Five distinct harp strings swooped desperately upward alongside the windows. The sky was darkening. In the second-class compartment of a German car an old woman in black, resembling a eunuch, heard out with subdued
ochs
the account of a distant, dreary life.
“And your husband—did he stay behind?”
The young woman’s eyes opened wide and she shook her head: “No. He has been abroad for quite a time. Just happened that way. In the very beginning of the Revolution he traveled south to Odessa. They were after him. I was supposed to join him there, but didn’t get out in time.”
“Terrible, terrible. And you have had no news of him?”
“None. I remember I decided he was dead. Started to wear my ring on the chain of my cross—I was afraid they’d take that away too. Then, in Berlin, friends told me that he was alive. Somebody had seen him. Only yesterday I put a notice in the émigré paper.”
She hastily produced a folded page of the
Rul’
from her tattered silk vanity bag.
“Here, take a look.”
Princess Ukhtomski put on her glasses and read: “Elena Nikolayevna Luzhin seeks her husband Aleksey Lvovich Luzhin.”
“Luzhin?” she queried, taking off her glasses. “Could it be Lev Sergeich’s son? He had two boys. I don’t recall their names—”
Elena smiled radiantly. “Oh, how nice. That’s a surprise. Don’t tell me you knew his father.”
“Of course, of course,” began the Princess in a complacent and kindly tone. “Lyovushka Luzhin, formerly of the Uhlans. Our estates were adjacent. He used to visit us.”
“He died,” interposed Elena.
“Yes, yes, I heard. May his soul rest in peace. He would always arrive with his borzoi hound. I don’t remember his boys well, though. I’ve been abroad since 1917. The younger one had light hair, I believe. And he had a stutter.”
Elena smiled again.
“No, no, that was his elder brother.”
“Oh, well, I got them mixed up, my dear,” the Princess said comfortably. “My memory is not so good. I wouldn’t even have remembered Lyovushka if you had not mentioned him yourself. But now it all comes back to me. He used to ride over for evening tea and—Oh, let me tell you—” The Princess moved a little closer and went on, in a clear, slightly lilting voice, without sadness, for she knew that happythings can only be spoken of in a happy way, without grieving because they have vanished:
“Let me tell you,” she went on, “we had a set of amusing plates—with a gold rim running around and, in the very center, a mosquito so lifelike that anyone who didn’t know tried to brush it off.”
The compartment door opened. A red-haired waiter was handing out reservation slips for dinner. Elena took one. So did the man sitting in the corner, who for some time had been trying to catch her eye.
“I brought my own food,” said the Princess. “Ham and a bun.”
Max went through all the cars and trotted back to the diner. In passing, he nudged his Russian fellow worker, who was standing in the car’s vestibule with a napkin under his arm. Luzhin looked after Max with glistening, anxious eyes. He felt a cool, ticklish vacuum replacing his bones and organs, as if his whole body were about to sneeze the next instant, expelling his soul. He imagined for the hundredth time how he would arrange his death. He calculated every little detail, as if he were composing a chess problem. He planned to get off at night at a certain station, walk around the motionless car and place his head against the buffer’s shieldlike end when another car, that was to be coupled on, approached the waiting one. The buffers would clash. Between their meeting ends would be his bowed head. It would burst like a soap bubble and turn into iridescent air. He should get a good foothold on the crosstie and press his temple firmly against the cold metal of the bumper.
“Can’t you hear me? Time to go make the dinner call.”
It was now Hugo speaking. Luzhin responded with a
ochs
the account of a distant, dreary life.
“And your husband—did he stay behind?”
The young woman’s eyes opened wide and she shook her head: “No. He has been abroad for quite a time. Just happened that way. In the very beginning of the Revolution he traveled south to Odessa. They were after him. I was supposed to join him there, but didn’t get out in time.”
“Terrible, terrible. And you have had no news of him?”
“None. I remember I decided he was dead. Started to wear my ring on the chain of my cross—I was afraid they’d take that away too. Then, in Berlin, friends told me that he was alive. Somebody had seen him. Only yesterday I put a notice in the émigré paper.”
She hastily produced a folded page of the
Rul’
from her tattered silk vanity bag.
“Here, take a look.”
Princess Ukhtomski put on her glasses and read: “Elena Nikolayevna Luzhin seeks her husband Aleksey Lvovich Luzhin.”
“Luzhin?” she queried, taking off her glasses. “Could it be Lev Sergeich’s son? He had two boys. I don’t recall their names—”
Elena smiled radiantly. “Oh, how nice. That’s a surprise. Don’t tell me you knew his father.”
“Of course, of course,” began the Princess in a complacent and kindly tone. “Lyovushka Luzhin, formerly of the Uhlans. Our estates were adjacent. He used to visit us.”
“He died,” interposed Elena.
“Yes, yes, I heard. May his soul rest in peace. He would always arrive with his borzoi hound. I don’t remember his boys well, though. I’ve been abroad since 1917. The younger one had light hair, I believe. And he had a stutter.”
Elena smiled again.
“No, no, that was his elder brother.”
“Oh, well, I got them mixed up, my dear,” the Princess said comfortably. “My memory is not so good. I wouldn’t even have remembered Lyovushka if you had not mentioned him yourself. But now it all comes back to me. He used to ride over for evening tea and—Oh, let me tell you—” The Princess moved a little closer and went on, in a clear, slightly lilting voice, without sadness, for she knew that happythings can only be spoken of in a happy way, without grieving because they have vanished:
“Let me tell you,” she went on, “we had a set of amusing plates—with a gold rim running around and, in the very center, a mosquito so lifelike that anyone who didn’t know tried to brush it off.”
The compartment door opened. A red-haired waiter was handing out reservation slips for dinner. Elena took one. So did the man sitting in the corner, who for some time had been trying to catch her eye.
“I brought my own food,” said the Princess. “Ham and a bun.”
Max went through all the cars and trotted back to the diner. In passing, he nudged his Russian fellow worker, who was standing in the car’s vestibule with a napkin under his arm. Luzhin looked after Max with glistening, anxious eyes. He felt a cool, ticklish vacuum replacing his bones and organs, as if his whole body were about to sneeze the next instant, expelling his soul. He imagined for the hundredth time how he would arrange his death. He calculated every little detail, as if he were composing a chess problem. He planned to get off at night at a certain station, walk around the motionless car and place his head against the buffer’s shieldlike end when another car, that was to be coupled on, approached the waiting one. The buffers would clash. Between their meeting ends would be his bowed head. It would burst like a soap bubble and turn into iridescent air. He should get a good foothold on the crosstie and press his temple firmly against the cold metal of the bumper.
“Can’t you hear me? Time to go make the dinner call.”
It was now Hugo speaking. Luzhin responded with a
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