Page:All the Year Round - Series 2 - Volume 1.djvu/200

190[January 23, 1869] of —— Street, London, and one hundred and fifty thousand pounds a year to keep it up. I see a distingué gentlemanly man, with the true air of high breeding about his hands, &c., and he proves to be an impostor who was turned out of the Arlington for cheating at whist. With all I have learnt, and all I have seen, I own myself at times quite at fault. The women are shabby, second-hand tilings; creatures of whom we heard such strange stories ten years ago, reappear here with stories stranger still. There is Captain Darling, whom every one knew as the possessor of a good estate in Scotland, a "club man," a "racing man," and for a time member of parliament and director of companies. He is now reduced to these places, and makes a few florins "out of the tables." Over on that sofa I see what has amused me and many more, going on. That little piquant widow, Mrs. Dyaper, rosy and dark eyed, and about whom "there were such stories," two years ago. She has come out as the domestic, almost bereaved, lady, doing worsted knitting on a chair in a corner, but not alone; for to the delight of friends and lookers-on, she has entangled a grave, even mouldy, doctor of fifty, in large practice in London, one of those elderly dry "professional" men, who are about as fitted for going into love as for going on the stage. This is really a dismal business to watch, especially the stages in beautifying himself—one day a pair of canary kid gloves, brighter linen, and brighter boots. It will all end in wreck. It is likely he has sisters at home to whom he will return, altered, savage, perhaps, and bent in carrying out his scheme.

And yet as I looked on at this infatuation and its victim, one thing occurred to me, that the gambler's dulness and want of instinct was on a par with their infatuation. They seemed to go to work in the wildest and most spasmodic manner. A few minutes' superficial study of the game, showed me at once that it must be subject to certain rude laws, not of course to be brought under control, or calculation, but certainly valuable as a sort of rough guide.

Again I go in, for a short study. It is curious to see how often zero begins to come up. The ordinary doctrine of chances would be that the colours should come up alternately, and I do observe that they virtually observe that law, that is, come up in short batches. Of course, I could see there were what were called runs, which set in suddenly and defied all management or calculation; but this was abnormal and unnatural, and must be passed by. Again for half an hour I tested this little system, putting down, in imagination, on the colour I had worked out, and it almost invariably came up, and I won, in imagination luckily. Here was I, a mere novice, hitting on something like the secret of this devil's mystery, and yet so dull and blinded were the victims that not one of them could see his way to success, and by some fiendish provision seemed tempted to lay his money on precisely what was certain to lose. What a scene, what a life! Is there anything anywhere among the drunkards, spendthrifts, what not, like this cold, desperate, leisurely progress down the steep hill of ruin? It is a pass, along which only one can walk, and down which the victim is driven slowly backward until he gets to the edge, when he must go over. The croupiers are a study in themselves. There are such varied patterns, young and old, some middle-aged, one or two very handsome, most of them stout, and full about the neck. All, however, have that wary, questing, roving eye (and some of them very fine ones) that looks out of the corners sharply. Some are far more prompt and skilful than the others; one or two are absolutely stupid, make mistakes in counting, &c., and on a crowded board, are tedious in paying off claims; others send out the money clumsily and in a rude indistinct way, the pieces getting confused with others; some are prompt and unerring, sending forth the shower with the nicest aim, taking exactly the right aim, and pouring them out with precision; one is a dismal ascetic looking fellow who sings his "faites le jeu," in the most lugubrious key, as if it was "Voi ch' intrate," &c., or "Come and be killed, gentlemen!" Another has a venomous twinkle in his eye, and sends the ball spinning with quite a savage rapidity, as who should say, "Make an end of this." He proclaims the result with enjoyment and rakes in the money sharply, and with a lurch. Even in the tones in which they proclaim the result, I notice different favorite keys. Twenty-one seeming to be announced slowly and sadly, "Vaint-ay-orne;" on the contrary, "eight" comes out, short and sharp like the snapping cap: "Whit!" "Oonze" is a gloomy song; "Trente-cinq," and "Vin-cat" cheerful and hilarious. One man likes to check the state of the board as he sweeps in, and says to himself, "one florin on manque,"