to the
tables. If he could have such good fortune for another, why should he
not have it for himself? He was haunted at once by visions of wealth,
and he no longer had the power to resist the tempter.
The young officer took his place at the table, and did not rise from
his chair until eleven o’clock that night—the regular hour of closing.
He was then ahead of the game nearly one thousand dollars, and the
demon of avarice was fully aroused in his soul. Another feverish and
restless night, and again the morning found him at his post. For
several days he played with varying success, and at the end of a
fortnight he had lost all he had, and had drawn the last franc from
his bankers in Paris. He then borrowed a considerable sum from his
friends at Baden, and that went with the rest. Excitement, and the
unusual quantity of wine he had drank, had maddened him. His sole
thought and desire was to get more money for play.
In a moment of weakness and frenzy, he forged the name of a wealthy
cousin in Moscow upon a bank in St. Petersburg, and asked an
acquaintance, to whom he had brought letters of introduction, to cash
it for accommodation. The request was granted as soon as made. The
Russian hurried to the Conversationshaus, confident that he would win
enough to take up the draft, which he had expressed a desire that
his friend would hold for a day or two, as he might in the meantime
receive a remittance from his father.
The fates were hostile. When the officer laid his wager on black, the
red won; and when he trusted the red, the black triumphed.
[Sidenote: PAYING THE DEBT OF NATURE.]
In three hours the entire amount of the draft had melted away. Ruin
stared him in the face,—not only financial ruin, but ruin to his good
name, his honor, his self-esteem, which he had prized more than life
itself. Hopeful as he had been, he had prepared himself for such a
desperate emergency. He had a small Deringer pistol in his pocket, and
rising from the table, and stepping back two or three paces, he put it
closely to his heart, and pulled the trigger.
[Sidenote: SUICIDE FROM REMORSE.]
The _galerie_, intent on the game, did not notice his movement and
the first intimation it had of anything unusual was the report of
the weapon and the heavy fall of the officer on the floor. The ruined
gamester gasped twice or thrice, and his life went out with the blood
that crimsoned his bosom.
The players—some of them, at least—were startled for a moment; several
of the ladies shrieked, and one, an American, swooned. The _tailleur_
and the _croupiers_ looked on unmoved, and expressed some surprise
that the young man had not been polite enough to step into the garden
before shooting himself. The _tailleur_ announced that the game would
be suspended for half an hour. In that time the body was removed, the
blood washed away, and the eternal _Faites votre jeu, messieurs; le
jeu est fait; rien ne va plus_, was croaked out once more; the cards
were laid, and the coin pushed over, or raked in by the solemnly
silent _croupier_.
Women, with the retiring modesty that belongs to their sex, seldom
make an exhibition of themselves, even when they are the heroines of
their own tragedy.
At Ems, recently, a young English lady of family became engaged to a
gentleman in her own grade of life, who could not bear the idea of
women gambling. She had been at the baths for several seasons with
her father; had frequently staked money at the tables, and had formed
a strong attachment thereto. Her father was aware that she played
sometimes for amusement, but never suspected how much of a fascination
the game had for her. Unknown to him, she had pawned her jewels to
obtain money to hazard at _rouge-et-noir_.
After her engagement, her lover told her how much he was shocked to
see any members of her sex degrade themselves by gaming, and added
that, much as he cherished her, he would rather behold her dead than
receiving a fortune from the hands of a _croupier_. Deeply impressed
by the earnestness of his words, she resolved never again to take
any part in the dangerous excitement. For weeks she adhered to her
resolution; but, one evening, while strolling through the Curhaus, she
so far forgot herself as to venture a napoleon, and, winning that, to
venture and to lose twenty more. For three days she continued to bet
secretly, and at the end of the time felt convinced the passion was
too strong to be surrendered. Such self-knowledge was terrible indeed,
and so deep was her mental distress that she determined to live no
longer. Purchasing a vial of laudanum, she went to her own room, and
writing a letter to her affianced husband, in which she made a full
confession of what she had done, and of the unendurable misery her
conduct had caused her, she swallowed the poison, and was found, the
next morning, dead in her bed. Her affianced lover was overwhelmed
with sorrow, and protested that he should never more know an hour’s
peace.
