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Saturday, June 4, 2011

Monaco Emerges From The Past On The Brink Of The Advent Of Its' New Princess!


With the next important Royal wedding on the horizon, this esoteric has decided to post several interesting stories about Monaco, or Monte Carlo, although in some respects they are one and the same!
 
For those not intimately knowledgeable about the sunny principality beautifully ensconced about the sunny Mediterranean, you might be surprised at the rather fascinating history of this haven of the rich, famous, infamous and the shady.

In the recent past, the Grimaldi lands have been best known as the fairy tale realm of the former celluloid goddess; Princess Grace and the antics of her children.

However, prior to their arrival on the scene, the land of the Monagasques was indeed a place for the ‘potboilers’…………


MONACO:
Princess Charlotte
TIME Magazine
Monday, September 23, 1929

'In 1429 Dunois, Bastard of Orleans, defeated the English, and with the aid of Joan of Arc saved France for King Charles VII. Last week Princess Charlotte, illegitimate and adopted daughter of the Prince of Monaco, rose from her sickbed at Nice and saved Monaco for Prince Louis II.'

'For over a year disgruntled Monagasques have sent letters and delegations to their grumpy prince, have begged him to repair the water works, improve the telephone service, allow his subjects greater control in the direction of that fountain head of all Monaco's prosperity, the Monte Carlo Casino (TIME, Jan. 7, 1928). Grumpy Prince Louis did nothing. Lately the Monagasques have been louder in their demands. Brusquely they threatened to revolt.'

'Old Prince Louis laughed at the idea of a Monagasque revolution; not so Princess Charlotte. She rushed to Monte Carlo fortnight ago, listened long and patiently to the Monagasques' complaints. On to Marseilles went she to argue the justice of their claims with her father. At length after a long and exhausting family scene, he relented, wrote a favorable reply to his subjects' demands. With Prince Louis' letter in her handbag, adopted daughter Charlotte hurried back to Monaco.'

Before the 'Age of Charlene' takes affect a look back is called for. . . . . I found it extremely interesting that during the Great War, the country continued, albeit at a lessened place, along the lines of its' gambling past.





THE OASIS OF EUROPE
MONTE CARLO


Where Royalty Goes To Forget The War By Gambling Away
Small Fortunes Daily & Where Opera And Pleasure Rule

By Wythe Williams

The New York Times
May 2, 1915

For the last sixty years there has been a custom so rigidly observed at Monte Carlo that it has become an unbreakable habit.  It is known as the Marble Face.  You notice it the moment you alight at the gare. The porters from the hotels all have it. The maître d’hôtel will never get over it. The croupiers in the Casino were born with it.  It is an established fact.  Also it is the greatest asset of the little independent principality of Monaco – even in war time.

While all the rest of Europe either reverberates to the sounds of war or wonders on just what date the steel and leaden orchestra will begin, Monte Carlo, embowered among its palms, oranges and olive groves, turning the Marble Face upon all who enter its portals, continues to play roulette.
 
I went to Monte Carlo last week.  From stories I had heard concerning prices on the Riviera during war time, I figured that perhaps it might be possible for me to survive at least a few days in paradise.  Immediately upon my arrival the Marble Face emitted speech.

‘We are still the Pearl of the Riviera,’ it told me.  ‘People come here, war or no war.  We still have special trains every day.  The Casino continues crowded.’ Having thus spoken the Marble Face resumed its ancient impassivity.  ‘Rouge, impair et passé’ came the voice of the croupier within the great gambling hall.

I went to the Casino shortly after the marble faced, gold liveried noblemen at my hotel took possession of both me and my baggage.  Upon the door of my room was tacked the ancient notice that bills would be presented every three days.  The hotel proprietor takes no chances against the roulette.

I found the Casino struggling along with ten double tables of roulette running from noon to midnight – and two tables of ‘trente et quarante’ on the side.  Down the street at the Sporting Club, where formerly it was only permitted that millionaires should be looted, there is now baccarat for the mob, the entrance fee of $20 being suspended ‘during the war.’ The play continues from early evening until as late in the morning as there is money in sight.

In the Casino proper there has been no change – except that large signs hang over the entrance to the main gambling hall, stating that no soldier or sailor in the uniform of any army or navy may enter.  It is all very proper.  I approached the offices of ‘Administration’ to secure an admission ticket good for the day.  An official bowed me across the room to another official.  This official was most polite – painfully so.  It hurt him to inform me – but he did inform me – that it would be preferable that I enter the ‘Salle’ clad in ‘dark costume’ rather than in the Norfolk jacket an knickerbockers that I was wearing.  I asked him whether it was that ‘dark costumes’ are more appropriate for funerals.  His eyebrows lifted – so did his shoulders.  But his face was made of marble – so I retired to my hotel for the ‘dark costume.’

