“Finished,” he said, holding the paper away from him and looking at the completed cube through his eyelashes. His father-in-law put on his pince-nez and looked at it for a long time, nodding his head. His mother-in-law and wife came from the drawing room and also looked. “It even casts a tiny shadow,” said his wife. “A very, very handsome cube.” “Well done, you’re a real cubist,” said his mother-in-law. Luzhin, smiling on one side of his mouth, took the drawing and looked round the walls of his study. By the door one of his productions was already hanging: a train on a bridge spanning an abyss.
There was also something in the drawing room: a skull on a telephone directory. In the dining room there were some extremely round oranges which everyone for some reason took for tomatoes. And the bedroom was adorned by a bas-relief done in charcoal and a confidential conversation between a cone and a pyramid. He went out of the study, his eyes roving over the walls, and his wife said with a sigh: “I wonder where dear Luzhin will hang this one.”
“You haven’t yet deigned to inform me,” began her mother, pointing with her chin to a heap of gaudy travel folders lying on the desk. “But I don’t know myself,” said Mrs. Luzhin. “It’s very difficult to decide, everywhere’s beautiful. I think we’ll go to Nice first.” “I would advise the Italian lakes,” said her father, and, folding up the newspaper and removing his pince-nez, he began to relate how beautiful the lakes were. “I’m afraid he has grown rather tired of the talk about our journey,” said Mrs. Luzhin. “One fine day we’ll simply get in the train and go.” “Not before April,” said her mother imploringly. “You promised me, you know.…”
Luzhin returned to the study. “I had a box of thumbtacks somewhere,” he said, looking at the desk and slapping his pockets (whereupon he again, for the third or fourth time, had a feeling there was something in his left pocket—but not the box—and there was not time to investigate). The tacks were found on the desk. Luzhin took them and hastily went out.
“Oh, I quite forgot to tell you.
Just imagine, yesterday morning …” and she began to tell her daughter that she had been called by a woman who had unexpectedly arrived from Russia. This woman had often visited them as a young girl in St. Petersburg. It turned out that several years ago she had married a Soviet businessman or official—it had been impossible to understand exactly—and on her way to a spa, where her husband was going to gather new strength, she had stopped off for a week or two in Berlin. “I feel a bit awkward, you know, about a Soviet citizen coming to our place, but she’s so persistent. I’m amazed she’s not afraid to telephone. Why, if they learn in Sovietia that she rang me up …” “Oh, Mamma, she’s probably a very unhappy woman—she’s broken out temporarily to freedom and she feels like seeing somebody.” “Well then, I’ll pass her on to you,” said her mother with relief, “especially as it’s warmer at your place.”
And several days afterward, at midday, the lady appeared. Luzhin was still slumbering, since he had slept badly the night before. Twice he woke up with choking cries, suffocated by a nightmare, and now Mrs. Luzhin somehow did not feel up to guests. The visitor turned out to be a slim, animated, nicely made-up, nicely bobbed lady who was dressed, like Mrs. Luzhin, with expensive simplicity. Loudly, interrupting one another, and assuring one another that neither had changed a bit, except perhaps to grow prettier, they went through to the study, which was cozier than the drawing room.
The newcomer remarked to herself that Mrs. Luzhin ten to twelve years ago had been a rather graceful, lively little girl and now had grown plumper, paler and quieter, while Mrs. Luzhin found that the modest, silent young lady who used to visit them and was in love with a student, later shot by the Reds, had turned into a very interesting, confident lady. “So this is your Berlin … thank you kindly. I almost died with cold. At home in Leningrad it’s warmer, really warmer.” “How is it, St. Petersburg?
It must have changed a lot?” asked Mrs. Luzhin. “Of course it’s changed,” replied the newcomer jauntily. “And a terribly difficult life,” said Mrs. Luzhin, nodding thoughtfully. “Oh, what nonsense! Nothing of the sort. They’re working at home, building. Even my boy—what, you didn’t know I had a little boy?—well, I have, I have, a cute little squirt—well, even he says that at home in Leningrad ‘they wuk, while in Bellin the boulzois don’t do anything.’
