A Grand Slam

They played vint19 three times a week⁠—on Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday. Sunday would have been a very convenient day to play, but Sunday had to be kept open for all kinds of accidents, such as a casual caller or a theatre, and was thus considered the dullest day in the whole week. However, when in the country during the summer they played on Sundays too. The partnerships were arranged in this way: portly, irritable Maslenikov played with Jacov Ivanovitch, while Evpraksia Vasilievna played with her solemn brother, Prokopy Vasilievitch, The arrangement had been made six years before, and Evpraksia Vasilievna always insisted on its observance. Playing against her brother presented not the remotest interest either for her or for him, since the winnings of one would have meant the losses of the other, and though from a gambling point of view the play was insignificant, and neither of them was in need of money, still, she could not understand the pleasure of playing for the sake of the game alone, and was always delighted when she won. The money she won at cards was always kept separately in a money-box and it seemed more precious and important to her than the big notes with which she paid for their expensive flat and for housekeeping.

They all met at Prokopy Vasilievitch’s, for there was only himself and his sister in their big flat (not mentioning the big white tomcat, who was always asleep in an armchair); and they thus made sure of the quietness essential to their occupation. Evpraksia Vasilievna’s brother was a widower. He had lost his wife in the second year of their marriage, and spent two months in a mental nursing home after her death. Evpraksia Vasilievna herself was not married, though she had once been in love with a student. No one knew, and it seemed that she herself had forgotten, why it was that she had never married her student, but every year when the usual appeal was made on behalf of poor students she sent to the committee a carefully folded hundred-rouble note signed “Anonymous.” In years she was the youngest of the players, being forty-three.

The eldest of the players, Maslenikov, was at first annoyed with the arrangement of the partnerships, since it meant that he always had to play with Jacov Ivanovitch⁠—in other words, to give up his dream of a grand slam in no trumps. In every respect he and his partner were unsuited for each other. Jacov Ivanovitch was a withered little old man, silent and solemn, and even in summer he went about with coat and trousers lined with wadding. He always came at eight o’clock, not a minute earlier or later, and instantly took a small piece of chalk in his dry fingers, on one of which a large diamond ring moved about freely. The most dreadful thing about his partner, Maslenikov considered, was the fact that he never bid higher than four tricks, even when he had a good hand and the game was certain. It happened once that Jacov Ivanovitch began with the two and went on to the ace, taking every trick to the thirteenth. Maslenikov furiously threw down his cards on the table, and the little old man gathered them up quietly and scored the number of points necessary for four tricks.

“Why didn’t you declare a grand slam?” cried Nikolai Dmitrievitch. (That was Maslenikov’s name.)

“I never play higher than four,” the old man replied dryly, and added in explanation: “You never know what may happen.”

And Nikolai Dmitrievitch could never convince him. He himself always played a bold game, and being unlucky in his hand, he invariably lost, but he never despaired, and kept on hoping to win the next time. By degrees they grew used to their position and ceased interfering with each other. Nikolai Dmitrievitch ran risks; the old man quietly marked down their losses and declared four.

Thus they played summer and winter, spring and autumn. The crazy world, submissively bearing the burden of endless existence, now reddened with blood, now bathed in tears, was marking its course through space with the groans of the sick, the hungry and injured. A faint echo of this disturbing alien life was brought by Nikolai Dmitrievitch. Sometimes he came in late, when the rest were already seated at the table, the cards, like a pink fan, spread over its green surface.

Nikolai Dmitrievitch, red-cheeked, with the fresh air still about him, hastily took his seat opposite Jacov Ivanovitch, and, excusing himself, said:

“What a lot of people there are walking in the boulevards! They come and come without end⁠ ⁠…”

Evpraksia Vasilievna considered it her duty as hostess to pay no heed to the peculiarities of her guests. Thus she was the only one to reply, while the little old man, silent and solemn, was preparing the chalk, and her brother was making arrangements about the tea.

“Yes, the weather must be fine. But hadn’t we better begin?”

And they began. The lofty room grew still, every sound being deadened by upholstered furniture and heavy hangings. A maid moved noiselessly over the soft carpet, handing round glasses of strong tea; there was only the rustle of her starched skirt, the squeak of the chalk, the sigh of Nikolai Dmitrievitch, marking his first fine. His glass of tea was always weak and placed on a separate table, for he liked to drink it from the saucer.

In winter Nikolai Dmitrievitch would remark that in the morning there had been ten degrees of frost, which had risen now to twelve, and in the summer he would say:

“A company of people has just gone into the wood with baskets.”