Half an hour later I told the incident to an English acquaintance whom I encountered at one of the gambling tables.  He explained: ‘It’s this way.  They want us to think that they think that they are gentlemen.’ So I tossed a five-franc piece on the funereal color and red won.
My English friend was invalided to the Riviera from the trenches.  So he considered that he had a perfect right to gamble if he liked.  ‘But for Heaven’s sake,’ he whispered, ‘don’t let anybody know that I am a soldier or I’d be chucked out of here in a hurry.’

We took a stroll around the Salle.  A huge crowd surrounded one of the tables. ‘There’s a chap playing maximums,’ said my Englishman, ‘that’s rather good for war time.’

We crowded close to the table.  A fat man of about 50 sat next to the croupier. He was entirely bald.  His face was pasty and perfectly immobile.  He was the ideal gambler.  As he played I noticed an innovation caused by the war.  For the first time in the history of the Casino there is no gold on the tables.   Silver is used for the five-franc plays, but for the twenty francs there are small circular chips of celluloid.  For the hundred francs the chip is yellow and larger.  The five hundred franc chips are oval and the thousand franc ones are jade oblongs.  The fat gambler was covering the table with oblongs.  We watched him for half an hour, when he decided to stop.  He had won 70,000 francs, 40,000 of which he gathered in on the last coup.  My surprise was great at witnessing such high play, but even greater when I learned that the fat gambler was a journalist – a newspaper proprietor from Italy.

The next afternoon I saw the same man again at the tables – this time losing thousands.  At the end of the afternoon the bank had his entire winnings of the day before and much more; but he was quite as impassive.

Of this afternoon, as I wandered about the hall, I overheard someone say in English: ‘If you want to find her, you don’t need to look at the people about the tables. Just look at the table itself.  If it is covered with hundred franc pieces, you will know she is there.’

I wondered who ‘she’ might be – so I followed the advice to look at the tables.  I found one near the entrance literally plastered over with money.  A large crowd surrounded it. The player was a woman apparently about 50.  She got up and seated herself nearer the croupier.  She was tall and very thin.  Her complexion was sallow and her cheek bones high.  Her hair was gray and ruffled high over her forehead.  She was dressed plainly – almost dowdy.  She wore no jewels or ornaments of any kind. Her lips were set tight.  Her bright blue eyes were fixed on the table.  Piles of chips were before her.  She mechanically picked up a dozen at a time and kept throwing them carelessly on the table during each coup almost until the moment the ivory ball ceased spinning.

Almost invariably she lost, and I calculated she averaged nearly a thousand dollars on each play.  I kept wondering who she was.  Finally she looked up, passed her hand over her face, and shrugged her shoulders with a combined gesture of weariness, impatience, and boredom.  The croupier called out to ‘make the plays’ and again she mechanically dipped her hand into the pile of money before her.  But this time she kept looking at the faces of the others at the table.


Grand Duchess Anastasia Mikhailovna

I recognized her as a woman I had seen some years before in Berlin.  Her name is Anastasia, Grand Duchess of Mecklenburg-Schwerin. She is the mother of the Crown Princess of Germany.

I inquired about her and learned that she had lived in her villa at Monte Carlo since the beginning of the war, when she renounced her German title and washed her hands of her German relatives.  She is now merely a ‘simple Russian Princess.’ I wondered how much it costs Russia to cover her gambling losses at the Casino.

On the same evening I met a young man walking on the terrace overlooking the Mediterranean.  It was a wonderful night – the full moon making a path of silver across the sea.  The air was as warm as July.  The young man wore a light gray suit and was bareheaded.  He carried a light stick, with which he struck at the orange blossoms just budding over the stone walls of the terrace.  I noticed him rather particularly, and he glared at me as he passed.  We were going in opposite directions, and was we both turned at the extremities of the terrace we again passed near the centre. Again he glared at me. I noticed his eyes, set close together, and almost black – his huge ears standing straight out – his bulging brow and dark close cropped head.  His stare grew so angry that I smiled and looked back at him – striding rapidly along the walk, oh his thin, bowed out ‘cavalry legs.’ He again looked back at me and gave something like a snarl.

I met my English friend at the far end of the terrace.  ‘Don’t you know that young cub who is growling at you?’ he asked.  I replied that I did not.  ‘Why, he is the famous bad boy of Europe,’ was the reply, ‘the young man who for pastime buried cats in the sand and shot at his officers; that young gentleman is His Royal Highness Prince George of Serbia.’
‘Why isn’t he in the trenches?’ I inquired.

