The Abyss and Other Stories (Alma Classics) Page 2

  “What’s wrong with you?”

  “What’s wrong?” Garaska aped him. “You treat him in a civilized way, and he… he takes you to the station. Maybe that’s my very last egg? Brute!”

  Bargamot was puffing. He did not find Garaska’s oaths at all insulting; with the whole of his ungainly being he was experiencing something between pity and a guilty conscience. Somewhere, in the most distant depths of his hefty body, there was something stubbornly nagging and tormenting him.

  “How can I possibly not beat you?” asked Bargamot, not exactly of himself, not exactly of Garaska.

  “Get this, you cabbage-patch scarecrow…”

  Garaska was evidently settling into his usual routine. The outline of an entire vista of the most seductive oaths and offensive sobriquets was just appearing in his now somewhat clearer brain, when Bargamot, concentrating and breathing heavily through his nose, announced in a voice that left not the slightest doubt about the firmness of the decision he had taken:

  “Come with me and break the fast.”

  “But I’m already coming with you, you pot-bellied devil!”

  “Come on, I say!”

  Garaska’s amazement knew no bounds. After allowing himself to be lifted up quite passively, he walked, with Bargamot leading him by the arm, walked – and where to? Not to the police station, but to Bargamot’s own house – in order to, what’s more… break the fast! There flashed through Garaska’s mind a tempting idea: to escape Bargamot by taking to his heels, but although the unusual nature of the situation really had cleared his head, his heels, on the other hand, were in the worst possible condition, having seemingly sworn to be forever catching on one another and holding one another back. And Bargamot was so odd, as well, that, as a matter of fact, Garaska did not actually want to leave. Barely able to move his tongue, searching for words and getting muddled, Bargamot would first be expounding the instructions for policemen, then returning once again to the basic question of beating and the police station, resolving it in a positive sense, but at the same time in a negative one, too.

  “What you say is true, Ivan Akindinych – you can’t not beat us,” Garaska supported him, feeling even a kind of awkwardness: Bargamot really was extremely odd!

  “No – no, what I’m saying’s wrong,” mumbled Bargamot, who obviously understood still less than Garaska what his clumsy tongue was blathering…

  At last they came home, and Garaska had already ceased to be amazed. At first Maria opened her eyes wide at the sight of the extraordinary duo, but deduced from her husband’s look of dismay that he should not be contradicted, and briskly grasped through her own feminine soft-heartedness what needed to be done.

  Here is the crazed and hushed Garaska sitting at the laid table. He is so ashamed, he would happily sink through the floor. Ashamed of his rags, ashamed of his dirty hands, ashamed of himself as a whole: tattered, drunken and foul. Scalding himself, he eats devilishly hot, fat-ridden cabbage soup, spills it onto the tablecloth, and although the hostess tactfully pretends not to notice it, he gets flustered and spills some more. So unbearable is the trembling of those calloused fingers with their big dirty nails, which Garaska has for the first time noticed he has.

  “Ivan Akindinych – so what have you got for Vanyatka… a little surprise?” asks Maria.

  “No, later…” Bargamot replies hastily. He scalds himself with the soup, blows on the spoon and wipes his moustache with dignity, but showing through that dignity is the same amazement to be found in Garaska.

  “Eat, do eat,” Maria says hospitably. “Gerasim… what’s your patronymic?”

  “Andreyich.”

  “Do eat, Gerasim Andreyich.”

  Garaska tries to swallow, chokes and, dropping his spoon, lets his head fall onto the table, right onto the greasy stain he has just made. Bursting from his breast once again is that rough, plaintive howl which had so perturbed Bargamot. The little children, who had by now almost stopped paying any attention to the guest, drop their spoons and join their trebles to his tenor. Bargamot looks at his wife with a dismayed and sorry mien.

  “Why, what’s the matter, Gerasim Andreyich? Do stop,” she soothes the troubled guest.

