by Stefan Zweig
And now, for the first time, such a phenomenon, such a strange genius, or such an enigmatic fool was physically close to me for the first time, six cabins away on the same ship, and I, unlucky man that I am, I whose curiosity about intellectual matters always degenerates into a kind of passion, was to be unable to approach him. I began thinking up the most ridiculous ruses: for instance, tickling his vanity by pretending I wanted to interview him for a major newspaper, or appealing to his greed by putting forward the idea of a profitable tournament in Scotland. But finally I reminded myself that the sportsman’s tried and tested method of luring a capercaillie out is to imitate its mating cry. What could be a better way of attracting a chess champion’s attention than to play chess myself?
Now I have never been a serious chess player, for the simple reason that I have always approached the game light-heartedly and purely for my own amusement. If I sit at the chessboard for an hour, I don’t do it to exert myself; on the contrary, I want to relax from intellectual strain. I ‘play’ at chess, literally, while other, real chess players ‘work’ at the game. But in chess, as in love, you must have a partner, and I didn’t yet know whether there were other chess enthusiasts on board besides the two of us. Hoping to lure any of them present out of hiding, I set a primitive trap in the smoking-room, by acting as a decoy and sitting at a chessboard with my wife, although she is an even weaker player than I am. And sure enough, we hadn’t made six moves before someone passing by stopped, another man asked to be allowed to watch, and finally the partner I hoped for came along. His name was McConnor and he was a Scot, a civil engineer who, I heard, had made a great fortune drilling for oil in California. In appearance he was a sturdy man with pronounced, angular cheekbones, strong teeth and a high complexion, its deep red hue probably due, at least in part, to his lavish consumption of whisky. Unfortunately his strikingly broad, almost athletically energetic shoulders were evidence of his character even in a game, for this Mr McConnor was one of those men obsessed by their own success who feel that defeat, even in the least demanding of games, detracts from their self-image. Used to getting his own way without regard for others, and spoilt by his very real success, this larger-than-life, self-made man was so firmly convinced of his own superiority that he took offence at any opposition, seeing it as unseemly antagonism, almost an insult to him. When he lost the first game he was surly, and began explaining at length in dictatorial tones that it could only be the result of momentary inattention; at the end of the third, he blamed the noise in the saloon next door for his failure; he was never happy to lose a game without immediately demanding his revenge. At first this ambitious determination amused me; finally I took it as no more than the inevitable side effect of my own aim of luring the world champion to our table.
On the third day my ruse succeeded, although only in part. Whether Czentovic, looking through the porthole, had seen us at the chessboard from the promenade deck, or whether it was mere chance that he honoured the smoking-room with his presence I don’t know, but at any rate, as soon as he saw us amateurs practising his art, he automatically came a step closer, and from this measured distance cast a critical glance at our board. It was McConnor’s move. And that one move seemed enough to tell Czentovic how unworthy of his expert interest it would be to follow our amateurish efforts any further. With the same instinctive gesture one of my own profession might use in putting down a bad detective story offered to him in a bookshop, not even leafing through it, he walked away from our table and left the smoking-room. Weighed in the balance and found wanting, I told myself, slightly irritated by his cool, scornful glance, and to vent my annoyance somehow or other I said, turning to McConnor, ‘The champion doesn’t seem to have thought much of your move.’
‘What champion?’
I explained that the gentleman who had just passed us and taken a disapproving look at our game was Czentovic the chess champion. Well, I added, we’d both get over it and be reconciled to his illustrious scorn without breaking our hearts; the poor must cut their coat according to their cloth. But to my surprise my casual information had a completely unexpected effect on McConnor. He immediately became excited, forgot about our game, and his ambitious heart began thudding almost audibly. He’d had no idea, he said, that Czentovic was on board. Czentovic absolutely must play him. He had never in his life played a champion, except once at a simultaneous match with forty others; even that had been extremely exciting, and he had almost won then. Did I know the champion personally? I said no. Wouldn’t I speak to him and ask him to join us? I declined, on the grounds that to the best of my knowledge Czentovic wasn’t very willing to make new acquaintances. Anyway, what could tempt a world champion to mingle with us third-rate players?
I shouldn’t have made that remark about third-rate players to such an ambitious man as McConnor. He leaned back, displeased, and said curtly that for his part he couldn’t believe Czentovic would turn down a civil invitation from a gentleman; he’d see to that. At his request I gave him a brief personal description of the chess champion, and the next moment, abandoning our chessboard, he was storming after Czentovic on the promenade deck with unrestrained impatience. Yet again, I felt there was no holding the possessor of such broad shoulders once he had thrown himself into a venture.
