If cards are the Devil's books, Whist is the _édition de luxe_ of them.
Whist-playing is one of the few vices of the upper classes that has not
in time descended to the lower, with whom the ingenious and attractive
game of 'All Fours' has always held its own against it. I have known
but two men not belonging to the upper ten thousand who played well at
whist. One was a well-known jockey in the South of England, who was
also, by the way, an admirable billiard-player. He called himself an
amateur, but those who played with him used to complain that his
proceedings were even ultra-professional. On the Turf men are almost as
equal as they are under it, and this ornament of the pigskin would on
certain occasions (race meetings) take his place at the card-table with
some who were very literally his betters, while others who had more
self-respect contented themselves with backing him. The other example I
have in my mind was an ancient Cumberland yeoman, who, having lost the
use of his limbs in middle life from having been tossed by a bull,
pursued the science under considerable difficulties. A sort of
card-rack (such as Psycho uses at the Egyptian Hall) was placed in
front of him, and behind him stood his little granddaughter who played
the cards for him by verbal direction. Both these men played a very
good game of the old-fashioned kind, for though the jockey used
subtleties, they were not of the Clay or Cavendish sort. The asking for
trumps was a device unknown to him, though there were folks who
whispered he would take them under certain circumstances without
asking, and of the leading of the penultimate with five in the suit it
could be said of him, for once, that he was as innocent as a babe.
Of course, many persons join the 'upper ten' who come from the lower
twenty (or even thirty), and it need not be said that they are by no
means inferior in sagacity to their new acquaintances; yet they rarely
make first-rate players. Whist, like the classics, must be learnt young
for any excellence to be attained in it. Of this Metternich was a
striking example. If benevolent Nature ever intended a man for a
whist-player one would have supposed that she had done so in his case,
but had been baffled by some malign Destiny which had degraded him to
that class by whom, in conjunction with Kings, it was fondly believed,
previously to the recent general election, that 'the world was
governed.' Until late in life he never took to whist, when he grew
wildly fond of it, and played incessantly, till it is said a certain
memorable event took place which caused him never to touch a card
again. The story goes that, rapt in the enjoyment of the game, he
suffered a special messenger to wait for hours, to whom if he had given
his attention more promptly a massacre of many hundred persons would
have been prevented. Humanity may drop a tear, but whist had nothing to
regret in the circumstance; for in Metternich it did not lose a good
player, and, what redeems his intelligence, he knew it. 'I learnt my
whist too late,' he would say, with more pathos and solemnity, perhaps,
than he would have used when speaking of more momentous matters of
omission.
He must be a wise man indeed who, being an habitual whist-player, is
aware that he is a bad one. In games of pure skill, such as chess, and,
in a less degree, billiards, a man must be a fool who deceives himself
upon such a point; but in whist there is a sufficient amount of chance
to enable him to preserve his self-complacency for some time—let us
say, his lifetime. If he loses, he ascribes it to his 'infernal luck,'
which always fills his hands with twos and threes; and if he wins,
though it is by a succession of four by honours as long as the string
of four-in-hands when the Coaching Club meets in Hyde Park, he ascribes
it to his skill. 'If I hadn't played trumps just when I did,' he
modestly observes to his partner, 'all would have been over with us;'
though the result would have been exactly the same had he played
blindfold. To an observer of human nature, who is not himself a loser
'on the day,' there are few things more charming than the genial,
gentle self-approval of two players of this class who have just
defeated two experts, and proved, to their own satisfaction, that if
fortune gives them 'a fair chance' or 'something like equal cards,' as
they term the conditions of their late performance, they can play as
well as other people.
Of course, the term 'good-play' is a relative one; the player who wins
applause in the drawing-room is often thought but little of in places
where the rigour of the game is observed; and the 'good, steady player'
of the University Clubs is not a star of the first magnitude at the
Portland. The best players used to be men of mature years; they are now
the middle-aged, who, with sufficient practical experience, have
derived their skill in early life from the best books. 'It is difficult
to teach an old dog new tricks,' and for the most part the old dogs
despise them. When I hear my partner boast that he is 'none of your
book-players,' I smile courteously, and tremble. I know what will
become of him and me if fortune does not give him his 'fair chance,'
and I seek comfort from the calculation which tells me it is two to one
against my cutting with him again. How marvellous it is, when one comes
to consider the matter, that a man should decline to receive
instruction on a technical subject from those who have eminently
distinguished themselves in it, and have systematised for the benefit
of others the results of the experience of a lifetime! With books or no
books, it is quite true, however, that some men, otherwise of great
intelligence, can never be taught whist; they may have had every
opportunity of learning it—have been born, as it were, with the ace of
spades in their mouth instead of a silver spoon—but the gift of
understanding is denied them; and though it is ungallant to say so, I
have never known a lady to play whist well.
In the case of the fair sex, however, it may be urged that they have
not the same chances; they have no whist clubs, and the majority of
them entertain the extraordinary delusion that it is wrong to play at
whist in the afternoon. One may talk scandal over kettle-drums, and go
to morning performances at the theatre, but one may not play at cards
till after dinner. There is even quite a large set of male persons who,
'on principle,' do not play at whist in the afternoon. In seasons of
great adversity, when fortune has not given me my 'fair chance' for
many days, I have sometimes 'gone on strike,' as it is termed, and
joined them; but anything more deplorable than such a state of affairs
it is impossible to imagine. After their day's work is over, these good
people can't conceive what to do with themselves, and, between
ourselves, it is my experience, drawn from these occasional 'intervals
of business,' that this practice of not playing whist in the afternoon
generally leads to dissipation.
