Early one August evening when most people had already left the park, two men confronted each other across a chessboard. It was in the pavilion on the north-west side of the Jardin du Luxembourg. Their game was followed with such eager interest by a dozen or so spectators that although the hour for an aperitif was drawing near, no one dreamt of leaving the scene until the battle had been decided.
The interest of the little crowd was concentrated on the challenger. He was a youngish man with black hair, pale of face and with blas? dark eyes. He uttered no word, his expression never changed. From time to time he rolled an unlit cigarette between his fingers. He was indeed the quintessence of nonchalance.
No one knew him; no one had ever seen him play before. And yet from the moment he first sat down, pale and silent, at the chessboard and put his pieces in position, he made so strong an impression that everyone felt sure that here was a quite extraordinary personality of great and masterly talent. Perhaps it was just his attractive and yet unapproachable appearance, his elegant dress and his handsome physique. Or perhaps it was the calm and confidence of his gestures or the aura of strangeness and peculiarity that surrounded him-at any rate before the first pawn had been moved the audience was convinced that this man was a chess-player of the very first order and that he would achieve the miracle secretly desired by them all of beating the local chess matador.
The local man was a somewhat ugly little fellow of about 70 and in every respect the exact opposite of his youthful opponent. In his blue trousers and grubby woollen jacket he was wearing the typical garb of a French pensioner. His shaky hands were sprinkled with the brown flecks of old age; his hair was sparse, his nose ruby-red, and purple veins marked his face. He had no aura whatsoever. He puffed nervously at the butt-end of his cigarette, shifted restlessly in his chair and he never stopped nodding apprehensively. The bystanders knew him very well. All of them had already played against him and lost for, although anything but an inspired player, he had the uncongenial knack of wearing down his opponent and enraging him because he never made a mistake. You could never count on his obliging you by faltering in his attention for one moment. To beat him you actually had to play better than he did. This, it was suspected, was finally going to happen today. A new master had arrived to put him to the test. A new master had come to humiliate him, to butcher him limb by limb, to tread him in the dust and to make him taste at last the bitterness of defeat. That would avenge many an individual defeat.
"Careful, Jean," they all shouted during the opening moves, "you're for it this time! You won't beat this one, Jean! You're no match for him! This is your Waterloo, Jean! You've met your Waterloo today!"
"Eh bien, eh bien..." responded the old man and he nodded his head as with hesitant hand he moved his first white pawn forward.
As soon as the stranger, who had drawn black, began to play silence reigned in the group. No one would have dared address a word to him. Shyly attentive, they watched him as he sat silent before the chessboard, never lifting his supercilious gaze from the pieces. They watched as he rolled his unlit cigarette and played with quick, assured moves when it was his turn.
The first moves in the game followed the usual pattern. Then there were two exchanges of pawns and the second of these ended with Black keeping a doubled pawn back on the line-a move not usually regarded as favourable. But the stranger had no doubt accepted the doubled pawn quite deliberately so that he could make a way clear for his queen. Obviously he had the same end in view when this led to the sacrifice of a second pawn, a kind of belated gambit which White accepted only with hesitation, indeed almost nervously. The spectators exchanged meaningful glances, nodded thoughtfully and looked at the stranger full of expectation.
Momentarily he stopped rolling his cigarette, raised his hand, moved it forward and-yes, he moves his queen! He moves her far out, right into his opponent's lines, and by so doing he splits the battlefield in two. A murmur of approval runs through the ranks. What a move! What dash! They had felt that he would move the queen-but to move her so far! Not one of the bystanders-and they were all people well versed in chess-not one of them would have dared make such a move. But after all, that's what really made a true master. A true master played with originality, with courage, with determination. To put it simply a true master played differently from your average player. And for that very reason your average player did not need to understand each individual move made by the master. In fact they did not at this moment quite understand what the queen was meant to be doing in her present position. She was not a threat to anything vital and she was attacking only figures that were well covered. But the purpose and deeper meaning of this move would soon become clear; the master had his own plan-this was certain. You could see it in the immobility of his expression and in his calm and steady hand. After this unconventional move of the queen it was clear to each and every spectator that at this chessboard was sitting a genius whose kind they were unlikely to see again. For Jean, the old matador, they just felt a malicious sympathy. What did he have to set against such splendid verve? They knew him, after all. He would probably try to extricate himself from the situation by means of some pettifogging, smallscale moves, by means of carefully arranged smallscale tactics... And then after prolonged delay and thought Jean, instead of making a correspondingly largescale gesture in response to the largescale move of the queen, pushes on to H4 a pawn which had been deprived of its cover by the advance of the black queen.