Evpraksia Vasilievna would look up politely (in summer they played on the verandah), and though not a cloud was in sight and the tops of the firs shone golden, she would say:

“I wonder if it will rain?”

And the little old man, Jacov Ivanovitch, spread the cards solemnly, and taking out a two, decided that Nikolai Dmitrievitch was an incorrigibly frivolous man. Once Maslenikov greatly alarmed the rest. Every time he came he made a remark or two about Dreyfus. With a melancholy air he would say:

“The Dreyfus case is going badly.”

Or, on the other hand, he would laugh and declare that the unjust sentence would probably be revoked.

Later he took to bringing newspapers from which he read paragraphs, always about Dreyfus.

“Have you finished?” Jacov Ivanovitch asked dryly, but his partner did not hear him and went on reading the paragraphs that interested him. In this manner he one day led the rest into a dispute which nearly developed into a quarrel, for Evpraksia Vasilievna refused to acknowledge the order of legal proceedings and demanded that Dreyfus should be instantly released, while Jacov Ivanovitch and her brother maintained that it was at first necessary to go through certain formalities and then to release him. Jacov Ivanovitch was the first to recollect himself. Pointing to the table, he said:

“Isn’t it time to begin?”

And they sat down to play, and no matter what Nikolai Dmitrievitch said about Dreyfus afterwards, he was met by a stolid silence.

Thus they played summer and winter, spring and autumn. Sometimes an incident of an amusing nature happened, such as that Evpraksia Vasilievna’s brother forgot what his partner had said about her hand and did not take a single trick, when he had felt absolutely certain of five. Then Nikolai Dmitrievitch laughed aloud and exaggerated the importance of the loss, while the old man, smiling, said:

“Had you declared four, you know, the money would have remained in your pocket.”

A tense excitement took possession of them all whenever Evpraksia Vasilievna made a high bid. She flushed red, lost her head, not knowing where to put the cards, and gazed at her silent brother entreatingly, while her opponents, with a chivalrous sympathy for her womanly helplessness, encouraged her with their condescending smiles, as they waited impatiently for the result. In general, however, they were serious and thoughtful when playing. To them the cards had long ceased to be mere lifeless matter, and every suit and every card in it had its own individuality, and lived its own particular life. There were suits they liked and suits they did not like, lucky suits and unlucky suits. The cards arranged themselves in infinite monotony, and this monotony was subject neither to analysis nor rule, and was at the same time right and proper. People desired to have their way, and did what they liked with them, while the cards did their own work, as though possessed of individual will, taste, sympathy and caprice. Hearts often fell to Jacov Ivanovitch, while Evpraksia Vasilievna would constantly receive spades, though she hated spades. Sometimes the cards would be capricious and Jacov Ivanovitch did not know how to escape from spades, while Evpraksia Vasilievna delighted with her hearts, bid high and lost. At such times the cards seemed to laugh. No particular suit ever fell to Nikolai Dmitrievitch for several times running, and his cards generally bore an air of hotel visitors who come and go and are indifferent as to the place where they shall lodge for the few days. For several evenings following sometimes he got nothing but twos and threes, coming to him with an insolent, mocking air. Nikolai Dmitrievitch was convinced that he could never bid a grand slam because the cards knew of his ambition and did not come to him out of sheer malice. And he affected a complete indifference to his declaration and tried to delay looking at his hand. But the cards were rarely deceived by his manner; they usually saw through this device, and when he opened his hand three sixes laughed out at him, and the king of spades, whom they had dragged in for company, gave him a solemn smile.

Evpraksia Vasilievna fathomed the mysterious qualities of the cards less than the rest; the old man, Jacov Ivanovitch, had long attained a severe, philosophic attitude, and was never surprised or grieved, possessing the invincible armour against fate in his rule of never playing higher than four. Only Nikolai Dmitrievitch could never reconcile himself to the capricious character of the cards, their mockery and inconsistency. When going to bed he would imagine himself playing a grand slam in no trumps, and it seemed so simple and possible; one ace would come, then a king, then another ace. But when, full of hope, he sat down to play the following evening, the cursed sixes would be grinning at him once more. There was something fateful and malicious about it. And gradually a grand slam in no trumps became the dream and ambition of Nikolai Dmitrievitch’s life.