This proved to be only masculine hyperbole; for he was married two
years after, and appeared, judging by outward signs, one of the most
contented and self-satisfied of men.
[Sidenote: LOVE BRINGS LUCK.]
All this perilous wooing of fortune does not always lead to tragedy.
A young man, residing in Frankfort, who had only his salary as a
banker’s clerk to live upon, fell in love with a prosperous merchant’s
daughter, and his attachment was fully reciprocated. The rich papa,
as commonly happens, was unwilling to have a poor son-in-law, and so
refused his consent point blank to the union. Entreaties were vain;
his daughter’s tears moved him not a whit. He informed the young man
that he would give him three years to achieve pecuniary independence
in, and if he did not succeed, he must, at the end of that period,
abandon all hope of the girl’s hand. In America fortunes are suddenly
made; but in Germany, where everything runs in grooves, there is
hardly a possibility of earning much money, unaided by capital or
powerful influence. For twenty-four months Romeo struggled for
his prize, but struggled in vain. He had succeeded in saving only
about five hundred dollars; and, knowing this would be considered a
contemptible sum by the merchant, he felt that he would be forced to
give up all claim to the woman he adored.
Falling asleep, one night, with this subject upon his mind, he dreamed
of going to Homburg and increasing his little store tenfold. On
awakening, he considered his dream prophetic. He visited Homburg,
placed his all upon “color” again and again, and each time “color”
won. His five hundred dollars he increased to ten thousand; returned
to Frankfort; procured papa’s consent; married the girl, and, as the
story goes, has never since been known to risk a florin on a game of
chance. So even gambling, great evil as it is, sometimes does good,
though instances like this are extremely rare.
A Hungarian merchant from Pesth came to a melancholy end at Baden, a
few years ago. He had been to London on business, and on his way home
thought he would spend some days at the baths, where a number of his
friends were staying. He had scarcely arrived there when he began at
_rouge-et-noir_ with a few florins, not having the least intention of
playing largely. Like hundreds of others before him, he was drawn into
the dangerous rapids before he was well aware of it. He lost not only
the money he had with him, but drew on his own firm, obtained advances
on his letters of credit, and at the end of a week was absolutely
ruined. He had a wife and six children at home, and had not the moral
courage to apprise them that they were beggars, to make a resolution
never to play more, and commence life anew. Wishing, however, that
his fate might be a warning to others, he went late at night to the
promenade in front of the Conversationshaus, and when the little town
was quiet and asleep, he placed a large placard upon his breast and
hanged himself before the main entrance to the beautiful building. The
placard, written in French, ran thus:—
[Sidenote: A WARNING THAT WAS LOST.]
“Here am I, a Victim of Gambling!
Take Warning by me, and never Enter this Hell!
The Man who Plays Damns his Soul Forever!
Don’t Deceive Yourself! Bet Once, and You are Lost!
The Doors of this Saloon are the Gates of Death.”
[Sidenote: FAIR WITHOUT, HIDEOUS WITHIN.]
The bathers and water-drinkers, sallying forth early, were shocked
to see the unfortunate gentleman suspended by the neck, and to read
what he had so truthfully written. The Direction, indignant at what
they considered a breach of etiquette, lost no time in removing the
corpse, which furnished such a sad commentary on their perfidious
entertainment. Before breakfast everybody knew of the tragedy, and
it had such an effect upon the patrons of the bank that the tables,
for two or three days, were very thinly attended. The Direction felt
sorely troubled respecting the unpleasant circumstance, as they termed
it, and industriously circulated the report that there was no truth in
the story of the Hungarian suicide; that he had really left for Basle
the day previous to his reported self-destruction; that the figure
found hanging was merely an effigy placed there by some mischievous
jesters, against whom legal proceedings would be begun forthwith.
