The Luzhin Defense (14 page)

Luzhin awoke fully dressed, even wearing his overcoat; he looked at his watch, rose hastily and put on his hat, which had been lying in the middle of the room. At this point he recollected himself and looked round the room, trying to understand what exactly he had slept on. His bed was unrumpled and the velvet of the couch was completely smooth. The only thing he knew for sure was that from time immemorial he had been playing chess—and in the darkness of his memory, as in two mirrors reflecting a candle, there was only a vista of converging lights with Luzhin sitting at a chessboard, and again Luzhin at a chessboard, only smaller, and then smaller still, and so on an infinity of times. But he was late, he was late, and he had to hurry. He swiftly opened the door and stopped in bewilderment. According to his concept of things, the chess hall, and his table, and the waiting Turati should have been right here. Instead of this he saw an empty corridor and a staircase beyond it. Suddenly from that direction, from the stairs, appeared a swiftly running little man who caught sight of Luzhin and spread out his hands. “Maestro,” he exclaimed, “what is this? They are waiting for you, they are waiting for you, Maestro.… I telephoned you three times and they said you didn’t answer their knocks. Signor Turati has been at his post a long time.” “They removed it,” said Luzhin sourly, pointing
to the empty corridor with his cane. “How was I to know that everything would be removed?” “If you don’t feel well …” began the little man, looking sadly at Luzhin’s pale, glistening face. “Well, take me there!” cried Luzhin in a shrill voice and banged his cane on the floor. “With pleasure, with pleasure,” muttered the other distractedly. His gaze concentrated on the little overcoat with its raised collar running in front of him, Luzhin began to conquer the incomprehensible space. “We’ll go on foot,” said his guide, “it’s exactly a minute’s walk.” With a feeling of relief Luzhin recognized the revolving doors of the café and then the staircase, and finally he saw what he had been looking for in the hotel corridor. Upon entering he immediately felt fullness of life, calm, clarity, and confidence. “There’s a big victory coming,” he said loudly, and a crowd of dim people parted in order to let him through.
“Tard, tard, très tard,”
jabbered Turati, materializing suddenly and shaking his head.
“Avanti,”
said Luzhin and laughed. A table appeared between them and upon it was a board with pieces set out ready for battle. Luzhin took a cigarette from his waistcoat pocket and unconsciously lit up.

At this point a strange thing happened. Turati, although having white, did not launch his famous opening and the defense Luzhin had worked out proved an utter waste. Whether because Turati had anticipated possible complications or else had simply decided to play warily, knowing the calm strength which Luzhin had revealed at this tournament, he began in the most banal way. Luzhin momentarily regretted the work done in vain, but nevertheless he was glad: this gave him more freedom. Moreover, Turati was evidently afraid of him. On the other hand
there was undoubtedly some trick concealed in the innocent, jejune opening proposed by Turati, and Luzhin settled down to play with particular care. At first it went softly, softly, like muted violins. The players occupied their positions cautiously, moving this and that up but doing it politely, without the slightest sign of a threat—and if there was any threat it was entirely conventional—more like a hint to one’s opponent that over there he would do well to build a cover, and the opponent would smile, as if all this were an insignificant joke, and strengthen the proper place and himself move forward a fraction. Then, without the least warning, a chord sang out tenderly. This was one of Turati’s forces occupying a diagonal line. But forthwith a trace of melody very softly manifested itself on Luzhin’s side also. For a moment mysterious possibilities were quivering, and then all was quiet again: Turati retreated, drew in. And once more for a while both opponents, as if having no intention of advancing, occupied themselves with sprucing up their own squares—nursing, shifting, smoothing things down at home—and then there was another sudden flare-up, a swift combination of sounds: two small forces collided and both were immediately swept away: a momentary, masterly motion of the fingers and Luzhin removed and placed on the table beside him what was no longer an incorporeal force but a heavy, yellow Pawn; Turati’s fingers flashed in the air and an inert, black Pawn with a gleam of light on its head was in turn lowered onto the table. And having got rid of these two chess quantities that had so suddenly turned into wood the players seemed to calm down and forget the momentary flare-up: the vibration in this part of the board,
however, had not yet quite died down, something was still endeavoring to take shape.… But these sounds did not succeed in establishing the desired relationship—some other deep, dark note chimed elsewhere and both players abandoned the still quivering square and became interested in another part of the board. But here too everything ended abortively. The weightiest elements on the board called to one another several times with trumpet voices and again there was an exchange, and again two chess forces were transformed into carved, brightly lacquered dummies. And then there was a long, long interval of thought, during which Luzhin bred from one spot on the board and lost a dozen illusionary games in succession, and then his fingers groped for and found a bewitching, brittle, crystalline combination—which with a gentle tinkle disintegrated at Turati’s first reply. But neither was Turati able to do anything after that and playing for time (time is merciless in the universe of chess), both opponents repeated the same two moves, threat and defense, threat and defense—but meanwhile both kept thinking of a most tricky conceit that had nothing in common with these mechanical moves. And Turati finally decided on this combination—and immediately a kind of musical tempest overwhelmed the board and Luzhin searched stubbornly in it for the tiny, clear note that he needed in order in his turn to swell it out into a thunderous harmony. Now everything on the board breathed with life, everything was concentrated on a single idea, was rolled up tighter and tighter; for a moment the disappearance of two pieces eased the situation and then again—