‘They won’t have him,’ my Englishman informed me; ‘they are quite satisfied if he remains here.’

Later in the evening I again saw the young scapegrace in the restaurant of the Casino.  Two secretaries acted as his gambling commissioners.  The Prince indicated what numbers they should play – supplied them with piles of banknotes – then brooded silently in the corner until they returned, usually empty handed.

In the great hall outside, the official war bulletins are posted each evening. Later I saw His Royal Highness standing in front of the board.  A cigarette drooped from t he corner of his mouth. The news from Serbia was not encouraging.  The Prince returned to the roulette.


Prince George of Serbia

At one table I noticed a thin-faced, fair-haired man sitting next to the croupier. His long, thin, white fingers trembled each time he took money from the pile before him to place it upon the green squares.  He kept a careful record of each coup.  He sat there for hours, sometimes not playing for long intervals, then again putting on his money regularly.  He was laboriously playing a ‘system.’ He has been there for weeks and each day occupies, at the same hours, the same seat, at the same table, beside the same croupier.

I knew him. He is a Scottish peer and the direct descendant of Kings.  He is almost the last of his mighty line.  His son is fighting in the trenches.  He told me that the ‘system’ makes him forget.

I found many strange personalities and things in this oasis of Europe which the war touches not.  Although French is the national language, it is now seldom heard without an accent.  Frenchmen have not sought any oasis, but indeed have gone to war.  One afternoon as I sat under a palm tree in the famous suicide gardens I was astonished to hear two mean sitting on an opposite bench talking German.  But they spoke furtively.  On another occasion, as I leaned over the terrace wall looking at the hazy mountains across the Italian frontier, I glanced down and found written in lead pencil on the stones ‘Deutschland über Alles.’

For although only two miles long and but half mile wide, Monaco is strictly neutral.  To enter or leave it, it is necessary to have one’s passport visaed by the French Consul – and only two streets back of the hotel where I lived was France.

I tried to discover the effect of the war upon the gambling hall. But the Marble Face prevented that.  Hotel prices have gone down, Ciro’s is deserted and the Metropole is closed, but apparently the Casino is to go on forever.  There is no abatement of activity there.  The trains from Nice and other points are always crowded, and of course there is also the Opera.

I met Caruso strolling in the gardens. He would not discuss New York. He was anxious to go home – to Italy.  The prices on Caruso nights were greater than at the Opera in Paris before the war.

My days in Paradise were limited.  I engaged a seat in the train for Paris – I engaged a seat because there is only one sleeper on the ‘Riviera Express.’ The astute gentlemen who control the sleeping car company still maintain their ante-bellum calm to the extent of charging $13 for a single berth.

Before the train departed I took a last walk through the gardens, heavy with the scent of the orange blossoms, and leaned over the terrace walls, looking out upon a scene that only exists at Monte Carlo and in fairy dreams.

A young American was leaning over the terrace wall.  He seemed to be in trouble. I knew him; he told me that he had been cleaned out in the Casino.  The ‘Administration’ had followed its rules and given him a ticket home.  It is an easier requirement than the former embarrassing investigations of suicides.  The young man was greatly depressed.  It was so necessary that he should recoup quickly.  But there is no appeal from the dictum of the Marble Face.  An appeal would only be a comic interlude.

So what matters the fate of nations or the world while the little ivory ball spins about the revolving wheel, while the croupier, with his mien of a corpse and in his raiment of an undertaker, still finds money in the teeth of his little rake?

Outside the Casino all remains as usual.  The Mediterranean still sparkles, a marvelous blue under the tropic sun.  The Maritime Alps tower overhead, their tops lost in impenetrable vapors; and a little higher are the everlasting snows.  War matters not to Monaco.  Its standing army of ten soldiers has not been mobilized.



MONTE CARLO IS
CLOSED BY WAR

Many Of The Employees Join
French Regiments
Gamblers Have No Money


The Star & Sentinel
January 15, 1915

Opening on a small scale is planned and few Americans are expected to be present. Interest in war over-shadows excitement of games, but a few visitors are now expected.

London. – The Times prints the following interesting article from its correspondent at Monte Carlo describing war conditions in the gaming capital:

‘According to established precedent, the gambling season should open at Monte Carlo in the fall.  Then all the officials of the casino, from the guardians of the outer courts to the least of the detectives that stand behind the croupiers, begin to take note of the first gathering of worshipers at the shrine of the fickle goddess.  But Monte Carlo has suffered the common fate. For the moment its accustomed business and pleasures have sunk to trivial insignificance, all forgotten in humanity’s urgent issues of life and death.’

