The Luzhin Defense

by Vladimir Nabokov

  In the establishments that they visited to inform officials of their intention to enter into matrimony, Luzhin conducted himself like a grown-up, carried all the documents himself, reverently and considerately, and lovingly filled in the forms, distinctly tracing out each letter. His handwriting was small, round and extraordinarily neat, and not a little time was expended in unscrewing his new fountain pen, which he somewhat affectedly shook to one side before beginning to write, and then, when he had thoroughly enjoyed the glide of the gold nib, thrust back into his breast pocket with its gleaming clip outside. And it was with pleasure that he accompanied his fiancee around the stores and waited for the interesting surprise of the apartment, which she had decided not to show him until after the wedding.

  During the two weeks that their names were hung up on view, various wide-awake firms began to send them offers, sometimes to the future groom and sometimes to the future bride: vehicles for weddings and funerals (with a picture of a carriage harnessed to a pair of galloping horses), dress suits for hire, top hats, furniture, wine, halls to rent and pharmaceutical appurtenances. Luzhin conscientiously examined the illustrated catalogues and stored them in his room, at a loss to know why his fiancee was so scornful of all these interesting offers. There were also offers of another kind. There was what Luzhin called "a small a parte" with his future father-in-law, a pleasant conversation in the course of which the latter offered to get him a job in a commercial enterprise--later on, of course, not immediately, let them live in peace for a few months. "Life, my friend, is so arranged," it was said in this conversation, "that every second costs a man, at the very minimum estimate, of a pfennig, and that would be a beggar's life; but you have to support a wife who is used to a certain amount of luxury." "Yes, yes," said Luzhin with a beaming smile, trying to disentangle in his mind the complex computation that his interlocutor had just made with such delicate deftness. "For this you need a little more money," the latter continued, and Luzhin held his breath in expectation of a new trick. "A second will cost you ... dearer. I repeat: I am prepared at first--the first year, let's say--to give you generous assistance, but with time ... Look, come see me sometime at the office, I'll show you some interesting things."

  Thus in the most pleasant manner possible people and things around him tried to adorn the emptiness of Luzhin's life. He allowed himself to be lulled, spoiled and titillated, and with his soul rolled up in a ball he accepted the caressive life that enveloped him from all sides. The future appeared to him vaguely as a long, silent embrace in a blissful penumbra, through which the diverse playthings of this world of ours would pass by, entering a ray of light and then disappearing again, laughing and swaying as they went. But at unavoidable moments of solitude during his engagement, late at night or early in the morning, there would be a sensation of strange emptiness, as if the colorful jigsaw puzzle done on the tablecloth had proved to contain curiously shaped blank spots. And once he dreamt he saw Turati sitting with his back to him. Turati was deep in thought, leaning on one arm, but from behind his broad back it was impossible to see what it was he was bending over and pondering. Luzhin did not want to see what it was, was afraid to see, but nonetheless he cautiously began to look over the black shoulder. And then he saw that a bowl of soup stood before Turati and that he was not leaning on his arm but was merely tucking a napkin into his collar. And on the November day which this dream preceded Luzhin was married.

  Oleg Sergeyevich Smirnovski and a certain Baltic baron were witnesses when Luzhin and his bride were led into a large room and seated at a long, cloth-covered table. An official changed his jacket for a worn frock coat and read the marriage sentence. At this everyone stood up. After which with a professional smile and a humid handshake the official paid his respects to the newlyweds and everything was over. A fat janitor by the door bowed to them in expectation of a tip, and Luzhin good-naturedly proffered his hand, which the other received upon his palm, not realizing at first that this was a human hand and not a handout.