Other events happened which had no relation to cards. Evpraksia Vasilievna’s large white tomcat died of old age, and with the landlord’s permission was buried beneath a lime-tree in the garden. Then Nikolai Dmitrievitch once disappeared for two whole weeks and the other three did not know what to think or what to do, since vint for three was contrary to their habits and considered dull. The cards, too, seemed to be conscious of it and arranged themselves in the strangest manner. When Nikolai Dmitrievitch appeared again his ruddy cheeks, so marked in contrast to his mass of grey hair, had grown pale, and altogether he seemed slighter and smaller of build. He said that his eldest son had been arrested for something and sent to St. Petersburg. They were all surprised, since no one knew that Maslenikov had a son; no doubt he had told them at some time or another, but they had forgotten the fact. Not long after he disappeared for a second time, and on a Saturday too, when they played longer than on any other evening⁠—and again they all learnt in wonder that he had long suffered from heart disease, and had had a bad attack on Saturday.

And once more they settled down, and their game became more serious and absorbing, for Nikolai Dmitrievitch now rarely created a diversion in the form of irrelevant conversation. There was only the rustle of the maid’s starched skirt as the satin-backed cards slipped through their fingers, living their own mysterious, silent life, apart from the life of the people who played with them. To Nikolai Dmitrievitch they were as indifferent as ever, sometimes even malicious and mocking; there was something fatalistic about them.

On Thursday, the 26th November, an unusual change took place in the cards. The game had no sooner begun than Nikolai Dmitrievitch obtained a sequence and took not merely the five tricks he had declared, but made a small slam, as it turned out that Jacov Ivanovitch had an extra ace he had not wanted to show. Then for a time the usual sixes appeared again, but soon disappeared, giving place to full suits that came in strict order, as though each suit was eager to witness Nikolai Dmitrievitch’s joy. He declared hand after hand, to the astonishment of all, even quiet little Jacov Ivanovitch. Nikolai Dmitrievitch’s excitement communicated itself to the other players; the cards slipped quickly from his fat perspiring fingers with the wrinkles on the knuckles.

“You are in luck today,” said Evpraksia Vasilievna’s brother solemnly; he had no faith in sudden good fortune; in his experience it was always followed by misfortune.

Evpraksia Vasilievna was pleased that Nikolai Dmitrievitch had good cards at last, and at her brother’s words she spat three times to the side to counteract his prophecy of evil.

“Faugh! there is nothing unusual; the cards come and come, and I hope they will keep on coming.”

For a moment the cards seemed to be uncertain; a few twos appeared with a guilty air, and then again with greater rapidity came the aces, kings and queens. Nikolai Dmitrievitch had barely time to collect his cards and make his declaration; twice he made a false deal, and had to deal the cards over again. And he was lucky in every hand, though Jacov Ivanovitch maintained a stolid silence about his aces; the latter’s astonishment had given place to a disbelief in this rapid change of fortune, and once again he reminded his partner of his fixed rule of never playing higher than four.

Nikolai Dmitrievitch flushed and panted; he became angry with him. He no longer hesitated over his leads and bid high boldly, confident that he would draw what he wanted from the pack.

When, after solemn Prokopy Vasilievitch had dealt the cards, Maslenikov uncovered his hand, his heart gave a bound and instantly sank. Darkness appeared before his eyes, and he swayed to and fro; his hand contained twelve tricks⁠—clubs and hearts from the ace to the ten, and the ace and king of diamonds. If he drew the ace of spades, he would have a grand slam in no trumps.

“Two in in no trumps,” he began, controlling his voice with difficulty.

“Three in spades,” replied Evpraksia Vasilievna, who was also very excited, having nearly all the spades from the king down.

“Four in hearts,” Jacov Ivanovitch said dryly.

Nikolai Dmitrievitch instantly declared a small slam, but Evpraksia Vasilievna, excited, would not give way, and though she knew quite well that it was hopeless, declared a grand slam in spades. Nikolai Dmitrievitch hesitated for a moment, and then in a somewhat triumphant tone, behind which he concealed his misgiving, pronounced slowly:

“A grand slam in no trumps!”

Nikolai Dmitrievitch was to play a grand slam in no trumps! All were amazed, and the hostess’s brother even exclaimed “Oh!”

Nikolai Dmitrievitch stretched out his hand to the pack, but he swayed and upset a candle. Evpraksia Vasilievna seized it, and Nikolai Dmitrievitch for a moment sat straight and motionless, laying his cards on the table, then he threw up his hands and slowly fell over to the left. When falling he upset a little table on which stood a saucer of tea, his body hitting against the leg.