It is sometimes advanced by this unhappy class, by way of apology, that
they play at night; which may very possibly be the case, but they don't
play well. There is no such thing, except in the sense in which
after-dinner speaking is called 'good,' as good whist after dinner. It
may seem otherwise, even to the spectators; but having themselves dined
like the rest, they are not in a position to give an opinion. The
keenness of observation is blunted by food and wine; the delicate
perceptions are gone; and what is left of the intelligence is generally
devoted to finding faults in your partner's play. The consciousness of
mistakes on your own part, which he is in no condition to discern,
instead of suggesting charity, induces irritation, and you are
persuaded, till you get the next man, that you are mated with the worst
player in all Christendom. Moreover, that 'one more rubber' with which
you propose to finish is generally elastic (_Indian_ rubber), and you
sit up into the small hours and find them disagree with you. If I ever
write that new series of the 'Chesterfield Letters' which I have long
had in my mind, and for which I feel myself eminently qualified, my
most earnest advice to young gentlemen of fashion will be found in the
golden rule, 'Never sit down to whist after dinner;' it is a mistake,
and almost an immorality. If they must play cards, let them play
Napoleon.
With regard to finding fault with one's partner, I have no apology to
offer for it under any circumstances; but it must be remembered that
this does not always arise from ill-temper, or the sense of loss that
might have been gain. There are many lovers of whist for its own sake
to whom bad play, even in an adversary, excites a certain distress of
mind; when a good hand is thrown away by it, they experience the same
sort of emotion that a gourmand feels who sees a haunch of venison
spoilt in the carving. In such a case a gentle expression of
disapproval is surely pardonable. And I have observed that, with one or
two exceptions (_non Angli sed angeli_, men of angelic temper rather
than ordinary Englishmen), the good players who never find fault are
not socially the pleasantest. They are men who 'play to win,' and who
think it very injudicious to educate a bad partner who will presently
join the ranks of the Opposition.
What is rather curious—and I speak with some experience, for I have
played with all classes, from the prince to the gentleman farmer—the
best whist-players are not, as a rule, those who are the most highly
educated or intellectual. Men of letters, for example (I am speaking,
of course, very generally), are inferior to the doctors and the
warriors. Both the late Lord Lytton and Charles Lever had, it is true,
a considerable reputation at the whist-table, but though they were good
players, they were not in the first class; while the author of 'Guy
Livingstone,' though devoted to the game, was scarcely to be placed in
the second. The best players are, one must confess, what irreverent
persons, ignorant of the importance of this noble pursuit, would term
'idlers'—men of mere nominal occupation, or of none, to whom the game
has been familiar from their youth, and who have had little else to do
than to play it.
While some men, as I have said, can never be taught whist, a few are
born with a genius for the game, and move up 'from high to higher,'
through all the grades of excellence, with a miraculous rapidity; but,
whether good, bad, or indifferent, I have not known half a dozen
whist-players who were not superstitious. Their credulity is, indeed,
proverbial, but no one who does not mix with them can conceive the
extent of it; it reminds one of the African fetish. The country
apothecary's wife who puts the ivory 'fish' on the candlestick 'for
luck,' and her partner, the undertaker, who turns his chair in hopes to
realise more 'silver threepences,' are in no way more ridiculous than
the grave and reverend seigneurs of the Clubs who are attracted to 'the
winning seats' or 'the winning cards.' The idea of going on because
'the run of luck' is in your favour, or of leaving off because it has
declared itself against you, is logically of course unworthy of
Cetywayo. The only modicum of reason that underlies it is the fact that
the play of some men becomes demoralised by ill-fortune, and may,
possibly, be improved by success. Yet the belief in this absurdity is
universal, and bids fair to be eternal. 'If I am not in a draught, and
my chair is comfortable, you may put me anywhere,' is a remark I have
heard but once, and the effect of it on the company was much the same
as if in the House of Convocation some reverend gentleman had announced
his acceptance of the religious programme of M. Comte.
With the few exceptions I have mentioned, whist-players not only stop
very far short of excellence in the game, but very soon reach their
tether. I cannot say of any man that he has gone on improving for
years; his mark is fixed, and he knows it—though he is exceptionally
sagacious if he knows where it is drawn as respects others—and there he
stays till he begins to deteriorate. The first warning of decadence is
the loss of memory, after which it is a question of time (and good
sense) when he shall withdraw from the ranks of the fighting men and
become a mere spectator of the combat. It was said by a great gambler
that the next pleasure in life to that of winning was that of losing;
and to the real lover of whist, the next pleasure to that of playing a
good game is that of looking on at one.
Whist has been extolled, and justly, upon many accounts; but the
peculiar advantage of the game is, perhaps, that it utilises socially
many persons who would not otherwise be attractive. Unless a player is
positively disagreeable, he is as good to play whist with as a
conversational Crichton. Moreover, though the poet has hinted of the
evanescent character of 'friendships made in wine,' such is not the
case with those made at whist. The phrase, 'my friend and partner,'
used by a well-known lady in fiction, in speaking of another lady, is
one that is particularly applicable to this social science, and holds
good, as it does, alas, in no other case, even when the partner becomes
an adversary.
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