DOI Artikel:
Harland, Henry: The friend of man
DOI Seite / Zitierlink: https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.38746#0055
The Friend of Man
By Henry Harland
The other evening, in the Casino, the satisfaction of losing
my money at petits-chevaux having begun to flag a little,
I wandered into the Cercle, the reserved apartments in the
west wing of the building, where they were playing baccarat.
Thanks to the heat, the windows were open wide ; and
through them one could see, first, a vivid company of men and
women, strolling backwards and forwards, and chattering busily,
in the electric glare on the terrace ; and then, beyond them, the
sea—smooth, motionless, sombre; silent, despite its perpetual
whisper ; inscrutable, sinister ; merging itself with the vast black-
ness of space. Here and there the black was punctured by a
pin-point of fire, a tiny vacillating pin-point of fire ; and a lands-
man’s heart quailed for a moment at the thought of lonely vessels
braving the mysteries and terrors and the awful solitudes of the
sea at night. . . .
So that the voice of the croupier, perfunctory, machine-like,
had almost a human, almost a genial effect, as it rapped out
suddenly, calling upon the players to mark their play. “ Marquez
vos jeux, messieurs. Quarante louis par tableau.” It brought one
back to light and warmth and security, to the familiar earth, and
the neighbourhood of men.
One’s
By Henry Harland
The other evening, in the Casino, the satisfaction of losing
my money at petits-chevaux having begun to flag a little,
I wandered into the Cercle, the reserved apartments in the
west wing of the building, where they were playing baccarat.
Thanks to the heat, the windows were open wide ; and
through them one could see, first, a vivid company of men and
women, strolling backwards and forwards, and chattering busily,
in the electric glare on the terrace ; and then, beyond them, the
sea—smooth, motionless, sombre; silent, despite its perpetual
whisper ; inscrutable, sinister ; merging itself with the vast black-
ness of space. Here and there the black was punctured by a
pin-point of fire, a tiny vacillating pin-point of fire ; and a lands-
man’s heart quailed for a moment at the thought of lonely vessels
braving the mysteries and terrors and the awful solitudes of the
sea at night. . . .
So that the voice of the croupier, perfunctory, machine-like,
had almost a human, almost a genial effect, as it rapped out
suddenly, calling upon the players to mark their play. “ Marquez
vos jeux, messieurs. Quarante louis par tableau.” It brought one
back to light and warmth and security, to the familiar earth, and
the neighbourhood of men.
One’s