There was something in his tone that rather jarred on me, but I recollected that he was always subject to these alternations, passing from a most cordial, genial, and even softened tone, into a cold, bitter, and hostile manner. It was his way. He was a disappointed man, so we must have allowance. So that day terminated. Somehow the calm country town monotony of mind which I had brought with me seems to have given way a little before the whirl, as it were, of this place—the strange figures, the dramatic incidents, the curious motives of this place. But I am learning precious lessons. It is like tonics and cold baths for the mind. After all, how many of us go through life without having even the faintest conception of what is going on, no conception of what attitudes, and motions, and wonderful freaks the human mind is capable of. Novels and plays tell us a good deal, but we do not believe in them. One day lets in a light worth a thousand of Mudie's "sets." Shall I own that I dwell with complacency on the fact that I, a mere rustic, ungraduated in the world's devices, should have held "my own" in that little scene to-day, by the sheer force of good plain sense and reason? Thank Heaven, I am growing better every hour! Heaven is very good to us, certainly.
Chapter X.
Tuesday.—An interval of some days has passed without my writing a line. The fact is, the hours are running by so fast, and so many little events crowd into the day, that I have hardly time to do anything. I have even got a little backward in my letters to my pet. I have been making a sort of study of this mysterious and dangerous science of chances, which is luring all these poor souls to destruction. It is one of the most curious subjects of inquiry, and there can be no doubt that there is more in it than the common vulgar affectation of superior knowledge will admit. If I could but freshen up my old mathematics, I could work the thing out regularly. The doctor tells me that having something of interest thus to amuse and occupy the mind is the real secret of my improvement. I could have told him that. Shall I own to another discovery I have made, viz., that when Mephistopheles is playing for souls, he does it with tolerable fairness. I constantly hear men, Englishmen too, going out with flushed faces, and muttering, "Pack of d—d swindlers—set of cheats!" Now, a very narrow scrutiny compels me to own that their dealings are fair, or seem fair. Shall I go further, and say that they really seem to put themselves at a disadvantage with those they encounter. That, of course, is their business, not mine. I spent four hours the other morning watching the game, and I suppose riddled some half a dozen cards with pin-holes. The result was the same in the main. I see the system like a revelation, adding to it, from experience, this rider: the splendid girt of self-restraint. There they all break down; they cannot halt in time, even for five minutes. One would be tempted to go and whisper this simple recipe to each one of the poor dupes who are rushing down this fatal hill; but it is not my business. Quem Deus vult perdere. I could not save them, though he could. I see at these little seats of extortion—the stalls where they sell photographs and ornaments at literally double the price they can be had anywhere else—I see absolute treatises on the game. One a serious volume at twenty francs; the others little handbooks at a franc, giving "a sure and infallible method for winning." These little impostures were diverting from the solemn tables set out and the grand terms. "The intermittance," "series," and the oracular advice. The qualities requisite for the gambler are to be "courage, vigour, élan, coolness, and insensibility." "System," above all, must be pursued (and so far I go with him); "otherwise," he adds, gravely, "you will indeed remain a simple player (joueur), but you will never become speculateur." He fills pages with his various recipes, but at the end announces that without a capital of some four thousand florins you will not have "a secure base of operation to work from." And yet I see this rubbish in the hands of many a poor fool; and, what is more, I see many a greater fool sitting industriously with his book and two pencils, one red and one black, marking the colours. One dreadful old fellow, who is nearly blind, has a complete apparatus—a little dial, mounted on a pincushion, and bristling all over with red and black-headed pins, which he shifts about, and not for half an hour, perhaps, will the safe combination he so desires, arise, and then he plays his miserable florin. Of course he loses, as indeed I could have told him. I was almost tempted to lay my hand upon his arm and check him; but, as I have said so often, that is not my business.
