The Princess Suvarroff, also a Russian, is one of the notabilities 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.
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.
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.