  “My patronymic… In all my days, no one’s ever called me… by my patronymic…”*

  1898

  A GRAND SLAM

  They played vint* three times a week, on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays; Sunday was very convenient for playing, but it had to be left to cater for various chance events – other people visiting, the theatre – and thus it was considered the most boring day of the week. In the summer, however, at the dacha, they played on Sunday too. They sat like this: fat, hot-tempered Maslennikov played with Yakov Ivanovich, and Yevpraksia Vasilyevna with her gloomy brother, Prokopy Vasilyevich. This arrangement had been established long before, some six years ago, and it was Yevpraksia Vasilyevna who had insisted on it. The thing was, playing independently against each other held no interest whatsoever for her and her brother, since in that event a win for one was a loss for the other, and in the final analysis they neither won nor lost. And although in a financial sense the game was insignificant, and Yevpraksia Vasilyevna and her brother were not short of money, still they failed to understand the pleasure of playing for the sake of playing, and were delighted when they won. She put the money they won aside separately, into a moneybox, and it seemed to her much more important and dear than the large banknotes she had to pay out for the expensive apartment or hand out for the housekeeping. They gathered to play at Prokopy Vasilyevich’s, because in the entire spacious apartment there lived only he and his sister – there was a large white tomcat too, but he was always asleep in an armchair – and there reigned in the rooms that quietness essential for the activity. Yevpraksia Vasilyevna’s brother was a widower: he had lost his wife in the second year after the wedding, and had afterwards spent two whole months in a clinic for the mentally ill; she herself was unmarried, although she had once had a romance with a student. Nobody knew – and she seemed to have forgotten – why it had not fallen to her lot to marry her student, but every year, when the usual appeal for aid for needy students appeared, she would send the committee a neatly folded hundred-rouble note “from an anonymous woman”. Age-wise, she was the youngest of the card players: she was forty-three.

  In the beginning, when the pairings had been made, the eldest of the card players, Maslennikov, had been especially unhappy with them. He was exasperated that he would be continually obliged to have to do with Yakov Ivanovich – i.e., in other words, to give up his dream of a grand slam in no trumps. And he and his partner were quite unsuited to one another generally. Yakov Ivanovich was a dry little old man who went about, winter and summer, in a padded frock coat and trousers, silent and stern. He would always appear at exactly eight o’clock, not a minute sooner or later, and would immediately pick the chalk up in his dry fingers, on one of which, moving about loosely, was a large diamond ring. But the most dreadful thing about his partner, for Maslennikov, was the fact that he would never bid more than four – even when he had a strong and certain game in his hand. It happened once that, when Yakov Ivanovich opened the play with the two, he carried on going right through to the ace, taking all thirteen tricks. Maslennikov threw his cards onto the table in a rage, but the grey old man calmly gathered them up and made a note of the score for the game, as required by the bid of four.

  “But why on earth didn’t you bid a grand slam?” cried Nikolai Dmitriyevich (that was Maslennikov’s name).

  “I never bid more than four,” the little old man replied dryly, with the edifying comment: “You never know what might happen.”

  Nikolai Dmitriyevich never could convince him. He himself always took risks and, since he had no luck with the cards, constantly lost, but he did not despair and believed he would manage to win it all back next time. They gradually got used to their situation and did not inter
fere with one another. Nikolai Dmitriyevich took risks, while the old man calmly noted down the losses and made his bids of four.

  Thus they played, summer and winter, spring and autumn. The decrepit world submissively bore the heavy yoke of endless existence, and now turned red with blood, now melted into tears, filling its journey through space with the groans of the sick, the hungry and the aggrieved. Faint echoes of this alarming and alien life were brought with him by Nikolai Dmitriyevich. He was sometimes late and would come in when everyone was already sitting at the table, all prepared, with the pink fan of the cards standing out on its green surface.

  Nikolai Dmitriyevich, red-cheeked and smelling of fresh air, would hurriedly take his place opposite Yakov Ivanovich, apologize and say:

  “There are so many people out strolling on the boulevard. They go on and on, on and on…”

  Yevpraksia Vasilyevna considered herself duty-bound, as the hostess, not to notice her guests’ oddities. That was why she alone replied, while, silent and stern, the little old man prepared the chalk, and her brother gave instructions regarding tea.

  “Yes, I’m sure – the weather’s nice. But shouldn’t we begin?”

