At night, particularly if he lay without moving and with his eyes closed, nothing could happen. Carefully and as coolly as he could, Luzhin would go over all the moves already made against him, but as soon as he began to guess at what forms the coming repetition of the scheme of his past would take, he grew confused and frightened by the inevitable and unthinkable catastrophe bearing down on him with merciless precision.
On this night more than ever he felt his helplessness in the face of this slow, elegant attack and he tried not to sleep at all, to prolong as much as possible this night, this quiet darkness, to arrest time at midnight. His wife slept absolutely soundlessly; most likely—she was not there at all. Only the ticking of the little clock on the bedside table proved that time continued to exist.
Luzhin listened to these tiny heartbeats and became lost in thought again, and then he started, noticing that the ticking of the clock had stopped. It seemed to him that the night had stopped forever, there was not a single sound now that would indicate its passing, time was dead, everything was all right, a velvet hush. Sleep imperceptibly took advantage of this happiness and relief but now, in sleep, there was no rest at all, for sleep consisted of sixty-four squares, a gigantic board in the middle of which, trembling and stark-naked, Luzhin stood, the size of a pawn, and peered at the dim positions of huge pieces, megacephalous, with crowns or manes.
He woke up when his wife, already dressed, bent over him and kissed him on the glabella. “Good morning, dear Luzhin,” she said. “It’s ten o’clock already. What shall we do today—the dentist or our visas?” Luzhin looked at her with bright, distracted eyes and immediately closed his lids again. “And who forgot to wind up the clock for the night?” laughed his wife, fondly worrying the plump white flesh of his neck. “That way you could sleep your whole life away.” She bent her head to one side, looking at her husband’s profile surrounded by the bulges in the pillow, and noting that he had fallen asleep again, she smiled and left the room.
In the study she stood before the window and looked at the greenish-blue sky, wintry and cloudless, thinking it would probably be cold today and Luzhin should wear his cardigan. The telephone rang on the desk, that was evidently her mother wanting to know if they would be dining at her place. “Hello?” said Mrs. Luzhin, perching on the edge of a chair. “Hello, hello,” shouted an unfamiliar voice into the telephone excitedly and crossly. “Yes, yes, I’m here,” said Mrs. Luzhin and moved to an armchair. “Who’s there?” asked a displeased voice in German with a Russian accent. “And who’s speaking?” inquired Mrs. Luzhin. “Is Mr. Luzhin at home?” asked the voice in Russian. “Kto govorit, who’s speaking?” repeated Mrs. Luzhin with a smile.
Silence. The voice seemed to be debating with itself the question of whether to come out into the open or not. “I want to talk to Mr. Luzhin,” he began again, reverting to German. “A very urgent and important matter.” “One moment,” said Mrs. Luzhin and walked up and down the room a time or two. No, it was not worth waking Luzhin. She returned to the telephone. “He’s still sleeping,” she said. “But if you want to leave a message …” “Oh, this is very annoying,” said the voice, adopting Russian finally. “This is the second time I’ve called. I left my telephone number last time.
The matter is extremely important to him and permits of no delay.” “I am his wife,” said Mrs. Luzhin. “If you need anything …” “Very glad to make your acquaintance,” interrupted the voice briskly. “My name is Valentinov. Your husband of course has told you about me. So this is what: tell him as soon as he wakes up to get straight into a taxi and come over to me. Kinokonzern ‘Veritas,’ Rabenstrasse 82.
It’s a very urgent matter and very important to him,” continued the voice, switching to German again, either because of the importance of the matter or simply because the German address had drawn him into the corresponding language. Mrs. Luzhin pretended to be writing down the address and then said: “Perhaps you will still tell me first what the matter is about.” The voice grew unpleasantly agitated: “I’m an old friend of your husband. Every second is precious. I’ll expect him today at exactly twelve o’clock. Please tell him.