agitato
. Luzhin’s thought roamed through entrancing and terrible labyrinths, meeting there now and
then the anxious thought of Turati, who sought the same thing as he. Both realized simultaneously that white was not destined to develop his scheme any further, that he was on the brink of losing rhythm. Turati hastened to propose an exchange and the number of forces on the board was again reduced. New possibilities appeared, but still no one could say which side had the advantage. Luzhin, preparing an attack for which it was first necessary to explore a maze of variations, where his every step aroused a perilous echo, began a long meditation: he needed, it seemed, to make one last prodigious effort and he would find the secret move leading to victory. Suddenly, something occurred outside his being, a scorching pain—and he let out a loud cry, shaking his hand stung by the flame of a match, which he had lit and forgotten to apply to his cigarette. The pain immediately passed, but in the fiery gap he had seen something unbearably awesome, the full horror of the abysmal depths of chess. He glanced at the chessboard and his brain wilted from hitherto unprecedented weariness. But the chessmen were pitiless, they held and absorbed him. There was horror in this, but in this also was the sole harmony, for what else exists in the world besides chess? Fog, the unknown, non-being … He noticed that Turati was no longer sitting; he stood stretching himself. “Adjournment, Maestro,” said a voice from behind. “Note down your next move.” “No, no, not yet,” said Luzhin pleadingly, his eyes searching for the person who spoke. “That’s all for today,” the same voice went on, again from behind, a gyratory kind of voice. Luzhin wanted to stand up but was unable to. He saw that he had moved backwards somewhere together with his chair and that people had hurled themselves rapaciously
upon the position on the chessboard, where the whole of his life had just been, and were wrangling and shouting as they nimbly moved the pieces this way and that. He again tried to stand up and again was unable to. “Why, why?” he said plaintively, trying to distinguish the board between the narrow, black backs bent over it. They dwindled completely away and disappeared. On the board the pieces were mixed up now and stood about in disorderly groups. A phantom went by, stopped and began swiftly to stow the pieces away in a tiny coffin. “It’s all over,” said Luzhin and groaning from the effort, wrenched himself out of the chair. A few phantoms still stood about discussing something. It was cold and fairly dark. Phantoms were carrying off the boards and chairs. Tortuous and transparent chess images roamed about in the air, wherever you looked—and Luzhin, realizing that he had got stuck, that he had lost his way in one of the combinations he had so recently pondered, made a desperate attempt to free himself, to break out somewhere—even if into nonexistence. “Let’s go, let’s go,” cried someone and disappeared with a bang. He remained alone. His vision became darker and darker and in relation to every vague object in the hall he stood in check. He had to escape; he moved, the whole of his fat body shaking, and was completely unable to imagine what people did in order to get out of a room—and yet there should be a simple method—abruptly a black shade with a white breast began to hover about him, offering him his coat and hat. “Why is this necessary?” he muttered, getting into the sleeves and revolving together with the obliging ghost. “This way,” said the ghost briskly and Luzhin stepped forward and out of the terrible hall. Catching sight of the
stairs he began to creep upward, but then changed his mind and went down, since it was easier to descend than to climb up. He found himself in a smoky establishment where noisy phantoms were sitting. An attack was developing in every corner—and pushing aside tables, a bucket with a gold-necked glass Pawn sticking out of it and a drum that was being beaten by an arched, thick-maned chess Knight, he made his way to a gently revolving glass radiance and stopped, not knowing where to go next. People surrounded him and wanted to do something with him. “Go away, go away,” a gruff voice kept repeating. “But where?” said Luzhin, weeping. “Go home,” whispered another voice insinuatingly and something pushed against Luzhin’s shoulder. “What did you say?” he asked again, suddenly ceasing to sob. “Home, home,” repeated the voice, and the glass radiance, taking hold of Luzhin, threw him out into the cool dusk. Luzhin smiled. “Home,” he said softly. “So that’s the key to the combination.”

And it was necessary to hurry. At any minute these chess growths might ring him in again. For the time being he was surrounded by twilight murk, thick, cotton-wool air. He asked a ghost slipping by how to get to the manor. The ghost did not understand and passed on. “One moment,” said Luzhin, but it was already too late. Then, swinging his short arms, he quickened his step. A pale light sailed past and disintegrated with a mournful rustle. It was difficult, difficult to find one’s way home in this yielding fog. Luzhin felt he should keep left, and then there would be a big wood, and once in the wood he would easily find the path. Another shadow slipped by. “Where’s the wood, the wood?” Luzhin asked insistently, and since this word
evoked no reply he cast around for a synonym: “Forest? Wald?” he muttered. “Park?” he added indulgently. Then the shadow pointed to the left and disappeared from view. Upbraiding himself for his slowness, anticipating pursuit at any minute, Luzhin strode off in the direction indicated. And indeed—he was suddenly surrounded by trees, ferns crepitated underfoot, it was quiet and damp. He sank down heavily on the ground and squatted there for he was quite out of breath, and tears poured down his face. Presently he got up, removed a wet leaf from his knee and after wandering among tree trunks for a short time he found the familiar footpath.