I waited in some suspense. After ten minutes McConnor came back, not, it seemed to me, in a very good mood.
‘Well?’ I asked.
‘You were right,’ he said, rather annoyed. ‘Not a very pleasant gentleman. I introduced myself, told him who I was. He didn’t even give me his hand. I tried to tell him how proud and honoured all of us on board would be if he’d play a simultaneous game against us. But he was damn stiff about it; he was sorry, he said, but he had contractual obligations to his agents, and they expressly forbade him to play without a fee when he was on tour. His minimum was two hundred and fifty dollars a game.’
I laughed. ‘I’d never have thought pushing chessmen from black squares to white could be such a lucrative business. I hope you took your leave of him with equal civility.’
But McConnor remained perfectly serious. ‘The game’s to be tomorrow afternoon at three, here in the smoking-room. I hope we won’t be so easily crushed.’
‘What? Did you agree to pay him two hundred and fifty dollars?’ I cried in dismay.
‘Why not? C’est son métier. If I had toothache and there happened to be a dentist on board, I wouldn’t ask him to pull my tooth out for nothing. The man’s quite right to name a fat fee; the real experts in any field are good businessmen too. As far as I’m concerned, the more clear-cut a deal is the better. I’d rather pay cash than have a man like Mr Czentovic do me a favour and find myself obliged to thank him in the end. And after all, I’ve lost over two hundred and fifty dollars in an evening at our club before, and without playing a champion. It’s no disgrace for “third-rate” players to be beaten by the likes of Czentovic.’
I was amused to see how deeply I had wounded McConnor’s amour propre with my innocent remark about ‘third-rate’ players. But since he was minded to pay for this expensive bit of fun, I had no objection to his misplaced ambition, which would finally get me acquainted with that oddity Czentovic. We made haste to inform the four or five gentlemen who had already proclaimed themselves chess players about the forthcoming event, and so as to be disturbed as little as possible by people passing by, we reserved not only our table but the one next to it for the coming match.
Next day all the members of our small group had turned up at the appointed hour. The place in the centre of the table, opposite the champion, was of course taken by McConnor, who relieved his nervousness by lighting cigar after large cigar, and glancing at the time again and again. But the world champion – as I had already thought likely from what my friend said about him – kept us waiting a good ten minutes, thus heightening the effect when he appeared. He walked over to the table with calm composure. Without introducing himself – a discourtesy which seemed to say, ‘You know who I a
m, and I don’t care who you are’ – he began making the practical arrangements with dry professionalism. Since there were not enough chessboards available on the ship for a simultaneous match, he suggested that we all of us play him together. After every move he would go to another table at the far end of the room, to avoid disturbing our deliberations. As soon as we had made our move, and since unfortunately there was no little bell available on the table, we were to tap a glass with a spoon. He suggested ten minutes as the maximum time for deciding on a move, unless we preferred some other arrangement. Of course, we agreed to all his suggestions like shy schoolboys. The draw for colours gave Czentovic Black; he made his first move still standing there, and immediately moved away to wait in the place he had chosen, where he leaned casually back, leafing through an illustrated magazine.
There’s not much point in describing the game. Of course it ended, as it was bound to end, in our total defeat as early as the twenty-fourth move. In itself, there was nothing surprising in a world chess champion’s ability to sweep away half a dozen average or below-average players with one hand tied behind his back; what really depressed us all was the obvious way in which Czentovic made us feel only too clearly that it was with one hand tied behind his back he was defeating us. He never did more than cast an apparently fleeting glance at the board, looking past us with as little interest as if we were inanimate wooden figures ourselves, and his insolent manner instinctively reminded us of the way you might throw a mangy dog a morsel of food while turning your eyes away. With a little sensitivity, I thought, he might have pointed out our mistakes, or encouraged us with a friendly word. Even after the match, however, that inhuman chess automaton said not a word after ‘Checkmate’, but waited motionless at the table to see if we wanted another game with him. I had risen to my feet, helpless as one always is in the face of thick-skinned incivility, to indicate with a gesture that now this financial transaction was completed the pleasure of our acquaintance was over, at least for my part, when to my annoyance McConnor, beside me, said hoarsely, ‘A rematch!’