Every second …” “All right,” said Mrs. Luzhin. “I’ll tell him, only I don’t know—perhaps today will be inconvenient for him.” “Just whisper in his ear: ‘Valentinov’s expecting you,’ ” said the voice with a laugh, sang out a German “good-bye” and vanished behind the click of its trapdoor.
For several moments Mrs. Luzhin sat there thinking and then called herself a fool. She should have explained first of all that Luzhin no longer played chess. Valentinov … Only now did she remember the visiting card she had found in the opera hat. Valentinov, of course, was acquainted with Luzhin through chess. Luzhin had no other acquaintances. He had never mentioned a single old friend. This man’s tone was completely impossible.
She should have demanded that he explain his business. She was a fool. What should be done now? Ask Luzhin? No. Who was Valentinov? An old friend. Graalski said he had been asked … Aha, very simple. She went into the bedroom, assured herself that Luzhin was still sleeping—he usually slept amazingly soundly in the mornings—and went back to the telephone. Luckily the actor turned out to be at home and immediately launched into a long account of all the frivolous and mean actions committed at one time or another by the lady he had been talking to at the party. Mrs. Luzhin heard him out impatiently and then asked who Valentinov was.
The actor said “Oh yes!” and continued: “You see how forgetful I am, life is impossible without a prompter”; and finally, after giving a detailed account of his relations with Valentinov, he mentioned in passing that, according to him, he, Valentinov, had been Luzhin’s chess father, so to speak, and had made a great player out of him. Then the actor returned to the actress of the night before and after mentioning one last meanness of hers began to take voluble leave of Mrs. Luzhin, his last words being: “I kiss the palm of your little hand.”
“So that’s how it is,” said Mrs. Luzhin, hanging up the receiver. “All right.” At this point she recollected that she had mentioned Valentinov’s name once or twice in the conversation and that her husband might have chanced to hear it if he had come out of the bedroom into the hall.
Her heart missed a beat and she ran to check if he was still sleeping. He had wakened and was smoking in bed. “We won’t go anywhere this morning,” she said. “Anyway it’s too late. And we’ll dine at Mamma’s. Stay in bed a while longer, it’s good for you, you’re fat.” Closing the bedroom door firmly and then the door of the study, she hastily looked up the “Veritas” number in the telephone book, listened to see if Luzhin was near and then rang up. It turned out to be not so easy to get hold of Valentinov.
Three different people came to the telephone in turn and replied they would get him immediately, and then the operator cut her off and she had to start all over again. At the same time she was trying to speak as low as possible and it was necessary to repeat things, which was very unpleasant. Finally a yellowy, worn little voice informed her dejectedly that Valentinov was not there but would definitely be back by twelve thirty.
She asked that he be informed that Luzhin was unable to come since he was ill, would continue to be ill for a long time and begged earnestly not to be bothered any more. Replacing the receiver on its hook she listened again, and hearing only the beating of her own heart she then sighed and said “ouf!” with boundless relief. Valentinov had been dealt with. Thank goodness she had been alone at the telephone. Now it was over. And soon they would depart.
She still had to call her mother and the dentist. But Valentinov had been dealt with. What a cloying name. And for a minute she became thoughtful, accomplishing during that one minute, as sometimes happens, a long leisurely journey: she set off into Luzhin’s past, dragging Valentinov with her, visualizing him, from his voice, in horn-rimmed spectacles and long-legged, and as she journeyed through the mist she looked for a spot where she could dump the slippery, repulsively wriggling Valentinov, but she could not find one because she knew almost nothing about Luzhin’s youth.
Fighting her way still farther back, into the depths, she passed through the semispectral spa with its semispectral hotel, where the fourteen-year-old prodigy had lived, and found herself in Luzhin’s childhood, where the air was somehow brighter—but she was unable to fit Valentinov in here either.
Then she returned with her progressively more detestable burden, and here and there in the mist of Luzhin’s youth were islands: his going abroad to play chess, his buying picture postcards in Palermo, his holding a
