Short Fiction - Leo Tolstoy (best books to read non fiction .TXT) 📗

guns.

June 15, 1855.

Recollections of a Scorer A Story

Well, it happened about three o’clock. The gentlemen were playing. There was the big stranger, as our men called him. The prince was there⁠—the two are always together. The whiskered bárin was there; also the little hussar, Oliver, who was an actor, and there was the pan.21 It was a pretty good crowd.

The big stranger and the prince were playing together. Now, here I was walking up and down around the billiard-table with my stick, keeping tally⁠—ten and forty-seven, twelve and forty-seven.

Everybody knows it’s our business to score. You don’t get a chance to get a bite of anything, and you don’t get to bed till two o’clock o’ nights, but you’re always being screamed at to bring the balls.

I was keeping tally; and I look, and see a new bárin comes in at the door. He gazed and gazed, and then sat down on the sofa. Very well!

“Now, who can that be?” thinks I to myself. “He must be somebody.”

His dress was neat⁠—neat as a pin⁠—checkered tricot pants, stylish little short coat, plush vest, and gold chain and all sorts of trinkets dangling from it.

He was dressed neat; but there was something about the man neater still; slim, tall, his hair brushed forward in style, and his face fair and ruddy⁠—well, in a word, a fine young fellow.

You must know our business brings us into contact with all sorts of people. And there’s many that ain’t of much consequence, and there’s a good deal of poor trash. So, though you’re only a scorer, you get used to telling folks; that is, in a certain way you learn a thing or two.

I looked at the bárin. I see him sit down, modest and quiet, not knowing anybody; and the clothes on him are so bran-new, that thinks I, “Either he’s a foreigner⁠—an Englishman maybe⁠—or some count just come. And though he’s so young, he has an air of some distinction.” Oliver sat down next him, so he moved along a little.

They began a game. The big man lost. He shouts to me. Says he, “You’re always cheating. You don’t count straight. Why don’t you pay attention?”

He scolded away, then threw down his cue, and went out. Now, just look here! Evenings, he and the prince plays for fifty silver rubles a game; and here he only lost a bottle of Makon wine, and got mad. That’s the kind of a character he is.

Another time he and the prince plays till two o’clock. They don’t bank down any cash; and so I know neither of them’s got any cash, but they are simply playing a bluff game.

“I’ll go you twenty-five rubles,” says he.

“All right.”

Just yawning, and not even stopping to place the ball⁠—you see, he was not made of stone⁠—now just notice what he said. “We are playing for money,” says he, “and not for chips.”

But this man puzzled me worse than all the rest. Well, then, when the big man left, the prince says to the new bárin, “Wouldn’t you like,” says he, “to play a game with me?”

“With pleasure,” says he.

He sat there, and looked rather foolish, indeed he did. He may have been courageous in reality; but, at all events, he got up, went over to the billiard-table, and did not seem flustered as yet. He was not exactly flustered, but you couldn’t help seeing that he was not quite at his ease.

Either his clothes were a little too new, or he was embarrassed because everybody was looking at him; at any rate, he seemed to have no energy. He sort of sidled up to the table, caught his pocket on the edge, began to chalk his cue, dropped his chalk.

Whenever he hit the ball, he always glanced around, and reddened. Not so the prince. He was used to it; he chalked and chalked his hand, tucked up his sleeve; he goes and sits down when he pockets the ball, even though he is such a little man.

They played two or three games; then I notice the prince puts up the cue, and says, “Would you mind telling me your name?”

“Nekhliudof,” says he.

Says the prince, “Was your father commander in the corps of cadets?”

“Yes,” says the other.

Then they began to talk in French, and I could not understand them. I suppose they were talking about family affairs.

“Au revoir,” says the prince. “I am very glad to have made your acquaintance.” He washed his hands, and went to get a lunch; but the other stood by the billiard-table with his cue, and was knocking the balls about.

It’s our business, you know, when a new man comes along, to be rather sharp: it’s the best way. I took the balls, and go to put them up. He reddened, and says, “Can’t I play any longer?”

“Certainly you can,” says I. “That’s what billiards is for.” But I don’t pay any attention to him. I straighten the cues.

“Will you play with me?”

“Certainly, sir,” says I.

I place the balls.

“Shall we play for odds?”

“What do you mean⁠—‘play for odds’?”

“Well,” says I, “you give me a half-ruble, and I crawl under the table.”

Of course, as he had never seen that sort of thing, it seemed strange to him: he laughs.

“Go ahead,” says he.

“Very well,” says I, “only you must give me odds.”

“What!” says he, “are you a worse player than I am?”

“Most likely,” says I. “We have few players who can be compared with you.”

We began to play. He certainly had the idea that he was a crack shot. It was a caution to see him shoot; but the Pole sat there, and kept shouting out every time⁠—

“Ah, what a chance! ah, what a shot!”

But what a man he was! His ideas were good enough, but he didn’t know how to carry them out. Well, as usual I lost the first game, crawled under the table, and grunted.

Thereupon Oliver