THE IVORY PLAYING CARDS

 

 

 

From the age of two, and until I was twelve, I saw very little of my mother. I was the posthumous son of a father who ran a modest business and who left my mother almost in misery; so that soon after she became a widow she was again employed in the great house where she had formerly worked as a maid.

Fortunately for me, the merchants of my father's branch owned a fairly well-organized Montepio, and in due course I entered an institution which provided me with bed, board, and education for ten months of the year. I went to spend the holidays with my uncle, who had a bakery in Hounslow; and I only saw my mother on her occasional brief visits to school or to her brother's house.

A year before my twelfth birthday, my mother had been promoted to the rank of housekeeper to Sir George Suttwell, at his great mansion in Hampshire, and had many servants under her command. She was one of those strong, honest, capable women, specially designed by nature to occupy modest positions of trust. My mother inspired a kind of fear in most people, and I think the only two beings she feared were Sir George and his wife. They inspired him with a respect bordering on reverence, and he adored the family as if he had been some feudal serf born and brought up in the manor house.

This attitude towards their owners contributed decisively to our long separation. My mother was afraid to ask permission to have me by her side during the holidays, thinking that I could do something that would bring the wrath of Olympus over our heads. So I grew up and looked upon my mother as both dear and strange, a great lady whose periodical visits punctuated my uncles' dull conversation with allusions to hunts, society balls, and the like, which, as far as I was concerned, might have taken place on the planet Mars.

Although I naturally loved my mother and always looked forward to seeing her, I was quite happy with my aunt and uncle when I wasn't at school. My uncle, a good man, was one of those simple natures who can seek and find companionship in a child. Not a fan of leaving home, his only hobby was football, as a spectator, of course; and when I was at Hounslow he always took me with him to the games.

He had taught me to play discard and breeze, and many afternoons we played endless games in the back room. My knowledge of the first of these games later earned me the improvement of my education, a modest fortune, and the means of establishing myself on my own. And the story of that discard game which won me a place in life far above the condition in which I was born is something I shall not reproach any man who doubts it.

He had just turned twelve when those fortunate Easter holidays arrived.

Sir George and Lady Suttwell were two people of a certain age who were seldom absent from their Hampshire home for more than a weekend. But that spring they had decided to make some necessary renovations in the house and would be away for a while. My mother mustered up the courage to ask them to allow her to have me by their side during her absence. The Suttwells did not pose any inconvenience. "To see Suttwell and die" was a phrase I had heard more than once from my mother's lips; one can imagine, then, the state of excitement into which the prospect of that journey plunged me.

Suttwell Court is located on the western edge of the New Forest, and four miles by road from Farringhurst station. I remember the train, after leaving Southampton behind, taking me through expanses of sun-drenched forest in the tender greenery of spring. But the sun was very low in the sky when I alighted on the platform at Farringhurst, and leaden clouds, advancing from the west, drew a gloomy curtain over the sunset.

At the station my mother was waiting for me, who kissed me and accompanied me to a ramshackle vehicle that for a generation had served as a means of transport for luggage and servants. For most of the journey, the rain pattered against the windows and roof of the vehicle, and that melancholy end of a bright day, added to the fact that I was tired after my journey, probably tended to depress me and inspire me with the most absurd forebodings.

I knew she had a strange, unreasoned fear of the house when I looked out the window and saw her for the first time, as the warm rain soaked my hair. I had imagined that Suttwell Court was an oriental palace like those described in fairy tales, only to find that it looked even more gloomy than that of the institution where I had spent most of my life. I entered the huge mansion with the same sense of dread that a child experiences when entering a cathedral for the first time.

A sausage soup in my mother's office helped improve my mood. A very kind gentleman, named Mr. Hewitt, shared dinner with us. My mother told me that he was the butler; and from that time on, in my assessment of social ranks, the stewards were placed at a level equivalent to that of the members of the House of Lords. It seemed to me that he had more dignity, more sense of humor, and more condescension toward a twelve-year-old boy than any of the teachers at the orphanage.