  That same day there was also a church wedding. The last time Luzhin had been in church was many years ago, at his mother's funeral. Peering further into the depths of the past he remembered nocturnal returns on Catkin Night, holding a candle whose flame darted about in his hands, maddened at being carried out of the warm church into the unknown darkness, and finally died of a heart attack at the corner of the street where a gust of wind bore down from the Neva. There had been confession at the chapel on Pochtamtskaya Street, and footfalls had a special way of resounding in its twilight emptiness and the chairs moved with the sound of throats being cleared, and the waiting people sat one behind the other, and from time to time a whisper would burst out from the mysteriously curtained corner. And he remembered the nights at Easter: the deacon would read in a sobbing bass voice, and still sobbing would close the enormous gospel with a sweeping gesture.... And he remembered how airy and penetrating, so that it evoked a sucking sensation in the epigaster, the Greek word "pascha" (paschal cake) sounded on an empty stomach when it was pronounced by the emaciated priest; and he remembered how difficult it always was to catch the moment when the smoothly swaying censer was aimed at you, precisely at you and not at your neighbor, and to bow so that the bow came exactly on the thurible's swing. There was a smell of incense and the hot fall of a drop of wax on the knuckles of one's hand, and the dark, honey-hued luster of the icon awaiting one's kiss. Languorous recollections, duskiness, fitful gleams, saporous church air, and pins and needles in the legs. And to all this now was added a veiled bride, and a crown that trembled in the air over his very head and looked as if it might fall at any minute. He squinted up at it cautiously and it seemed to him once or twice that the invisible hand of someone holding the crown passed it to another, also invisible, hand. "Yes-yes," he replied hastily to the priest's question and wanted to add how nice everything was, and strange, and heart-melting, but he only cleared his throat agitatedly and rays of light wheeled blurrily in his eyes.

  And afterwards, when everyone was sitting at the big table, he had the same feeling you get when you come home after matins to the festive table with its gilt-horned ram made of butter, a ham, and a virgin-smooth pyramid of paschal cottage cheese that you want to start on right away, bypassing the ham and eggs. It was hot and noisy, and lots of people were sitting at table who must have been in church as well--never mind, never mind, let them stay a while for the time being.... Mrs. Luzhin looked at her husband, at his curl, at his beautifully tailored dress suit and at the crooked half-smile with which he greeted the courses. Her mother, liberally powdered and wearing a very low dress that showed, as in the old days, the tight groove between her raised, eighteenth-century breasts, was bearing up heroically and even used the familiar second person singular ("ty") to her son-in-law, so that at first Luzhin did not realize to whom she was speaking. He drank two glasses of champagne in all and a pleasant drowsiness began to come over him in waves. They went out onto the street. The black, windy night struck him softly on the breast, which was unprotected by his underdeveloped dress waistcoat, and his wife requested him to button up his overcoat. Her father, who had been smiling the whole evening and silently raising his glass in some special way--until it was level with his eyes--a mannerism he had adopted from a certain diplomat who used to say "skol" very elegantly--now raised a bunch of door keys, glinting in the lamplight, as a mark of farewell, still smiling with his eyes alone. Her mother, with an ermine wrap on her shoulders, tried not to look at Luzhin's back as he climbed into the taxicab. The guests, all a little drunk, took leave of their hosts and one another and laughing discreetly surrounded the car, which finally moved off, and then someone yelled "hurrah" and a late passerby, turning to his woman companion, remarked approvingly: "zemlyachki shumyat--fellow countrymen celebrating."

  Luzhin immediately fell asleep in the cab; reflected gleams of whitish light unfolded fanwise, bringing his face to life, and the soft shadow made by his nose circled slowly over his cheek and then his lip, and
again it was dark until another light went by, stroking Luzhin's hand in passing, which appeared to slide into a dark pocket as soon as darkness returned. And then came a series of bright lights and each one flushed out a shadowy butterfly from behind his white tie, and then his wife carefully adjusted his muffler, since the cold of the November night penetrated even into the closed automobile. He woke up and screwed up his eyes, not realizing immediately where he was, but at that moment the taxi came to a halt and his wife said softly: "Luzhin, we're home."

  In the elevator he stood smiling and blinking, somewhat dazed but not in the least drunk, and looked at the row of buttons, one of which his wife pressed. "Quite a way up," he said and looked at the elevator ceiling, as if expecting to see the summit of their journey. The elevator stopped. "Hic," said Luzhin and dissolved into quiet laughter.

  They were met in the entrance hall by the new servant--a plumpish wench who immediately held out her red, disproportionately large hand to them. "Oh, why did you wait for us?" said his wife. Speaking rapidly the maid congratulated them, and reverently took Luzhin's opera hat. Luzhin, with a subtle smile, showed her how it banged flat. "Amazing," exclaimed the maid. "You can go, go to bed," repeated his wife anxiously. "We'll lock up."