  And they did. The high-ceilinged room, which annihilated sound with its soft furniture and door curtains, would become utterly muffled. The maid moved inaudibly over the fluffy rug, taking round glasses of strong tea, and it was only her starched skirts that rustled, the chalk that squeaked and Nikolai Dmitriyevich who sighed after incurring a heavy loss. Weak tea was poured for him, and a special side table set up, as he liked to drink from the saucer, and unfailingly with toffees.

  In winter, Nikolai Dmitriyevich would inform them that it had been minus ten degrees during the day, and it had now already dipped to twenty, while in the summer he would say:

  “An entire group has just set off for the woods. With baskets.”

  Yevpraksia Vasilyevna would look politely at the sky – in the summer they played on the terrace – and although the sky was clear and the tops of the pines were golden, she would remark:

  “I hope it doesn’t rain.”

  And little old Yakov Ivanovich would sternly lay out the cards and, drawing the two of hearts, think that Nikolai Dmitriyevich was a frivolous and incorrigible man. Maslennikov had at one time greatly troubled his partners. Every time he arrived, he started saying a phrase or two about Dreyfus.* Pulling a sad face, he would inform them:

  “Things are going badly for our Dreyfus.”

  Or, on the contrary, he would laugh and say joyfully that the unjust sentence was sure to be disaffirmed. Then he started bringing newspapers and would read out certain passages from them – always about that same Dreyfus.

  “We’ve read that already,” said Yakov Ivanovich dryly, but his partner did not heed him and would read out what seemed to him of interest and importance. In this way he once got the others into an argument and almost into a quarrel, as Yevpraksia Vasilyevna refused to acknowledge the legitimacy of the legal proceedings and demanded that Dreyfus be freed immediately, while Yakov Ivanovich and her brother insisted it was essential first of all to observe certain formalities and only then to free him. Yakov Ivanovich was the first to come to his senses and, indicating the table, say:

  “Isn’t it time, though?”

  And they sat down to play, and afterwards, no matter how much Nikolai Dmitriyevich talked about Dreyfus, he was answered with silence.

  Thus they played, summer and winter, spring and autumn. Sometimes there were incidents, but mostly of a funny kind. At times it was as if something had come over Yevpraksia Vasilyevna’s brother: he could not remember what the partners had said about their cards and would be one down on a certain bid of five. Then Nikolai Dmitriyevich would laugh loudly and exaggerate the significance of the loss, while the little old man would smile and say:

  “Should have bid four, and you’d have been all right.”

  There would be particular agitation among all the players whenever Yevpraksia Vasilyevna made a high bid. She would turn red and grow flustered, not knowing which card she ought to play, and would look with entreaty at her silent brother, while the other two partners, chivalrously sympathetic to her femininity and helplessness, encouraged her with condescending smiles and waited patiently. Their attitude to the game generally, however, was serious and thoughtful. In their eyes, cards had long ago lost the significance of inanimate matter, and each suit, and each card in the suit taken separately, was strictly individual and led its own independent life. Suits were loved or unloved, lucky or unlucky. The cards combined in endlessly varying ways, and this variety lent itself neither to analysis, nor to rules – yet at the same time had a logic to it. And in that logic lay the life of the cards, distinct from the lives of the people playing them. The people wanted, and tried, to achieve what they wished from them, while the cards did as they wished, as though they had their own will, their own tastes, sympathies and whims. Hearts came especially often to Yakov Ivanovich, while Yevpraksia Vasilyevna’s hands were constantly full of spades, although she disliked them very much. It was sometimes the case that the cards played up, and Yakov Ivanovich would not know how to rid himself of spades, while Yevpraksia Vasilyevna would be glad to get hearts, make high bids and go down. And then it would seem as if the cards were laughing. All the suits went to Nikolai Dmitriyevich equally, and not one stayed for long, and all the cards had the same look as guests in a hotel who come and go, indifferent to the place where they have had to spend a few days. Sometimes, for several evenings in a row, only twos and threes would come to him, and in so doing would have an impertinent and mocking look. Nikolai Dmitriyevich was certain that the reason he could not make a grand slam was that the cards knew of his desire and avoided him deliberately, to annoy him. And he would pretend that it made no difference at all to him what bid he was going to play, and he would try not to look at the kitty for as long as possible. Very rarely did he manage to fool the cards this way: generally they guessed and, when he did look at the kitty, there would be three sixes in there laughing, and the king of spades they had dragged along for company smiling grimly.