My mother sent me to bed very early, but before she did she showed me a little, very little, of those parts of the house that in normal times were sacred. Then I felt depressed and scared again. Everything was alarmingly large and massive; There was not a single painting that did not look twenty times larger than a normal painting, nor an armchair in which a giant could not have sat comfortably. The carpets themselves under my feet were a nuisance: I was afraid that at any moment I would be scolded for walking on them.

I was grateful that my bedroom was at the end of a hallway that seemed like the simplest corner of the house, with straw mats on the floor. In my room, the floor was linoleum, and the carpets, thin and worn, reminded me of Hounslow and Uncle Fred's comfortable cabinet.

My mood had improved the next day, and the house seemed less impressive in the morning light, when, accompanied by my mother, I finished touring it. My mother, extremely active, moved to the rhythm of a perpetual clash of keys, and this made me feel that she was a very important person, increasing the respect she already inspired in me. A single glance was enough for him to choose the key he was going to use, without ever making a mistake. And in each of the rooms we visited I had a brief comment ready, pointing out a rare piece of furniture or an interesting painting, or telling of some important family event that had taken place during that stay.

I guess the paintings interested me more than anything else. There were many portraits of ancestors, especially in the lobby and in the long gallery on the top floor. The family resemblance between these Suttwells was very remarkable, and if my mother had not informed me of the kinship which united these personages, I should have thought that all the portraits were of the same man in different dresses, and at different times of his life.

On our tour of the house we only missed one room, because it was the only one to which my mother did not have the key. The closed door was on the first floor, in a corridor that extended directly from the main staircase to the west wing, and my curiosity was piqued when my mother passed by it.

"What's in there?" I asked.

"I don't know," my mother replied dryly.

"But why don't you have the key?"

"Sir George has it. If he prefers to keep it, there must be a reason.

I thought that my mother was upset that she had not been entrusted with the key to that room along with the others, and that this was the reason why she answered my questions more abruptly than usual.

The mysterious room made a vivid impression on me, and my imagination ran wild: someone had committed murder there. The skeleton of a man still lay in the center of the room, on a large stain of dried blood... But when I suggested this horrible and delightful possibility to my mother, she was impatient and very disheartening.

The house would have been an ideal playground for me if I had been allowed to use it as such, but I was confined to my mother's room and the large kitchen, though sometimes the kind Mr. Hewitt would let me help me dust the glass in his pantry. Outside the house the situation did not improve. The gardens were even more sacred to footsteps than the large gray carpet in the main hall.

But the servants, inside and without, were very affectionate to me, and seemed to enjoy spoiling me when my mother was out of sight. None of them idolized the family like my mother, and Mr. Sturgess, who was one of the gardeners and was never too busy to talk, told me more details of the Suttwells' history than my own mother. One day he took my breath away when he told me that Sir George was a poor man. I blinked, to imply that it was not easy to believe.

"I don't mean that you and I didn't like to change with him, for example," Mr. Sturgess confessed. But he is not a rich man according to his own ideas. When a character of his category starts selling land, things go badly. If Sir George's father were alive, the family would have lost the house long ago.

And then he told me that for many generations the heads of the mansion had been alternately stingy and profligate. A Suttwell had squandered his fortune and left a lot of debt; Her son had worked hard to restore the financial balance of the house, only for the next generation to return to spending without measure.

"Sir Hugh, Sir George's father, was the most profligate man you can imagine," Mr. Sturgess informed me.

"Then Sir George is a stingy, isn't he?" I asked.

Sturgess smiled and scratched his chin.

"Well, perhaps that is not the exact name that can be given to it," he said. But he is not far from being one—he is not far from it.

My first five days at Suttwell Court passed pleasantly and with considerable placidity. I dare say that my boredom would have been complete if the servants had not been so disposed to cheer up my stay in the house. In addition, I earned Mr. Hewitt's respect by teaching him how to play discard.

"The best two-person card game ever invented," was his verdict on the discard.

The thing happened on the sixth day of my stay at Suttwell Court.

My mother, a lover of discipline as she was, would not allow me to stay up late at night. At half-past nine o'clock he would kiss me, light my candle, and send me to bed. Always, after half an hour, I heard her enter the room next to mine.

