A Novel Wager.
Three days afterward Carmen, apprised by his wife of my arrival, returned to Caracas, and I became their guest, greatly to my satisfaction, for the duel with Griscelli, besides making me temporarily famous, had brought me so many friends and invitations that I knew not how to dispose of them.
In discussing the incident with Salvador, I expressed surprise that Griscelli should have dared to return to a country where he had committed so many cruelties and made so many enemies.
“He left Venezuela the year after you disappeared, and much is forgotten in ten years,” was the answer. “All the same, I don’t suppose he would have come back if Olivarez—the last president and a Yellow—had not made it known that he would bestow commissions on Spanish officers of distinction and give them commands in the national army. It was a most absurd proceeding. But we shot Olivarez three months ago, and I will see that these Spanish interlopers are sent out of the country forthwith, that young spark who threatens to murder you, included.”
“Let him stay if he likes. I doubt whether he meant what he said.”
“I have no doubt of it, whatever, amigo mio, and he shall go. If he stayed in the country I could not answer for your safety; and if you come across any of the Griscellis in Europe, take my advice and be as watchful as if you were crossing a river infested with caribe fish.”
Carmen was much discouraged by the state of the republic, as well he might be. By turning out the Spaniards the former colonies had merely exchanged despotism for anarchy; instead of being beaten with whips they were beaten with scorpions. But though discouraged Carmen was not dismayed. He belonged to the Blues, who being in power, regarded their opponents, the Yellows, as rebels; and he was confident that the triumph of his party would insure the tranquillity of the country. As he was careful to explain to me, he was a Blue because he was a patriot, and he pressed me so warmly to return with him to La Victoria, accept a command in his army, and aid in the suppression of the insurrection, that I ended by consenting.
At Carmen’s instance, the president gave me the command of a brigade, and would have raised me to the rank of general. But when I found that there were about three generals for every colonel I chose the nominally inferior but actually more distinguished grade.
I remained in Venezuela two years, campaigning nearly all the time. But it was an ignoble warfare, cruel and ruthless, and had I not given my word to Carmen, to stand by him until the country was pacified, I should have resigned my commission much sooner than I did. Ramon, who acted as one of my orderlies, bore himself bravely and was several times wounded.
In the meanwhile I received several communications from Van Voorst, and made two visits to Curaçoa. The cutting and disposal of my diamonds being naturally rather a long business, it was nearly two years after I had shipped them to Holland before I learned the result of my venture.
After all expenses were paid they brought me nearly three hundred thousand pounds, which account Goldberg, Van Voorst & Company “held at my disposal.”
It was to arrange and advise with the Amsterdam people, as to the investment of this great fortune, that I went to Europe. But I did not depart until my promise was fulfilled. I left Venezuela pacified—from exhaustion—and Carmen in somewhat better spirits than I had found him.
His last words were a warning, which I have had frequent occasion to remember: “Beware of the Griscellis.”
I sailed from Curaçoa (Ramon, of course, accompanying me), in a Dutch ship, bound for Rotterdam, whither I arrived in due course, and proceeding thence to Amsterdam, introduced myself to Goldberg, Van Voorst & Company. They were a weighty and respectable firm in every sense of the term, and received me with a ponderous gravity befitting the occasion.
Though extremely courteous in their old-fashioned way, they neither wasted words nor asked unnecessary questions. But they made me a momentous proposal—no less than to become their partner. They had an ample capital for their original trade of diamond merchants; but having recently become contractors for government loans, they had opportunities of turning my fortune to much better account than investing it in ordinary securities. Goldberg & Company did not make it a condition that I should take an active part in the business—that would be just as I pleased. After being fully enlightened as to the nature of their transactions, and looking at their latest balance-sheets, I closed with the offer, and I have never had occasion to regret my decision. We opened branch houses in London and Paris; the firm is now one of the largest of its kind in Europe; we reckon our capital by millions, and, as I have lived long, and had no children to provide for, the amount standing to my credit exceeds that of all the other partners put together, and yields me a princely income.
But I could not settle down to the monotonous career of a merchant, and though I have always taken an interest in the business of the house, and on several important occasions acted as its special agent in the greater capitals, my life since that time—a period of nearly fifty years—has been spent mainly in foreign travel and scientific study. I have revisited South America and recrossed the Andes, ridden on horseback from Vera Cruz to San Francisco, and from San Francisco to the headwaters of the Mississippi and the Missouri. I served in the war between Belgium and Holland, went through the Mexican campaign of 1846, fought with Sam Houston at the battle of San Jacinto, and was present, as a spectator, at the fall of Sebastopol and the capture of Delhi. In the course of my wanderings I have encountered many moving accidents by flood and field. Once I was captured by Greek brigands, after a desperate fight, in which both Ramon and myself were wounded, and had to pay four thousand pounds for my ransom. For the last twenty years, however, I have avoided serious risks, done no avoidable fighting, and travelled only in beaten tracks; and, unless I am killed by one of the Griscelli, I dare say I shall live twenty years longer.