  The lights went on in turn in the study, drawing room and dining room. "Extends like a telescope," mumbled Luzhin sleepily. He did not look at anything properly--he could not keep his eyes open enough. He was already on his way into the dining room when he noticed he was carrying in his arms a large, plush dog with pink soles. He put it on the table and a fluffy imp hanging from the lamp immediately came down like a spider. The rooms went dark like the sections of a telescope being folded together and Luzhin found himself in the bright corridor. "Go to bed," again shouted his wife to someone who at the far end rustled and bid them good night. "That's the servant's room," said his wife. "And the bathroom's here, to the left." "Where's the little place?" whispered Luzhin. "In the bathroom, everything's in the bathroom," she replied and Luzhin cautiously opened the door, and when he had convinced himself of something he speedily locked himself in. His wife passed through the hallway into the bedroom and sat down in an armchair, looking at the entrancingly flocculent beds. "Oh, I'm tired." She smiled and for a long time watched a big, sluggish fly that circled around the Mauretanian lamp, buzzing hopelessly, and then disappeared. "This way, this way," she cried, hearing Luzhin's uncertain, shuffling step in the hallway. "Bedroom," he said approvingly, and placing his hands behind his back he looked about him for a while. She opened the wardrobe where she had put away their things the day before, hesitated, and turned to her husband. "I'll take a bath," she said. "All your things are in here."

  "Wait a minute," said Luzhin and suddenly yawned with his mouth wide open. "Wait a minute," he repeated in a palatal voice, gulping down between syllables the elastic pieces of yawn. But picking up her pajamas and bedroom slippers she quickly left the room.

  The water poured from the tap in a thick blue stream and began to fill the white bathtub, steaming tenderly and changing the tone of its murmur as the level rose. Looking at its gushing gleam she reflected with some anxiety that the limits of her feminine competency were now in sight and that there was one sphere in which it was not her place to lead. As she immersed herself in the bath she watched the tiny water bubbles gathering on her skin and on the sinking, porous sponge. Settling down up to the neck, she saw herself through the already slightly soapy water, her body thin and almost transparent, and when a knee came just barely out of the water, this round, glistening, pink island was somehow unexpected in its unmistakable corporeality. "After all it's none of my affair," she said, freeing one sparkling arm from the water and pushing the hair back from her forehead. She turned on the hot water again, reveling in the resilient waves of warmth as they passed over her stomach, and finally, causing a small storm in the bathtub, she stepped out and unhurriedly began to dry herself. "Turkish beauty," she said, standing only in her silk pajama pants before the slightly sweating mirror. "Pretty well built on the whole," she said after a while. Continuing to look at herself in the mirror, she began slowly to draw on her pajama top. "A bit full in the hips," she said. The water in the bath that had been flowing out with a gurgle suddenly squeaked and all was quiet: the bathtub was now empty, and only the plug-hole retained a tiny, soapy whirlpool. Suddenly she realized she was dawdling on purpose, standing in her pajamas before the mirror--and a shiver went through her breast, as when you are leafing through last year's magazine, knowing that in a second, in just a second, the door will open and the dentist will appear on the threshold.

  Whistling loudly she walked to the bedroom, and the whistle was immediately cut short: Luzhin, covered to the waist by an eiderdown, his starched shirtfront undone and bulging, was lying on the bed with his hands tucked under his head and emitting a purring snore. His collar hung on the foot of the bed, his trousers sprawled on the floor, their suspenders spread out, and his dress coat, set crookedly on the shoulders of a hanger, was lying on the couch with one tail tucked underneath it. All this she quietly picked up and put away. Before going to bed she moved back the window curtain to see if the blind had been lowered. It had not been. In the dark depths of the courtyard the night wind rocked a shrub and in the faint light shed from somewhere unknown something glistened, perhaps a puddle on the stone path that skirted the lawn, and in another place the shadow of some railings fitfully appeared and disappeared. And suddenly everything went dark and there was only a black chasm.

  She thought she would fall asleep as soon as she jumped into bed but it turned out otherwise. The cooing snore beside her, a strange melancholy, and this dark, unfamiliar room kept her suspended and would not allow her to slip off into sleep. And for some reason the word "match" kept floating through her brain--"a good match," "find yourself a good match," "match," "match," "an unfinished, interrupted match," "such a good game." "Give the Maestro my anxiety, anxiety ..." "She could have made a brilliant match," said her mother clearly, floating past in the darkness. "Let's drink a toast," whispered a tender voice, and her father's eyes appeared round the edge of a glass, and the foam rose higher, higher, and her new shoes pinched a bit and it was so hot in the church.