The workers used to work until sunset, but that night a group of them had decided to finish a repair on the back staircase, so when my mother sent me to bed I had to cross the hall and go up the main staircase.

It was a very dark night, without moon and without stars, and the house was in almost total darkness. I remember the amusing and horrible shadows that accompanied my passage through the hall with my little candle, and how the eyes of the portraits stared at me through the gloom, perhaps wondering indignantly what right I had to be there.

Around me, the shadows grew longer and swollen as I climbed the steps, and I was glad to reach the landing, away from the stares that stalked me in the hall.

I had taken half a dozen steps down the corridor leading to the west wing, when I stopped suddenly. I had arrived at the door of that mysterious locked room and I had to stop and contemplate it for a few moments, like a child who lacks the money necessary to enter a cinema contemplates the lobby of the premises. I was about to resume my journey when something happened which I know perfectly well to be true, and yet still seems incredible to me.

Suddenly, without the slightest sound to alarm me, the door opened. On the threshold a gentleman appeared, and behind him the room was lighted. I took a step back and looked. I was surprised, of course, but I didn't run scared to death, as might have been expected.

The gentleman was smiling. He smiled with his mouth and his eyes, eyes that had a sort of malicious gleam that I had seen on more than one occasion in some men who were fond of raising their elbows. However, the expression on his face was gentle. On the whole, his appearance was so friendly that it immediately dispelled any fears.

"Wow! he exclaimed in a soft, guttural voice. If it's a boy! Hey, kid! Come closer...

I took a step towards him, holding my candle. He was dressed as one of the portraits in the hall, which helped to add to his resemblance to one of the Suttwells. A wig, curly and very powdery, hid her natural hair.

I thank heaven that at that moment it did not occur to me to think what I know now. The gentleman seemed as solid and real as any person I had ever seen. And the portraits had put into my childish mind the idea that the Suttwells continued to circulate the world in their wigs and lace. The knight was one of those demigods who were reverently referred to as "the family." I just smiled shyly at her, wondering how she had managed to get into the house without my mother, who knew everything, noticing.

"Where were you going, boy?" He asked me.

"To go to bed, sir."

"To go to bed?" Oh! He had a smug voice and, at the same time, slightly trembling. Come on, come on... Now that you're here, you're not going to deny me some company... In recent times I have been very lonely.

His voice had become filled with sadness as he uttered those last words, and I was moved. Then he said something in French that I could not understand, but it seemed to me that it was an invitation to him to enter the room, especially when I saw that he moved slightly to one side while he spoke.

So I entered the mysterious room. It was brightly lit, but I don't remember seeing any lamp or candle burning. The apartment was a kind of living room. There was a table in the center, some solid and old armchairs, books, a desk... And the dust of centuries covering everything with a thick layer.

"Yes," said the gentleman, "I have little company now, and I cannot be too exact. Times have changed. I confess that I've been dying to play a game of cards longer than I can imagine. He looked at me, his eyebrows raised, as if he knew beforehand how idle his question was. You don't play cards, do you?

"Yes, sir," I answered. I know a few games.

His smile widened, and then he shook his head.

"Some game of villains, no doubt," he said. Well, well, a little beer is worth more than a lot of water... It will be a real pleasure to feel the cards in my hands again. Well, what's your favorite game, boy?

"I know how to play discard," I murmured.

-To be discarded? His eyes seemed to widen with the surprise and pleasure he was experiencing. Discard! The trendy game right now! Hey, who the hell instructed you like that?

I shrugged, not knowing what to answer. The gentleman, for his part, did not seem to expect my reply. He bowed to me so ironically and so amusing that I almost laughed, instead of being offended.

"Sir," he said, "I am deeply honoured by your company, and if you play at discard you are doubly welcome to my hometown." I have lost more guineas to discard than I have hairs on my head. If you want to honor me with a game...

He looked at me anxiously, as if he thought I could refuse to play with him. I said nothing, just looking at him with an intrigued and nervous smile.

He interpreted my silence as a mute nod, walked over to the desk, opened a drawer, and pulled out a deck of cards. Then he dropped the cards on the dusty table.

-How much is the setting? he asked, looking at me with his mocking little eyes. The normal thing at the club?

