humanity, lures by every artificial attraction and fascination even the poor pilgrim invalid, who hopefully journeys here to breathe the pure fresh air and to recover health; and also does his best to complete the moral degradation of the less innocent but infatuated gambler, who stakes his life upon the cast of a die and rushes madly and miserably to unutterable ruin.
I have already mentioned the plantations of olive trees we passed in our drive on the cliffs. Nothing strikes one more singularly, in coming to this part of the world, than the contrast in appearance between the olive tree and the rich, luxuriant foliage of the orange, lemon, myrtle, and other beautiful vegetation so prolific here. Toward evening especially, the gnarled and twisted olive has a strangely sad and sombre effect, with its long, pointed leaves of dull green lined with a chilly pale tint—as it were, a thing of a past period in the earth's existence, ancient and venerable, almost sacred, and little in harmony with the gay, luxuriant vegetable life around. I think nothing describes better its cold sombre aspect than the remark Marianne Hunt made to her husband during their first unfortunate visit to Italy. "They look," she said, "as if they were always standing in the moonlight." And, indeed, this is just the effect they have, as though having been once lighted on by Cynthia's cold, chaste glance, they had ever remained petrified and blanched. Still, there is much grace and beauty in the outlines of olive trees against a sunlit, blue-grey sky, the silver tints of their leaves quivering in the light.
It was interesting to watch a procession of caterpillars on the road to Monte Carlo, a distance of about a mile. They were moving from one part to another, probably because there was disease amongst them, or else in the trees in that neighbourhood, for there were many dead ones lying about. They advanced in one long line, following their leader, the head of the second joining the tail of the first, and so on. There were more than a hundred in a chain, a company of ten coming to join them, and large masses waiting in different parts of the road, and taking their places one by one as the procession approached. They looked like a long, thin snake. The marvellous instinct of these small insects, notwithstanding Mark Twain's ingenious stricture on the proverbial "ant," will ever remain a source of the deepest interest and wonder to thinking, reasoning, intellectual man.
This wonderful army of caterpillars suggested, as things in nature will often do if one takes heed of them, that it might be possible to introduce the culture of the silkworm here, and so substitute a profitable and honest industry for the present curse of this beautiful and otherwise highly favoured place. Silk is almost a staple of Italian industry, and doubtless the mulberry tree would flourish here as in other parts, and with as much success as at Beyrout, on the coast of Syria, a place not at all unlike Monte Carlo in its climate, the beauty of coast scenery, and luxuriance of vegetation.
FOOTNOTES
[C] The recent destruction of the Grand Hotel at Giessbach is a convincing proof of the truth of these remarks. Had it occurred but a month earlier, there would inevitably have been a terrible loss of life.
CHAPTER VI.ToC
Monte Carlo—In the Concert-room—The Gambling-saloons—The Tables—The moth and the candle—The true story of Monte Carlo—An International grievance and disgrace.
We reached Monte Carlo in time for the grand concert at two o'clock. Passing through the delightful gardens surrounded by cafés, we entered the dazzling and gorgeous concert-room. There was nothing to pay. Plush-liveried servants handed us to our seats, and we enjoyed their soft luxuriance, admired the handsome and profuse decorations, and scanned the mixed society around us, listening meanwhile to some of the finest classical music.
After spending a pleasant hour, we retired to make room for others. There was a silent expression on the countenances of the attendant croupiers, and also on many of the faces of the habitués of the place, which showed that, although this refined and intellectual enjoyment was the ostensible reason of their presence, the real and more appreciated object was the gaming-table.
Impelled by earnest desire to judge for ourselves as to the evils of Monte Carlo, we followed the stream of people through the gilded and handsome suite of ante-rooms, to the gambling-saloons. The obsequious lacqueys opened the doors to all who wished to pass, and no questions were asked, though I believe you are supposed to have your private visiting card in readiness.
"'Will you walk into my parlour?' said the spider to the fly."
There was no doubt on that day, at least, of the flies swarming in. Frith's celebrated picture occurred instantly to my mind, and I saw at a glance how faithful it was to the sad reality.
You cannot fail to be struck by the extreme quiet amongst so many people. Every one speaks in whispers. There is a certain solemnity about it, the same as that felt in a church; and truly this might be termed the house of the devil. The large and spacious rooms, with beautifully painted walls, Moorish ceilings, and polished floors, are without furniture save the long tables and chairs for those intending to play steadily. Here sit the yellow-faced, sleepless, hard-eyed croupiers, spinning the fatal ball, and mechanically sweeping in with their rakes the piles of money staked and lost by the infatuated players. These are not limited to those seated at the table and who form but the front row. What a mixture they are! Cadaverous, selfish old women; others, handsome, gay, and reckless, evidently in the interest of the table, and hired to act as decoys; others, again, young and inexperienced; and even ladies, pale, unhappy-looking—were all represented. The men for the most part hardened and merciless, and many careless young gentlemen, some of them innocent-looking lads enough, but others, alas! showing painfully their habits of dissipation, in spite of their youth—all waiting eagerly to clutch their winnings or silently lose their money.
Further up the room are other tables, at which higher stakes are played. Trente et quarante is perhaps a little more favourable to players than roulette, though it depends very much on the shuffling of the cards. Piles of gold and notes were laid upon the table, either for or against the numbers backed turning up. But here was the same sickening sight—mad, selfish infatuation; and we turned away, having had quite enough of the "shady side" of the lovely but too fascinating Monte Carlo, being glad to get out into the bright sunshine once more. In the rooms we had left, the blinds and curtains were closely drawn, excluding the pure light of heaven, as if those so earnestly engaged within preferred darkness to light because their deeds were evil.
A great number of people from the "tables" followed to catch the train, and we had the sad reflection that a fresh batch would soon arrive in time for the evening concert. Residents of Monaco and Monte Carlo are not supposed to be admitted, as it is not desirable that the half-frenzied losers should remain in these peaceful elysiums; a fresh and continuous stream of victims is much preferred.
But these Shylock millionaires, the owners of the tables—these Princes of Hades who alone profit by the wreck of their fellow-creatures, are perfectly content to fatten, like over-gorged leeches, on the weaknesses and follies of their prey. What matters it to them, the misery and unhappiness of others, so long as they thrive? What matter the means, so long as their end is obtained?
I am sorry to say that ladies are the greatest victims. They are more easily tempted by their love of excitement and adventure, and once they touch the fatal dice it is almost impossible to hold them in. Many ladies who come to Nice and Mentone as invalids, go to Monte Carlo, not only for the enchanting scenery, but for the fine concerts, which are free to all comers. Indeed,