“Marsch, marsch,”
Luzhin kept repeating, urging himself on as he walked over the sticky ground. He had already come halfway. Soon there would be the river, and the sawmill, and then the manor house would peep through the bare bushes. He would hide there and would live on the contents of large and small glass jars. The mysterious pursuit had been left far behind. You wouldn’t catch him now. Oh no. If only it were easier to breathe, and one could get rid of this pain in the temples, this numbing pain.… The path twisted through the wood and came out onto a transverse road, while farther on a river glinted in the darkness. He also saw a bridge and a dim pile of structures on the other side of it, and at first, for one moment, it seemed to him that over there against the dark sky was the familiar triangular roof of the manor with its black lightning conductor. But immediately he realized that this was some subtle ruse on the part of the chess gods, for the parapet of the bridge produced the rain-glistening, trembling shapes of great female figures and a queer reflection danced on the river. He walked along the bank, trying to
find another bridge, the bridge where you sink up to your ankles in sawdust. He looked for a long time and finally, quite out of the way, he found a narrow, quiet little bridge and thought that here at least he could cross peacefully. But on the other bank everything was unfamiliar, lights flashed past and shadows slid by. He knew the manor was somewhere here, close by, but he was approaching it from an unfamiliar angle and how difficult everything was.… His legs from hips to heels were tightly filled with lead, the way the base of a chessman is weighted. Gradually the lights disappeared, the phantoms grew sparser, and a wave of oppressive blackness washed over him. By the light of a last reflection he made out a front garden and a couple of round bushes, and it seemed to him he recognized the miller’s house. He stretched out a hand to the fence but at this point triumphant pain began to overwhelm him, pressing down from above on his skull, and it was as if he were becoming flatter and flatter, and then he soundlessly dissipated.

The sidewalk skidded, reared up at a right angle and swayed back again. Günther straightened himself up, breathing heavily, while his comrade, supporting him and also swaying, kept repeating: “Günther, Günther, try to walk.” Günther stood up quite straight and after this brief stop, which was not the first, both of them continued farther along the deserted night street, which alternately rose up smoothly to the stars and then sloped down again. Günther, a big sturdy fellow, had drunk more than his comrade: the latter, Kurt by name, supported Günther as best he could, although the beer was throbbing thunderously in his head. “Where are … where are …” Günther strove to ask. “Where are the others?” A moment before they had all been sitting around an oaken table, thirty fellows or so, happy, level-headed, hard-working men celebrating the fifth anniversary of their leaving school with a good sing and the sonorous ringing of clinked glasses—whereas now, as soon as they had started to disperse to their homes, they found themselves beset by nausea, darkness, and the hopeless unsteadiness of this
sidewalk. “The others are there,” said Kurt with a broad gesture, which unpleasantly called into life the nearest wall: it leaned forward and slowly straightened up again. “They’ve gone, gone,” elucidated Kurt sadly. “But Karl is in front of us,” said Günther slowly and distinctly, and a resilient, beery wind caused them both to sway to one side: they halted, took a step backwards and again went on their way. “I’m telling you Karl is there,” repeated Günther sulkily. And truly a man was sitting on the edge of the sidewalk with his head lowered. They miscalculated their impetus and were carried past. When they succeeded in approaching him the man smacked his lips and slowly turned toward them. Yes, it was Karl, but what a Karl—his face blank, his eyes glazed! “I’m just taking a rest,” he said in a dull voice. “I’ll continue in a minute.” Suddenly a taxi with its flag up came rolling slowly over the deserted asphalt. “Stop him,” said Karl. “I want him to take me.” The car drew up. Günther kept tumbling over Karl, trying to help him get up, and Kurt tugged at somebody’s gray-spatted foot. From his seat the driver encouraged all this good-naturedly and then climbed out and also began to help. The limply floundering body was squeezed through the aperture of the door and the car immediately pulled away. “And we’re nearly there,” said Kurt. The figure standing next to him sighed and Kurt, looking at him, saw that it was Karl—which meant that the taxi had carried off Günther instead. “I’ll give you a hand,” he said guiltily. “Let’s go.” Looking in front of him with empty, childlike eyes, Karl leaned toward him and they both moved off and started to cross to the other side of the heaving asphalt. “Here’s another,” said Kurt. A fat man without a hat lay
all hunched up on the sidewalk, beside a garden fence. “That’s probably Pulvermacher,” muttered Kurt. “You know he’s changed an awful lot in recent years.” “That’s not Pulvermacher,” replied Karl, sitting down on the sidewalk beside him. “Pulvermacher’s bald.” “It doesn’t matter,” said Kurt. “He also has to be taken home.” They tried to raise the man by his shoulders and lost their equilibrium. “Don’t break the fence,” cautioned Karl. “He has to be taken,” repeated Kurt. “Perhaps it’s Pulvermacher’s brother. He was there, too.”