Strangely enough, this invention was believed. The players returned in
full force, and the warning of the Hungarian was lost, as a thousand
other warnings have been lost before.
If the private history of the four gaming places could be learned,
with all the evils resulting from them, the record would be ghastly
and hideous indeed. It is only now and then that an intimation of the
great injury they do comes to the surface; and if any considerable
part of it were known, the springs would be avoided like lazar-houses.
A stoical pride is generally practised by the habitués who have
suffered financially; and I have observed many men, and not a few
women, turn away from the tables with a forced smile, when I knew that
they were undergoing excruciating torture.
Losing money which one cannot afford to lose brings with it a train of
social, mental, and moral ills that cannot be fully estimated. Could a
thousandth part of the woes wrought by the demon of chance be depicted
on those frescoed and gilded walls, they would equal the torments
ascribed by gloomy priests to the doomed and damned in the fiery pit.
The outside of the temples of fortune is dazzlingly attractive; but,
passing beyond the portals, and lifting the purple veil, such anguish
and agony are apparent as may well appall the stoutest heart.
Some men are so methodical and cool-blooded that they are proof
against the seductions of _roulette_ and _rouge-et-noir_. They can
make up their mind beforehand as to how much they will lose, and never
risk another florin. These, however, are exceptions to human nature,
and no ordinary mortal can hope to imitate them with any prospect of
success.
[Sidenote: A CALM-BLOODED BANKER.]
A sturdy Dutch banker from Amsterdam is in the habit of visiting one
of the spas every season, and always bets within a certain limit. Four
thousand florins is the sum he feels able to lose annually, and this
being gone, nothing prompts him to risk any more. Sometimes he loses
this in a few days, sometimes not for weeks, sometimes not at all.
Whatever he may gain does not count, as he feels privileged to do as
he chooses with his winnings, but having parted at the tables with
four thousand florins less than he had on his arrival, he is bidden in
vain to make his game. He told me once that he fancied he was a good
deal ahead of the tables, but having made an exact calculation, he
found that in ten years all he had won was fifteen florins.
The _croupiers_ are a singular class. Nearly all of them have, some
time or other, belonged to the _galerie_, and, as may be imagined from
their position, have wrecked themselves on the uncertain sea of hazard.
[Sidenote: ANTECEDENTS OF CROUPIERS.]
The last season I was at Homburg, six of the _croupiers_ there had
histories. One of them was the son of a coffee planter of Brazil. He
had fallen into some serious trouble in Rio Janeiro, and had gone to
Lisbon, where he led such a prodigal life, and drew on his father
so frequently, that the old gentleman refused to honor his drafts
further. The young scapegrace then went to Italy, served in the Papal
army, afterwards became a sailor, travelled all through the Orient,
earned considerable money by trading, went back to the Continent,
visited Baden, arrayed himself against the tables, was rendered
penniless, and in his desperate strait was appointed _croupier_.
A second of this fraternity had been a Malay pirate, it was whispered,
and also a monk in Palermo; then a _valet de place_, and finally a
brother of the rake.
The third informed me he had been a Greek priest, but, having been
suspected of conspiring against the Emperor of Russia, he was sent to
Siberia, whence he escaped and entered upon his present calling.
A fourth, a Hebrew, once kept a pawnbroking shop in Chatham Street,
and was sentenced to Sing Sing on a charge of forgery, served two
years, inherited some money left him by an uncle in Prague, became a
victim to play, and at last had the satisfaction of getting on the
right side of the table.
The fifth _croupier_, a Frenchman, had emigrated to California in
1849, and, as a member of the sporting fraternity, narrowly escaped
hanging by a mob, some years after. Floating from point to point, he
stranded at Baden, and will doubtless die there.
The sixth began his career as a reporter on a Berlin journal; served
in the Prussian army; studied law, medicine, and theology, but could
never practise anything save gambling. “I always lose,” he said to
me; “and having no more money to risk, I have the satisfaction now of
seeing other persons make as great fools of themselves as I have made
myself.”
