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