While studying therapeutics and pathology under Professor Giessler, of Zurich, shortly after my return to Europe, I took up the subject of longevity, as to which Giessler had collected much curious information, and formed certain theories, one being that people of sound constitution and strong vitality, with no hereditary predisposition to disease may, by observing a correct regimen, easily live to be a hundred, preserving until that age their faculties virtually intact—in other words, only begin to be old at a hundred. So far I agree with him, but as to what constituted a “correct regimen” we differed. He held that the life most conducive to length of years was that of the scholar—his own, in fact—regular, uneventful, reflective, and sedentary. I, on the other hand, thought that the man who passed much of his time in the open air, moving about and using his limbs, would live the longer—other things being equal, and assuming that both observed the accepted rules of health.
The result of our discussion was a friendly wager. “You try your way; I will try mine,” said Giessler, “and we will see who lives the longer—at any rate, the survivor will. The survivor must also publish an account of his system, pour encourageur les autres.”
As we were of the same age, equally sound in constitution and strong in physique, and not greatly dissimilar in temperament, I accepted the challenge. The competition is still going on. Every New Year’s day we write each other a letter, always in the same words, which both answers and asks the same questions: “Still alive?” If either fails to receive his letter at the specified time, he will presume that the other is hors de combat, if not dead, and make further inquiry. But I think I shall win. Three years ago I met Giessler at the meeting of the British Association, and, though he denied it, he was palpably aging. His shoulders were bent, his hearing and eye-sight failing, and the area senilis was very strongly marked, while I—am what you see.
I have, however, had an advantage over the professor, which it is only fair to mention. In my wanderings I have always taken occasion, when opportunity offered, to observe the habits of tribes who are remarkable for longevity. None are more remarkable in this respect than the Callavayas of the Andes, and I satisfied myself that they do really live long, though perhaps not so long as some of them say. Now, these people are herbalists, and when they reach middle age make a practice of drinking a decoction which, as they believe, has the power of prolonging life. I brought with me to Europe specimens and seeds of the plant (peculiar to the region) from which the simple is distilled, analyzed the one and cultivated the other. The conclusion at which I arrived was, that the plant in question did actually possess the property of retarding that softening of the arteries which more than anything else causes the decrepitude of old age. It contains a peculiar alkaloid of which, for thirty years past, I had taken (in solution) a much-diluted dose almost daily. You see the result. I also give Ramon an occasional dose, and he is the most vigorous man of his years I know. I sent some to Giessler, but he said it was an empirical remedy, and declined to take it. He preferred electric baths. I take my electric baths by horseback exercise, and riding to hounds.
Yes, I believe I shall finish my century—without becoming senile either in body or mind—if I can escape the Griscelli. I was in hopes that I had escaped them by coming here; but I never stay long in Europe that they don’t sooner or later find me out. I think I shall have to spend the remainder of my life in America or the East. The consciousness of being continually hunted, that at any moment I may be confronted with a murderer and perchance be murdered, is too trying for a man of my age. To tell the truth, I am beginning to feel that I have nerves; though my elixir delays death, it does not insure perpetual youth; and propitiating these people is out of the question—I have tried it.
Three years after my return from Venezuela, Guiseppe, son of the man whom I killed at Caracas, tried to kill me at Amsterdam, fired at me point-blank with a duelling pistol, and so nearly succeeded that the bullet grazed my cheek and cut a piece out of my ear. Yet I not only pardoned him, but bribed the police to let him go, and gave him money. Well, seven years later he repeated the attempt at Naples, waylaid me at night and attacked me with a dagger, but I also happened to be armed, and Guiseppi Griscelli died.
At Paris, too—indeed, while the empire lasted—I found it expedient to shun France altogether. At that time Corsicans were greatly in favor; several members of the Griscelli family belonged to the secret police and had great influence, and as I never took an alias and my name is not common, I was tracked like a criminal. Once I had to leave Paris by stealth at dead of night; another time I saved my life by simulating death. But why recount all the attempts on my life? Another time, perhaps. The subject is not a pleasant one, but this I will say: I never spared a Griscelli that I had not cause to regret my clemency. The last I spared was the young man who tried to murder me down in the wood there; and if he does not repay my forbearance by repeating the attempt, he will be false to the traditions of his race.