When the doctor arrived he declared Nikolai Dmitrievitch to have died of heart failure, and to console the living he said a few words about the painlessness of such a death. The dead man was laid on a Turkish divan in the room where they had been playing and covered with a sheet; he looked gruesome and terrifying. One foot, turned inwards, remained uncovered and did not seem to belong to him, as though it were the foot of another man; on the sole of the boot, still quite black and new in the instep, a piece of chocolate paper adhered. The card-table stood as it had been left, the cards thrown down in disorder, backs downwards; only Nikolai Dmitrievitch’s cards lay in a forlorn little heap as he had placed them.

Jacov Ivanovitch with short uncertain tread paced the room, trying not to look at the dead man, not to step off the carpet on to the polished floor, where his heels made a loud intermittent clatter. Passing the table several times he stopped, and carefully taking up Nikolai Dmitrievitch’s cards, he examined them, then arranging them in the same order as before he quietly put them back on the table. He then examined the pack; there was the ace of spades, the very card Nikolai Dmitrievitch had needed for his grand slam. Pacing up and down a few more times, Jacov Ivanovitch went into the next room, where he buttoned his wadding-lined coat still closer about him. He wept bitterly, for he pitied the dead man. Closing his eyes he tried to recall Nikolai Dmitrievitch’s face as it had been when he was alive, laughing over his winnings. He was particularly moved when he recalled Nikolai Dmitrievitch’s vanity, and his desire to play a grand slam in no trumps. All the events of the evening passed before him, beginning with the five tricks in diamonds the dead man had played and ending with the continuous flow of lucky cards which in itself foreboded evil. And now Nikolai Dmitrievitch was dead⁠—dead, just when he could have played a grand slam.

An idea, terrifying in its simplicity, struck the emaciated little body of Jacov Ivanovitch, causing him to leap from his chair. Peering round as though the thought had not come to him of its own accord, but had been whispered by someone into his ear, he said aloud:

“But he will never know that the ace was in the pack, and that his hand contained a certain grand slam. Never! Never!”

And it seemed to Jacov Ivanovitch that he had not understood until this moment what death really meant. And now he understood, and the thing he saw plainly was senseless, awful, irrevocable. He would never know! Were Jacov Ivanovitch to cry it into his very ear and hold the cards before his very eyes, Nikolai Dmitrievitch would not hear him and would not know, because Nikolai Dmitrievitch was no more. One more movement, one more second of life and Nikolai Dmitrievitch would have seen the ace and known that he had a grand slam, but now all was over and he did not know and would never know.

“Nev‑er, nev‑er,” Jacov Ivanovitch said slowly to convince himself that such a word existed and had meaning.

The word existed and had meaning, but the meaning was so strange and so bitter that Jacov Ivanovitch again fell into a chair and wept helplessly. He pitied Nikola Dmitrievitch in that he would never know, and he pitied himself and everyone, since this senseless, cruel thing would happen to him and to everyone alike. He wept⁠—and in thought he played Nikolai Dmitrievitch’s hand, taking trick after trick to the thirteenth, and thinking how much they would have scored, and that this too Nikolai Dmitrievitch would never know. This was the first and last time he had ignored his fixed rule of four, and had played a grand slam in no trumps for friendship’s sake.

“Is that you, Jacov Ivanovitch?” asked Evpraksia Vasilievna, entering. She sank into a chair beside him and burst into tears. “How awful! How awful!”

They both looked at each other and wept silently, conscious that in the next room, on the divan, was a dead man’s body, cold, heavy and silent.

“Have you sent word to his people?” asked Jacov Ivanovitch, blowing his nose violently.

“Yes, my brother and Annushka have gone, but I don’t know how they will find his home, for we haven’t got his address.”

“Isn’t he living in the same place as last year?” Jacov Ivanovitch asked absentmindedly.

“No, he had moved. Annushka says that he used to take an isvoschick somewhere to the Novensky Boulevard.”

“They will find out through the police,” the little old man comforted her. “I believe he has a wife, hasn’t he?”

Evpraksia Vasilievna gazed pensively at Jacov Ivanovitch and made no reply. It seemed to him that in her eyes he saw reflected the very thought that had just come to him. Once more he blew his nose, put the handkerchief into the pocket of his wadding-lined coat and said, raising his eyebrows questioningly above his reddened eyes:

“And where shall we get a fourth now?”

But Evpraksia Vasilievna, engrossed in thoughts of a domestic nature, did not hear him. After a short pause she asked:

“Are you still living in the same place, Jacov Ivanovitch?”