  12

  The long trip abroad was postponed until spring--the sole concession Mrs. Luzhin made to her parents, who wanted at least for the first few months to be near at hand. Mrs. Luzhin herself somewhat feared Berlin life for her husband, entwined as it was with chess memories; it turned out, however, not to be difficult to amuse Luzhin even in Berlin.

  A long trip abroad, conversations about it, travel projects. In the study, which Luzhin had become very fond of, they found a splendid atlas in one of the bookcases. The world was shown at first as a solid sphere, tightly bound in a net of longitudes and latitudes, then it was rolled out flat, cut into two halves and served up in sections. When it was rolled out, some place like Greenland, which at first had been a small process, a mere appendix, suddenly swelled out almost to the dimensions of the nearest continent. There were white bald patches on the poles. The oceans stretched out smoothly azure. Even on this map there would be enough water to, say, wash your hands--what then was it, actually--so much water, depth, breadth. Luzhin showed his wife all the shapes he had loved as a child--the Baltic Sea, like a kneeling woman, the jackboot of Italy, the drop of Ceylon falling from India's nose. He thought the equator was unlucky--its path lay mostly across oceans; it cut across two continents, true, but it had no luck with Asia, which had pulled up out of the way. Moreover it pressed down and squashed what it did manage to cross--the tips of one or two things and some untidy islands. Luzhin knew the highest mountain and the smallest state, and looking at the relative positions of the two Americas he found something acrobatic in their association. "But in general, all this could have been arranged more piquantly," he said, pointing to the map of the world. "There's no idea behind it, no point." And he even grew a little angry that he was unable to find the meaning of all
these complicated outlines, and he spent hours looking, as he had looked in childhood, for a way of going from the North Sea to the Mediterranean along a labyrinth of rivers, or of tracing some kind of rational pattern in the disposition of the mountain ranges.

  "Now where shall we go?" said his wife and clucked slightly, the way adults do to indicate pleasant anticipation when they begin to play with children. And then she loudly named the romantic spots. "First down here, to the Riviera," she suggested. "Monte Carlo, Nice. Or, say, the Alps." "And then this way a bit," said Luzhin. "They have very cheap grapes in the Crimea." "What are you saying, Luzhin, the Lord have mercy on you, it's impossible for us to go to Russia." "Why?" asked Luzhin. "They invited me to go." "Nonsense, stop it please," she said, angered not so much by Luzhin's talking of the impossible as by his referring obliquely to something connected with chess. "Look down here," she said, and Luzhin obediently tranferred his gaze to another place on the map. "Here, for instance, is Egypt, the pyramids. And here is Spain where they do horrible things to bulls...."

  Knowing that Luzhin had probably already been more than once in many of the towns they might have visited, she did not name the large cities in order to avoid any harmful reminiscences. A superfluous caution. The world in which Luzhin had traveled in his time was not depicted on the map, and if she had named him Rome or London, then from the sound of these names on her lips and from the big whole note on the map he would have imagined something completely new, never seen before, and not in any circumstance that vague chess cafe, which was always the same whether situated in Rome or London or even in that innocent Nice, so trustfully named by her. And when she brought innumerable folders back from the railroad office, the world of his chess-playing trips separated, as it were, still more sharply from this new world, where the tourist strolled in his white suit with a pair of binoculars on a strap. There were black palms silhouetted against a rosy sunset and the reversed silhouettes of the same palms in the rosy Nile. There was an almost indecently blue gulf, and a sugary white hotel with a multicolored flag waving in the opposite direction to the smoke of a steamer on the horizon. There were snowy mountaintops and suspension bridges, and lagoons with gondolas, and an infinite number of ancient churches, and a narrow cobbled lane, and a small donkey with two thick bales on its sides.... Everything was attractive, everything was entertaining, everything sent the unknown author of the brochures into transports of praise.... The musical names, the millions of saints, the waters that cured all sicknesses, the age of a town rampart, hotels of the first, second, third class--all this rippled before the eyes and everything was fine, Luzhin was awaited everywhere, they called him in voices of thunder, they were driven wild by their own hospitality, and without asking the owner they distributed the sun.