‘On Nov. 15 of last year, at the hour when in normal times the world of frivolous sport and fashion would be moving toward its palace of golden dreams, I sat outside the Café de Paris reflecting on the whirligig of times and the pitiful destinies of man which had made this for once an appropriate and comfortable place for meditation. No jarring note disturbed the bourgeois peace of that enchanting garden between the Alps and the sea which all Europe in its idle moment associates with riotous living.’

‘No noise or smell of motorcar marred the Sabbath serenity of the scene.  The monotonous plaint of M. Blanc’s well fed doves was distinctly audible right across the place.  A group of earnest citizens was gathered about the bulletin boards absorbing the latest news from the seat of war. Nowhere was there any sign of Petrograd or Chicago, London or Paris in pursuit of excitement.’

‘Making my way through the solemn place where magisterial clerks are wont to scrutinize the apparel and social standing of applicants for cards of admission to the casino, I observed that a large portion of its space was occupied by a very excellent map of Europe, all neatly decked with many colored flags, while above it hung several striking specimens of the French cartoonist’s conceptions of the personality and proceedings of His Majesty the Emperor Wilhelm, from which I gathered that, despite all previous experience to the contrary, the croupier, too, is human and that even in this independent principality of Monaco the flowing tide of war on the fields of Flanders is a matter more absorbing than the fortunes of chance.’

‘Nor is this surprising when one learns that out of the 800 employees of the casino nearly 300 are now serving France with the colors! The rest have been retained in the service of the company at temporarily reduced rates. Until a month ago there seemed to be little prospect of the casino’s opening for play this season, but it has now been decided to make a beginning at the Sporting Club.’

‘M. Blanc fully realizes that whatever business the establishment may do will be nominal, at least until the Germans are driven out of France. Nevertheless, he believes in opening the casino not only in the interests of his shareholders, but because the prosperity of the Riviera depends to a considerable extent on the money spent there by the habitual frequenters of Monte Carlo.  By nature optimistic and a firm believer in the force of habit in human nature, the President of the Conseil d; Administration expects that, notwithstanding the war, some of the casino’s usual clientele will come from Russia, South America, the United States and England.’

‘The consensus of opinion on the subject at Nice and Mentone appears to be that the class of visitors who will be attracted to the Riviera this winter in search of rest and sunshine will not contribute many subscribers to the salons prives of the casino.’



THE WORLD FAMOUS MONTE CARLO
IS NOW QUIET AS A GRAVEYARD


Toledo Blade
January 14, 1915

War has struck its hardest blow at the existence of Monaco. Without blockage, without even being made an object of hostility, the industries of this little principality have been entirely swept away.  Monaco, the world’s smallest state, situated on the brilliant Riviera, earned its livelihood from gaming and catering to visitors.  Gamblers and other seekers after amusement have now left its famous pleasure city, Monte Carlo, and with them have gone all visible means for the support of Monaco’s citizenry.

Situated above a bay of the Mediterranean, and linking, by its terraces, the solid blue of the great sea’s waters, with the radiant blue of the azure sky, Monte Carlo is a rarely beautiful place in which to pass a holiday, whether one is interested in the casino with its gaming tables, or whether he despises such forms of amusement.  The weather is always mild, restful, luxurious.

Famed for its gaming, and much sought for its international character, Monte Carlo has served widely in yet another capacity. It has been the maneuvering grounds for people from all nations and of all vocations who have felt the need of patrons, connections or recognition.  Potential statesmen, together with artists, writers, professional men of an ambitious kind, and men of many businesses have flocked regularly to Monte Carlo as the place of their grand strategy in the campaign to attract attention.

The show place of Monaco is the casino, with its saloon of play and tense, gold-hungry players. Here are won the profits which support the state, its prince, and a great part of the natives.

The casino is operated by a company capitalized at $6,000,000. So valuable is the concession for the world’s gambling headquarters that the company is able to pay the Prince of Monaco an annual rent of $340,000, to pay all the expenses for the government and the upkeep of the principality, to maintain the palace grounds and charitable and religious institutions, and to clear a handsome profit.  The annual budget of the company approaches $5,000,000.  As the casino’s profits take care of Monaco’s needs, the people of the principality are not taxed.

Monaco lies upon the West Riviera, about nine miles from Nice, France.  It has an area of eight square miles, being only a few miles long, while its width is more often a matter of feet than of miles.  There is a native population of 22,000, every one of whom lives in some manner upon the stream of visitors.  The principality is under French protection, and it owes its present prosperity largely to Prussian expansion, for when Prussia abolished gaming in Hamburg, Europe’s Monte Carlo before the 60’s. Monaco inherited Francois Blanc, Hamburg’s famous gaming tables proprietor, along with him, the old clientele.


NR

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