Short Fiction by Aleksandr Kuprin (nonfiction book recommendations .txt) 📕

on you for two whole days now, and I see that you aren’t at all a stupid fellow, and, of course, are above any prejudices, such as are common to old women. For we are supermen, you and I⁠—isn’t that so?”

“Well, generally speaking.⁠ ⁠… And according to the general theory of Nietzsche⁠ ⁠…” the captain’s mate mumbled sententiously. “The life of man⁠ ⁠…”

“Yes, yes⁠ ⁠… Particulars by mail.”

The student unbuttoned his frock-coat, and took a dandified wallet of red leather with a gold monogram out of his side-pocket, and extracted two bills of a hundred roubles each out of the wallet.

“Catch hold, admiral! They are yours,” said he, impressively.

“What for?” asked the captain’s mate, blinking his eyes in surprise.

“For your so-resplendent beauty,” said the student gravely. “And for the pleasure of conversing with a clever man who is unhampered by any prejudices.”

“What am I supposed to do?”

This time the student spoke curtly and significantly, just like a general before an encounter:

“First of all, not to warn anybody about Balunsky. I need him as a control and a sort of a left hand. Is that a go?”

“It’s a go!” answered the captain’s mate gayly.

“Secondly: show me which one of the waiters can bring my own pack of cards to the table.”

The sailor became somewhat hesitant.

“Procophii, perhaps?” he said, as though deliberating with himself.

“Ah, that’s the thin, yellow chap, with drooping mustaches? Isn’t it?”

“Yes, that’s the fellow.”

“Very well, then⁠ ⁠… He has a suitable face. I’ll have a little private talk with him by myself, and a separate reckoning. After that, my youthful but ardent friend, I offer you the following proposition: I offer you two-and-a-half percent of the gross receipts.”

“Of the gross receipts?” the captain’s mate began to snicker in delight.

“Yes, sir! That ought to make, approximately, let me see⁠ ⁠… The colonel, I think, has a thousand roubles or so of his own, and, perhaps, some official money⁠—two thousand, let us say, in round figures. I estimate the justice of the peace at a thousand also. If we succeed in making his wife loosen up, I consider all this money as good as in my pocket already. All the others don’t amount to much. And then I reckon all those snot-noses have about six or seven thousand among them.⁠ ⁠…”

“Whom do you mean?”

“Why, these petty steamboat sharpers. These same young men that, as you say, trade in grain and flour.”

“But really⁠ ⁠… but really⁠ ⁠…” The captain’s mate suddenly saw the light.

“Oh, yes, really! I’ll show them how the game ought to be played. They ought to be working a three card monte game around some corner at fairs. Captain, you have three hundred more guaranteed you, beside these two hundred. But there must be an agreement: you must not pull any awful faces at me, even if I lose my shirt; you must not interfere where you are not asked; nor back me up to win; and⁠—most important of all⁠—no matter what happens to me, even the very worst, you must not reveal your acquaintance with me. Remember, you are neither a master nor a pupil, but just a capper.”

“A capper!” snickered the captain’s mate.

“What a fool!” said the student calmly.

And, throwing the stub of his cigar over board, he got up quickly to intercept Balunsky, who was passing by, and familiarly put his arm through that of the other. They conversed for not more than two minutes, and, when they had finished, Balunsky doffed his hat with an air of obsequity and mistrust.

IV

Late at night the student and Balunsky were sitting upon the ship’s bridge. The moonlight played and spattered on the water. The left shore, high, steep, all grown over with shaggy woods, taciturnly hung over the very steamer, that was now passing altogether near it. The shore to the right lay like a distant, flat splotch. Frankly slumping, hunched up even more than usual, the student was negligently sitting on a bench, his long legs stretched out before him. His face betrayed fatigue, and his eyes were dull.

“About how old are you?” asked Balunsky, gazing at the river.

The student let the question pass in silence.

“You must pardon my impertinence,” Balunsky persisted, after a little fidgeting. “I understand very well your reason for placing me near you. I also understand why you told that four-flusher that you would slap his face if, after inspection, the pack of cards would prove to be right. You uttered this superbly. I admired you. But, for God’s sake, do tell me how you did it?”

The student finally forced himself to speak, as though with revulsion:

“You see, the trick lies in that I do not resort to any contra-legal expedients. I base my play upon the human soul. Have no fear⁠—I know all the old devices you used to practice. Stacking, holding out, devices for concealment, cold decks⁠—am I right?”

“No,” remarked Balunsky, offended. “We had stunts even more complicated. I, for instance, was the first to bring satin cards into use.”

“Satin cards?” the student repeated.

“Why, yes. Satin is pasted over the card. By rubbing against cloth the pile of the satin is bent to one side, and a jack is drawn thereon. Then, when the colors have dried, the pile is reversed, and a queen drawn. If your queen is beaten, all you have to do is to draw the card over the table.”

“Yes, I’ve heard of that,” said the student. “It did give one an extra chance. But then, stuss is such a fool game!”

“I do agree with you that it has gone out of fashion. But that was a time of the splendid efflorescence of the art. How much wit, how much resourcefulness we had to exert.⁠ ⁠… Poluboyarinov23 used to clip the skin at the tips of his fingers; his tactile sense was more exquisite than that of a blind man. He would recognize a card by the mere touch. And what about cold decks? Why, this took whole years to master.”

The student yawned.

“That was all a primitive game.”

“Yes, yes! That is