  Yevpraksia Vasilyevna penetrated least of all into the mysterious essence of the cards; the little old man, Yakov Ivanovich, had long ago developed a strictly philosophical view and became neither surprised nor distressed, having a faithful weapon against fate in his bid of four. Nikolai Dmitriyevich alone was unable to reconcile himself to the whimsical disposition of the cards, their mockery and inconstancy. Going to bed, he would think of how he was going to make a grand slam in no trumps, and it seemed so simple and feasible: here comes an ace, after it a king, then again an ace. But when he sat down to play, full of hope, there were the accursed sixes again, baring their broad white teeth. Something fateful and malicious could be sensed in it. And gradually the grand slam in no trumps became Nikolai Dmitriyevich’s strongest desire, and even dream.

  There were other events beyond card playing, too. Yevpraksia Vasilyevna’s big white tomcat died of old age and, with the permission of the owner of the house, was buried in the garden under a lime tree. Then Nikolai Dmitriyevich once disappeared for two whole weeks, and his partners did not know what to think or what to do, as vint in a threesome broke with all established customs and seemed dull. It was as if the cards themselves were conscious of it and combined in unaccustomed ways. When Nikolai Dmitriyevich appeared, the pink cheeks that were so sharply distinct from his fluffy white hair had turned grey, and he had become generally smaller and shorter. He informed them that his eldest son had been arrested for something and sent to St Petersburg. Everyone was surprised, as they had not known that Maslennikov had a son – maybe he had mentioned it some time, but everyone had forgotten about it. Soon after this, he failed to appear once again, and, as ill luck would have it, on a Saturday, when the game continued longer than usual, and again everyone was surprised to learn that he had long been suffering from angina, and
that on Saturday he had had a bad attack of the illness. But then everything was re-established, and the game even became more serious and more interesting, as Nikolai Dmitriyevich was less distracted by extraneous conversations. There was only the rustling of the maid’s starched skirts, and the satin cards sliding inaudibly from the hands of the players and living their mysterious and silent lives, distinct from the lives of the people playing them. They were, as before, indifferent to Nikolai Dmitriyevich, and sometimes maliciously mocking, and in this there could be sensed something fateful, fated.

  But on Thursday the 26th of November, there was a strange alteration in the cards. As soon as the game started, Nikolai Dmitriyevich got a series of aces, and he made not just five, as he had bid, but a little slam, as Yakov Ivanovich turned out to have the extra ace, which he had not wanted to reveal. Then, for a certain time, the sixes appeared again, but soon they disappeared, and whole suits began arriving, and they arrived with strict observance of their turn, as though they all wanted to see how glad Nikolai Dmitriyevich would be. He made bid after bid, and everyone was surprised – even calm Yakov Ivanovich. The agitation of Nikolai Dmitriyevich, whose pudgy fingers with dimples on the joints sweated and dropped the cards, was communicated to the other players too.

  “Well, you are lucky today,” said Yevpraksia Vasilyevna’s brother gloomily, being more afraid than anything of excessively great good fortune, after which comes woe just as great. Yevpraksia Vasilyevna felt pleased that at long last Nikolai Dmitriyevich had got some good cards, and at her brother’s words she spat over her shoulder three times to avert misfortune.

  “Pah, pah, pah. It’s nothing special. The cards just keep on coming, and God grant they come a little more.”

  For a minute the cards seemed to fall into thought, undecided: there were glimpses of several twos with an embarrassed air, and then, with increased speed, aces, kings and queens started appearing once again. Nikolai Dmitriyevich barely had time to gather the cards and bid, and had misdealt twice already, so that a re-deal had been required. And every bid was made successfully, even though Yakov Ivanovich remained stubbornly silent about his aces: his surprise was replaced by distrust of the sudden change of fortune, and he repeated once again his immutable decision – not to bid higher than four. Nikolai Dmitriyevich was angry with him, turned red and gasped for breath. He no longer mulled over his moves but made high bids boldly, certain he would find what he needed in the kitty.