I was quite alarmed by his challenging tone of voice; in fact, at this moment McConnor gave the impression of a boxer about to lash out rather than a gentleman in polite society. Whether it was the unpleasant nature of the treatment meted out to us by Czentovic, or just his own pathologically touchy pride, McConnor seemed a completely different man. Red in the face right up to his hairline, nostrils flaring with internal pressure, he was visibly perspiring, and a deep line ran from his compressed lips to the belligerent thrust of his chin. In his eyes, as I saw with concern, was the light of the uncontrolled passion that usually seizes on people only at the roulette table, when they have been constantly doubling their stakes and the right colour fails to come up for the sixth or seventh time. At that moment I knew that even if it cost him his entire fortune, this fanatically ambitious man would play and play and play against Czentovic, on his own or with someone else, until he had won at least a single game. If Czentovic stayed the course he had found a gold-mine in McConnor, and could mint a few thousand dollars by the time he reached Buenos Aires.
Czentovic was unmoved. ‘By all means,’ he politely replied. ‘You gentlemen take Black this time.’
The second game went just the same way as the first, except that several curious onlookers had made our circle not just larger but also livelier. McConnor was gazing at the board as fixedly as if he intended to magnetize the chessmen by his will to win; I sensed that he would happily have given a thousand dollars for the joy of crying ‘Checkmate!’ to his cold, insensitive opponent. Curiously, something of his grimly excited determination passed unconsciously to us. Every single move was discussed far more passionately than before; one of us would keep holding the others back at the last moment before we united in giving the signal that brought Czentovic back to our table. Slowly, we had reached the thirty-seventh move, and to our own astonishment were in a position that seemed surprisingly advantageous, for we had succeeded in bringing the pawn in file c to the penultimate square c2; we had only to move it to c1 to promote it to a new queen. We didn’t in fact feel particularly comfortable about this over-obvious chance; we all suspected that the advantage we appeared to have won must have been intentionally thrown out as bait by Czentovic, whose view of the situation ranged far wider. But despite intensive study and discussion among ourselves, we couldn’t see the concealed trick. Finally, as the agreed deadline approached, we decided to risk the move. McConnor had already put out his hand to the pawn to move it to the last square when he felt his arm abruptly taken, while someone whispered quietly and urgently, ‘For God’s sake no!’
We all instinctively turned. A man of about
forty-five, whose thin, angular face I had already noticed on the promenade deck because of its strange, almost chalky pallor, must have joined us in the last few minutes as we were lending our entire attention to the problem. He quickly added, feeling our eyes on him, ‘If you make a queen now, he’ll take her at once with the bishop on c1, and you’ll counter with the knight. But meanwhile he’ll take his passed pawn to d7, endangering your rook, and even if you check him with the knight, you’ll lose after nine or ten moves. It’s almost the same combination as Alekhine used against Bogolyubov at the grand tournament in Pistyan in 1922.’
The surprised McConnor withdrew his hand from the piece, and stared in no less amazement than the rest of us at the man who had unexpectedly come to our aid like an angel from heaven. Someone who could work out a checkmate nine moves ahead must be an expert of the first rank, perhaps even a rival for the championship travelling to the same tournament, and his sudden arrival and intervention at this critical moment had something almost supernatural about it. McConnor was the first to pull himself together.
‘What would you advise?’ he whispered in agitation.
‘I wouldn’t advance just yet, I’d take evasive action first! Above all, move the king out of danger from g8 to h7. That will probably make him attack the other flank, but you can parry the attack with rook c8 to c4; it will cost him two tempos, a pawn, and his advantage. Then it’s passed pawn against passed pawn, and if you defend properly you can draw with him. You can’t get anything better.’
Yet again we were astonished. There was something bewildering about his precision as well as the speed of his calculations; it was as if he were reading the moves from the pages of a book. But anyway, the unexpected prospect of drawing our game against a grandmaster thanks to his intervention was enchanting. We all moved aside to give him a clear view of the board. McConnor asked again, ‘King g8 to h7, then?’
‘Yes, yes! Evasive action, that’s the thing!’
McConnor complied, and we tapped the glass. Czentovic returned to our table with his usual regular tread, and took in the counter-move at a single glance. Then he moved the pawn from h2 to h4 on the king’s flank, just as our unknown helper had predicted. The man was already whispering urgently:
‘Rook forward, rook forward, c8 to c4, then he’ll have to cover his pawn first. But that won’t help him! Ignore his passed pawn, move your knight d3 to e5, and the balance will be restored. Keep the pressure on, advance instead of defending!’
We didn’t understand what he meant. As far as we were concerned he might have been speaking Chinese. But once under his spell McConnor moved as he advised without stopping to think about it. We tapped the glass again to call Czentovic back. For the first time he did not decide on his next move at once, but looked at the board intently. Involuntarily, he drew his brows together. Then he made exactly the move that the stranger had predicted, and turned to walk away. But before he did so, something new and unexpected happened. Czentovic looked up and studied our ranks; he obviously wanted to find out who was putting up such energetic resistance all of a sudden.
