Poor Luzhin, mysterious Luzhin.… All through those autumn days, while playing tennis in the mornings with a German girl friend, or listening to lectures on art that had long since palled on her, or leafing through a tattered assortment of books in her room—Andreyev’s The Ocean, a novel by Krasnov and a pamphlet entitled “How to Become a Yogi”—she was conscious that right now Luzhin was immersed in chess calculations, struggling and suffering—and it vexed her that she was unable to share in the torments of his art.
She believed in his genius unconditionally and was convinced moreover that this genius could not be exhausted by the mere playing of chess, however wonderful it might be, and that when the tournament fever had passed and Luzhin had calmed down, he would rest, and within him some kind of still unfathomed forces would come into play and he would blossom out and display his gift in other spheres of life as well. Her father called Luzhin a narrow fanatic, but added that he was undoubtedly a very naïve and very respectable person.
Her mother, on the other hand, maintained that Luzhin was going out of his mind not by the day but by the hour and that lunatics were forbidden by law to marry and she concealed the inconceivable fiancé from all her friends, which was easy at first—they thought she was at the resort with her daughter—but then, very soon, there reappeared all those people who usually frequented their house—such as a charming old general who always maintained that it was not Russia we expatriates regretted but youth, youth; a couple of Russian Germans; Oleg Sergeyevich Smirnovski—theosophist and proprietor of a liqueur factory; several former officers of the White Army; several young ladies; the singer Mme. Vozdvishenski; the Alfyorov couple; and also the aged Princess Umanov, whom they called the Queen of Spades (after the well-known opera).
She it was who was the first to see Luzhin, concluding from a hasty and unintelligible explanation by the mistress of the house that he had some kind of connection with literature, with magazines—was, in a word, an author. “And that thing, do you know it?” she asked, politely striking up a literary conversation. “From Apukhtin—one of the new poets … slightly decadent … something about yellow and red cornflowers …” Smirnovski lost no time in asking him for a game of chess, but unfortunately there proved to be no set in the house.
The young people among themselves called him a ninny, and only the old general treated him with the most cordial simplicity, exhorting him at length to go see the little giraffe that had just been born at the zoo. Once the visitors began to come, appearing every evening now in various combinations, Luzhin was unable to be alone with his fiancée for a single moment and his struggle with them, his efforts to penetrate through the thick of them to her, immediately took on a tinge of chess. However, it proved impossible to overcome them, more and more of them would appear, and he fancied it was they, these numberless, faceless visitors, who densely and hotly surrounded him during the hours of the tournament.
An explanation of all that was happening came one morning when he was sitting on a chair in the middle of his hotel room and trying to concentrate his thoughts on one thing alone: yesterday he had won his tenth point and today he had to beat Moser. Suddenly his fiancée entered the room. “Just like a little idol,” she laughed. “Sitting in the middle while sacrificial gifts are brought to him.” She stretched out a box of chocolates to him and suddenly the laughter disappeared from her face. “Luzhin,” she cried. “Luzhin, wake up! What’s the matter with you?” “Are you real?” asked Luzhin softly and unbelievingly. “Of course I’m real. What a thing to do, putting your chair in the middle of the room and sitting there.
If you don’t rouse yourself immediately I’m leaving.” Luzhin obediently roused himself, moving his shoulders and head about, then transferred his seat to the couch, and a happiness that was not quite sure of itself, not quite settled, shone and swam in his eyes. “Tell me, when will this end?” she asked. “How many games to go?” “Three,” replied Luzhin. “I read today in the newspaper that you are bound to win the tournament, that this time you are playing extraordinarily.” “But there’s Turati,” said Luzhin and raised his finger. “I feel sick to my stomach,” he added mournfully. “Then no candies for you,” she said quickly and tucked the square package under her arm again. “Luzhin, I’m going to call a doctor. You’ll simply die if it goes on like this.” “No, no,” he said sleepily. “It’s already passed.
There’s no need for a doctor.” “It worries me. That means till Friday, till Saturday … this hell. And at home things are pretty grim. Everyone’s agreed with Mamma that I mustn’t marry you. Why were you feeling sick, have you eaten something or other?” “It’s gone, completely,” muttered Luzhin and put his head down on her shoulder. “You’re simply very tired, poor boy. Are you really going to play today?” “At three o’clock. Against Moser. In general I’m playing … how did they put it?” “Extraordinarily.” She smiled. The head lying on her shoulder was large, heavy—a precious apparatus with a complex, mysterious mechanism. A minute later she noticed that he had fallen asleep and she began to think how to transfer his head now to some cushion or other. With extremely careful movements she managed to do it; he was now half lying on the couch, uncomfortably doubled up, and the head on the pillow was waxen.
For a moment she was seized with horror lest he had died suddenly and she even felt his wrist, which was soft and warm. When she straightened up she felt a twinge of pain in her shoulder. “A heavy head,” she whispered as she looked at the sleeper, and quietly left the room, taking her unsuccessful present with her. She asked the chambermaid she met in the corridor to wake Luzhin in an hour, and descending the stairs soundlessly she set off through sunlit streets to the tennis club—and caught herself still trying not to make a noise or any sharp movements. The chambermaid did not have to wake Luzhin—he awoke by himself and immediately made strenuous efforts to recall the delightful dream he had dreamed, knowing from experience that if you didn’t begin immediately to recall it, later would be too late.
He had dreamed he was sitting strangely—in the middle of the room—and suddenly, with the absurd and blissful suddenness usual in dreams, his fiancée entered holding out a package tied with red ribbon. She was dressed also in the style of dreams—in a white dress and soundless white shoes. He wanted to embrace her, but suddenly felt sick, his head whirled, and she in the meantime related that the newspapers were writing extraordinary things about him but that her mother still did not want them to marry.
Probably there was much more of this and that, but his memory failed to overtake what was receding—and trying at least not to disperse what he had managed to wrest from his dream, Luzhin stirred cautiously, smoothed down his hair and rang for dinner to be brought. After dinner he had to play, and that day the universe of chess concepts revealed an awesome power. He played four hours without pause and won, but when he was already sitting in the taxi he forgot on the way where it was he was going, what postcard address he had given the driver to read and waited with interest to see where the car would stop.
The house, however, he recognized, and again there were guests, guests—but here Luzhin realized that he had simply returned to his recent dream, for his fiancée asked him in a whisper: “Well, how are you, has the sickness gone?”—and how could she have known about this in real life? “We’re living in a fine dream,” he said to her softly. “Now I understand everything.” He looked about him and saw the table and the faces of people sitting there, their reflection in the samovar—in a special samovarian perspective—and added with tremendous relief: “So this too is a dream?
These people are a dream? Well, well …” “Quiet, quiet, what are you babbling about?” she whispered anxiously, and Luzhin thought she was right, one should not scare off a dream, let them sit there, these people, for the time being. But the most remarkable thing about this dream was that all around, evidently, was Russia, which the sleeper himself had left ages ago. The inhabitants of the dream, gay people drinking tea, were conversing in Russian and the sugar bowl was identical with the one from which he had spooned powdered sugar on the veranda on a scarlet summer evening many years ago. Luzhin noted this return to Russia with interest, with pleasure. It diverted him especially as the witty repetition of a particular combination, which occurs, for example, when a strictly problem idea, long since discovered
