Then she called the hotel and they replied that Luzhin had still not returned. She went out onto the street, thinking that perhaps Luzhin was waiting by the locked door, and then called the hotel again, and then consulted her father about notifying the police. “Nonsense,” her father said decisively. “There must be plenty of friends of his around. The man’s gone to a party.” But she knew perfectly well that Luzhin had no friends and that there was something senseless about his absence.
And now, looking at Luzhin’s large, pale face, she so brimmed with aching, tender pity that it seemed as if without this pity inside her there would be no life either. It was impossible to think of this inoffensive man sprawling in the street and his soft body being handled by drunks; she could not bear to think that everybody had taken his mysterious swoon for the flabby, vulgar sleep of a reveler and had expected a devil-may-care snore from his helpless quietude.
Such pity, such pain. And this outmoded, eccentric waistcoat that one could not bear to look at without tears, and that poor curl, and the bare, white neck all creased like a child’s.… And all this had happened because of her … she had not kept an eye on him, had not kept an eye on him. She should have stayed by him the whole time, not allowed him to play too much … and how was it he had not been run over yet by a car, and why had she not guessed that at any minute he might topple over, paralyzed by this chess fatigue? … “Luzhin,” she said smiling, as if he could see her smile. “Luzhin, everything’s all right. Luzhin, do you hear me?”
As soon as he was taken to the hospital she went to the hotel for his things, and at first they would not let her into his room, and this led to long explanations and a telephone call to the hospital by a rather cheeky hotel employee, after which she had to pay Luzhin’s bill for the last week, and she did not have enough money and more explanations were necessary, and it seemed to her that the mockery of Luzhin was continuing, and it was difficult to hold back her tears.
And when, refusing the coarse help of the hotel chambermaid, she began to gather up Luzhin’s things, the feeling of pity rose to an extreme pitch. Among his things were some that he must have been carrying around with him for ages, not noticing them and never throwing them out—unnecessary, unexpected things: a canvas belt with a metallic buckle in the shape of a letter S and with a leather pocket on the side, a miniature penknife for a watch chain, inlaid with mother of pearl, a collection of Italian postcards—all blue sky and madonnas and a lilac haze over Vesuvius; and unmistakably St. Petersburg things: a tiny abacus with red and white counters, a desk calendar with turn-back pages for a completely non-calendar year—1918.
All this was kicking about in a drawer, among some clean but crumpled shirts, whose colored stripes and starched cuffs evoked a picture of long-gone years. There also she found a collapsible opera hat bought in London, and in it the visiting card of somebody named Valentinov.… The toilet articles were in such a state that she resolved to leave them behind—and to buy him a rubber sponge in place of that unbelievable loofah.
A chess set, a cardboard box full of notes and diagrams, and a pile of chess magazines she wrapped up in a separate package: he did not need this now. When the valise and small trunk were full and locked, she looked once more into all the corners and retrieved from under the bed a pair of astonishingly old, torn, laceless brown shoes that served Luzhin in place of bedroom slippers. Carefully she pushed them back under the bed.
From the hotel she went to the chess café, remembering that Luzhin had been without his cane and hat and thinking that perhaps he had left them there. There were lots of people in the tournament hall, and Turati, standing by the coat rack, was jauntily taking off his overcoat. She realized that she had come just as play was about to be resumed, and that nobody knew of Luzhin’s illness. Never mind, she thought with a certain malicious satisfaction. Let them wait.
She found the cane but there was no hat. And after glancing with hatred at the small table, where the pieces had already been set out, and at the broad-shouldered Turati, who was rubbing his hands and deeply clearing his throat like a bass singer, she swiftly left the café, reentered the taxi on top of which Luzhin’s checked little trunk showed touchingly green, and returned to the sanatorium.
She was not at home when yesterday’s young men reappeared. They came to apologize for their tempestuous nocturnal intrusion. They were well dressed, they scraped and bowed and asked after the gentleman they had brought home the night before. They were thanked for delivering him and were told for the sake of decorum that he had slept it off wonderfully after some friendly revels, at which his colleagues had honored him on the occasion of his betrothal. After sitting for ten minutes the young men rose and went away quite satisfied. At about the same time a distracted little man having some connection with the organization of the tournament arrived at the sanatorium.
He was not admitted to see Luzhin; the composed young lady who spoke to him informed him coldly that Luzhin had overtired himself and it was uncertain when he would resume his chess activities. “That’s awful, that’s incredible,” plaintively repeated the little man several times. “An unfinished game! And such a good game! Give the Maestro … give the Maestro my anxious wishes, my best wishes …” He waved a hand hopelessly and plodded to the exit, shaking his head.
And the newspapers printed an announcement that Luzhin had had a nervous breakdown before finishing the deciding game and that, according to Turati, black was bound to lose because of the weakness of the Pawn on f4. And in all the chess clubs the experts made long studies of the positions of the pieces, pursued possible continuations and noted white’s weakness at d3, but nobody could find the key to indisputable victory.
Chapter 10
One night soon after this, there took place a long brewing, long rumbling and at last breaking, futile, disgracefully loud, but unavoidable scene. She had just returned from the sanatorium and was hungrily eating hot buckwheat cereal and relating that Luzhin was better. Her parents exchanged looks and then it began.
“I hope,” said her mother resonantly, “that you have renounced your crazy intention.” “More please,” she asked, holding out her plate. “Out of a certain feeling of delicacy,” continued her mother, and here her father quickly took up the torch. “Yes,” he said, “out of delicacy your mother has said nothing to you these past days—until your friend’s situation cleared up.
But now you must listen to us. You yourself know that our main desire, and care, and aim, and in general … desire is for you to be all right, for you to be happy, et cetera. But for this …” “In my time parents would simply have forbidden it,” put in her mother, “that’s all.” “No, no, what’s forbidding got to do with this?
You listen to me, my pet. You’re not eighteen years old, but twenty-five, and I can see nothing whatsoever enticing or poetic in all that has happened.” “She just likes to annoy us,” interrupted her mother again. “It’s just one continuous nightmare.…” “What exactly are you talking about?” asked the daughter finally and smiled from beneath lowered brows, resting her elbows softly on the table and looking from her father to her mother.
“About the fact that it’s time you ceased to be silly,” cried her mother. “About the fact that marriage to a penniless crackpot is nonsense.” “Ach,” uttered the daughter, and stretching her arm out on the table she put her head upon it. “Here’s what,” her father began again. “We suggest you go to the Italian lakes. Go with Mamma to the Italian lakes. You can’t imagine what heavenly spots there are there.
I remember the first time I saw Isola Bella …” Her shoulders began to twitch from half-suppressed laughter; then she lifted her head and continued to laugh softly, keeping her eyes closed. “What is it you want?” asked her mother and banged on the table. “First,” she replied, “that you stop shouting. Second, that Luzhin gets completely well.” “Isola Bella means Beautiful Island,” continued her father hastily, trying with a meaningful grimace to intimate to his wife that he alone would manage it.
“You can’t imagine … An azure sky, and the heat, and magnolias, and the superb hotels at Stresa—and of course tennis, dancing … And I particularly remember—what do you call them—those insects that light up …” “Well and what then?” asked the mother with rapacious curiosity. “What then, when your friend—if he doesn’t die …” “That depends on him,” said the daughter, trying to speak calmly. “I can’t abandon him.
And I won’t. Period.” “You’ll be in the madhouse with him—that’s where you’ll be, my girl!” “Mad or not …” began the daughter with a trembling smile. “Doesn’t Italy tempt you?” cried her father. “The girl is crazy. You won’t marry this chess moron!” “Moron yourself. If