I suspected that he was making fun of me, since a gentleman like him could not accept anything from a child. In fact, I had nothing to lose, but I was sure that if I won, that kind and flamboyant gentleman would not allow me to leave empty-handed. So I smiled and said:

-Of course.

The deck was already ready to play discard, that is, it only contained thirty-two cards, starting with sevens. While mixing them I realized for the first time the great beauty and originality of the cards: they were ivory, hand-painted and subjected to a treatment that made the colors unalterable. I lost my hand and pulled an armchair closer to the table.

-A round of three games? asked the gentleman.

I nodded and he started to give. As I dealt the cards I observed that their ways had changed. His face had lost its jovial expression and was now terribly serious. It was not difficult to guess what was one of his most deeply-rooted vices.

We started playing. The gentleman spread out his small fan of playing cards with trembling fingers. He declared himself the king of triumphs and won two points from the hand. They took the first game by five points to two.

I was beginning to be scared, although I didn't know why. But luck favored me in the second game, and I scored five points while he was left with three. I was quite nervous, but when the gentleman picked up the cards to serve the last game it seemed to me that his nervousness overcame mine.

And what a game, my God! No hand produced more than one point, with a total of four evenly distributed. The trump was spades: I asked for four cards.

He served them to me one by one, and the first one I raised was the king of spades.

"The king is enough for me," I said, turning her on her back.

The knight swore an oath and rose to his feet, violently throwing his cards on the table. I got up, frightened, without letting go of the king of swords.

"That's the sort of luck that has always annoyed me," said the gentleman, in a calmer tone.

And he began pacing to and fro, his head bent over his chest, to the point that I wondered if he was joking and expected me to laugh. Then he stopped and stared at me.

"Boy," he said, "I am very grateful to you for the company. What would you say if I couldn't pay you?

Again I wondered if he was making fun of me.

"Please," I said, "money is of no importance.

Surprisingly, my response seemed to make him angry.

"I am very grateful to you for the company, boy, but damn your impudence. There is no man, dead or alive, who can say that Giles Suttwell has not lived up to a gambling debt. Damn your impudence! Do you hear me? Damn your impudence!

I felt so scared, I couldn't even stutter a word of apology.

The gentleman resumed his pacing of the room, his head bowed and muttering to himself. Then he stopped again and looked at me.

"Damn your damned impudence!" he exclaimed. But how am I going to pay you? Alas! This is the problem!

He thought and then, to my great relief, pointed to the door.

"Good evening," he said. I'm very grateful to you for the company, of course. And I curse your brazenness.

I headed for the door. The gentleman followed me.

"You'll pay for yourself, boy," I heard him say. What was my father's is mine, even if the accursed miser hid it from my eyes and from the eyes of those who came after. In the library..., the fifth board behind the shelves to the left of the south-facing door..., take what I owe you...

I was already in the corridor and turned to look at him as his voice muffled behind me. I saw nothing but a closed door. Then an intense terror seized me, and I ran downstairs, screaming, until I found the shelter of my mother's arms. At that moment I hardly understood anything, but my terror told me that I had been with something that was not of the earth and was not good.

My mother would not have believed a word I told her if she had not observed him grasping something convulsively in one of my hands. He forced me to open my fingers and took an ivory card.

He was the king of swords.

My mother risked prolonging my stay in the house until Sir George and his wife returned. She repeated to them word for word the story I had told her, and showed them the ivory card.

Sir George made scarcely any comment.

Much later I learned that the room where the strange events I have just narrated took place had been locked because it was rumoured to be visited by the ghost of Sir Giles Suttwell, gambler and inveterate drunkard, who had died at the end of the eighteenth century.

The room was opened and on the desk was found a deck of thirty-one cards: a complete deck to play discard... adding the king of spades. And because a child cannot enter a locked room and take a letter from the closed drawer of a desk, without having the keys to the door or drawer, special attention was paid to my story, and in a particular way to its end.

Before Sir Giles the spendthrift, the head of the family had been Sir Giles the stingy. I don't know the number of guineas that were found in a secret room behind the bookshelves of the library. All I know is that my mother and I have Sir George to thank for the part of them he gave us.

 

END