And in general he finds Berlin far worse than home and doesn’t even want to look at anything. He’s so observant, you know, and sensitive.… No, speaking seriously, the child’s right. I myself feel how we’ve outstripped Europe. Take our theater. Why, you in Europe don’t have a theater, it just doesn’t exist. I’m not in the least, you understand, not in the least praising the communists.
But you have to admit one thing: they look ahead, they build. Intensive construction.” “I don’t understand politics,” said Mrs. Luzhin slowly and plaintively. “But it just seems to me …” “I’m only saying that one has to be broad-minded,” continued the visitor hastily. “Take this, for instance. As soon as I arrived I bought an émigré paper. Of course my husband said, joking, you know—‘Why do you waste money, my girl, on such filth?’
He expressed himself worse than that, but let’s call it that for the sake of decency—but me: ‘No,’ I said, ‘you have to look at everything, find out everything absolutely impartially.’ And imagine—I opened the paper and began to read, and there was such slander printed there, such lies, and everything so crude.” “I rarely see the Russian newspapers,” said Mrs. Luzhin. “Mamma, for instance, gets a Russian newspaper from Serbia, I believe—” “It is a conspiracy,” continued the lady. “Nothing but abuse, and nobody dares to utter a peep in our favor.” “Really, let’s talk about something else,” said Mrs. Luzhin distractedly. “I can’t express it, I’m very poor at speaking about these matters, but I feel you’re mistaken. Now if you want to talk about it with my parents some day …” (And saying this, Mrs. Luzhin imagined to herself, not without a certain pleasure, her mother’s bulging eyes and strident cries.) “Well, you’re still little.”
The lady indulgently smiled. “Tell me what you are doing, what does your husband do, what is he?” “He used to play chess,” replied Mrs. Luzhin. “He was a remarkable player. But then he overstrained himself and now he is resting; and please, you mustn’t talk to him about chess.” “Yes, yes, I know he’s a chess player,” said the newcomer. “But what is he? A reactionary? A White Guardist?” “Really I don’t know.” laughed Mrs. Luzhin. “I’ve heard a thing or two about him,” continued the newcomer. “When your maman told me you had married a Luzhin I thought immediately that it was he. I had a good acquaintance in Leningrad and she told me—with such naïve pride, you know—how she had taught her little nephew to play chess and how he later became a remarkable …”
At this point in the conversation a strange noise occurred in the next room, as if someone had knocked against something there and let out a cry. “One moment,” said Mrs. Luzhin, jumping up from the sofa, and was about to slide open the door to the drawing room, but changing her mind she went via the hall. In the drawing room she saw a completely unexpected Luzhin.
He was in his dressing gown and bedroom slippers and holding a piece of white bread in one hand—but it was not this of course, that was surprising—the surprising thing was the trembling excitement distorting his face, the wide-open, gleaming eyes, and the forehead looking as if it had grown lumpier, the vein as if it had swollen, and catching sight of his wife he appeared to pay no attention to her at first, but continued to stand looking with open mouth in the direction of the study.
An instant later it turned out his excitement was joyful. He clicked his teeth joyfully at his wife, then turned heavily in a circle, almost knocking the palm over, lost a slipper which slithered, like a live thing, into the dining room, where some cocoa was steaming, and speedily went after it.
“Nothing, nothing,” said Luzhin slyly, and like a man reveling in a secret find he slapped himself on the knees, and closing his eyes began to shake his head. “That lady is from Russia,” said his wife probingly. “She knows your aunt who—well, just an aunt of yours.” “Excellent, excellent,” said Luzhin and suddenly choked with laughter. What am I frightened of? she thought. He’s simply feeling jolly, he woke up in a good mood and wanted, perhaps … “Is it some private joke, Luzhin?” “Yes, yes,” said Luzhin and added, finding a way out: “I wanted to introduce myself in my dressing gown.” “So then we’re feeling jolly, that’s good,” she said with a smile. “Have something to eat and then get dressed.
It seems to be a little warmer this morning.” And leaving her husband in the dining room, Mrs. Luzhin quickly returned to the study. Her visitor was sitting