Hundreds of chapters might be written on the gambling hells of
Germany, for the subject is inexhaustible. But each and all of them,
if truthful, would show that the spas, like the Dead Sea apples, are
attractive to the sight, but ashes and bitterness within. The players
are handsome maskers. They laugh, and dance, and seem happy; but when
the masks and dominos are removed, the bodies are leprous, their touch
contagion, their soft caress a lingering and loathsome death.
LI.
SUBTERRANEAN DWELLINGS.
EARLIEST HABITATIONS.—UNDERGROUND HOUSES.—A DWELLING ON THE
AMERICAN PLAINS.—HOW AN EARTH HOUSE IS MADE.—RESULT OF A NIGHT
IN IT.—ARCTIC DWELLINGS.—A MANSION IN KAMCHATKA.—ITS ADVANTAGES
AND DISADVANTAGES.—A CHIMNEY AND DOORWAY IN COMMON.—THE
AUTHOR’S EXPERIENCE.—A LIVE DOG IN A STEW-KETTLE.—THE STORY OF
GAMOOT.—HOW HE ENTERTAINED HIS FRIENDS.—FISH-OIL PUNCH AND A
CANDLE BREAKFAST.—HOW HE LEARNED ENGLISH.—NEW MODE OF BOXING THE
COMPASS.—GAMOOT’S MELANCHOLY FATE.
The climate of the Garden of Eden was of such a temperature, and
the customs of Adam and Eve, before their famous fruit-gathering
excursion, were of such a primitive character, that no dwellings were
needed. It is not known that the weather ever compelled Adam and Eve
to seek shelter, and they had no prying neighbors to disturb them;
but, after the abandonment of the garden, it became necessary for them
and their followers to have places of shelter. The first habitations
were, probably, holes in the ground. The historians generally agree
that the primitive habitations of the savage partake more or less of
a subterranean character. At the present day there are many tribes of
people that live wholly or partially under ground. Dwellings thus made
are easy of construction, especially in regions where timber is not
abundant, and the facilities for working in stone do not abound.
In the far west, between the Mississippi River and the Rocky
Mountains, there are many underground, or partly underground,
dwellings, inhabited, not by savages, but by white men. Dwellings
of this sort are not particularly dry, but they are generally cool,
and, if one does not mind a little dampness, they are quite
comfortable. My first experience with one of these habitations was
not entirely agreeable. I had been travelling for several days, and
sleeping at night under the shelter of a wagon. My bed was airy, and
the only protection the wagon gave me was to keep away the dew, and
prevent wandering mules and oxen from running over me. My health was
excellent, and I was beginning to consider a house a superfluity.
We found a party of men living in one of these houses, where there was
no wood for a long distance, or but very little of it, and they had
dug out a place under ground, covered it with a roof consisting of
poles, bushes, and turf, and were making themselves comfortable. They
urged me to share their hospitality, and I did so, abandoning my wagon
for the shelter of their roof. In the morning I awoke with one of the
worst colds I ever had in my life, and for several days I had a very
disagreeable and intimate acquaintance with a sore throat.
[Illustration: ESQUIMAUX DWELLINGS.]
[Sidenote: A MANSION IN KAMCHATKA.]
In the northern part of America and Asia the dwellings of the
aboriginals are constructed partly under ground. A hole is dug in the
earth four or five feet deep, and a rude roof of poles and earth is
placed over it. The Greenlanders and the Esquimaux generally enter
their dwellings by a long passage-way, so low that one must creep on
his hands and knees, and it is so narrow that a stranger cannot easily
turn round in it. In Kamchatka the natives have a similar dwelling.
Some tribes enter their houses at the side by a passage-way, somewhat
like the entrance to an Esquimaux dwelling. Other tribes enter through
the centre of the roof, going down through a hole which serves for a
chimney.
[Sidenote: GOING DOWN A CHIMNEY.]