The repeated loss of a pawn means nothing to the young man. He does not reflect for a moment before his queen moves to the right, striking into his opponent's order of battle, and lands on a square from which she at once attacks two pieces-a knight and a rook-and now she pushes forward dangerously near to the king's rank. Admiration radiates from the eyes of the beholders. What a devil of a fellow he is! What courage Black shows! "He's a professional," they whisper, "he's a grandmaster, he's a veritable Sarasate of chess." And they all await Jean's countermove with impatience and this impatience is specially directed to Black's next trick.
Jean hesitates. He is thinking, he is tormenting himself. He shifts around in his chair, his head jerks. Come on, Jean, move and don't hold up the inexorable progress of events. Jean moves. With trembling hand he places the knight on a square where he is not merely secure from the queen but actually attacks her and covers the rook. Well, well! Not a bad move, that! But what else could he do in this embattled situation? All of us standing here would all have done just that. "But it won't help him," they whisper. "Black counted on that move."
For already Black's hand is hovering like a hawk above the battlefield. He seizes his queen and moves her-no, he's not moving her back as we timid ones would have done, he's moving her just one square to the right! Incredible! They are speechless with admiration. No one really understands the purpose of the move for the queen is now standing at the edge of the board, threatening nothing, covering nothing. Her position is completely meaningless and yet she looks good, maddeningly good, no queen has ever looked so good, solitary and proud in the middle of the opponent's ranks. Jean, too, cannot understand what his sinister opponent is aiming at with this move; he cannot see what trap he is being enticed into and after much thought and with an uneasy conscience he decides to take another unprotected pawn. He is now, the spectators calculate, three pawns up on Black. But what does that matter? What's the point of numerical superiority when you're faced by an opponent who is obviously thinking strategically, who isn't concerned with numbers but with position, development and with sudden lightning strikes? Jean, beware! You may still be chasing pawns but in the follow-up your king will fall. Now it's Black's turn. The stranger sits there quietly rolling his cigarette between his fingers. This time he thinks for a bit longer than usual, one or two minutes, perhaps. Total silence reigns. Not one of the onlookers dares whisper. Scarcely one of them is still looking at the chessboard. All eyes are fixed on the young man, on his hands, on his ashen face. Is there not a tiny smile of triumph perceptible in the corners of his mouth? Cannot one perceive a slight swelling of the nostrils such as always precedes great decisions? What will be his next move? What devastating blow is the master about to deal?
The cigarette-rolling stops; the stranger leans forward; a dozen pairs of eyes follow his hand. What will his next move be, what will it be? He takes the pawn from G7-who'd have thought of that? He takes the pawn from G7 and puts it on G6... Heavens!
There follows a moment of complete silence. Even old Jean himself stops trembling and shifting around. Rejoicing almost breaks forth from among the crowd. They breathe once again; they dig their neighbours in the ribs. Did you see that? What a devil of a fellow he is! ?a alors! He lets his queen just be a queen and simply moves a pawn to G6. Naturally that leaves G7 free for his bishop, and in the next move but one he'll call check, and then? And then? What then? By then Jean will be finished in any case; that much is quite clear. Just look how intensely he's thinking.
Yes, indeed, Jean is thinking hard. He thinks on and on. Damn the man! His hand stretches forward several times and then draws back again. Come on! Move, Jean, for heaven's sake, move. We want to see the master. And then at last, after five long minutes, while people shuffle their feet, Jean dares make his move. He attacks the queen. With a pawn he attacks the black queen. He tries to escape his fate by means of this delaying tactic. How childish! Black need only withdraw his queen two squares and everything will be back to where it was. All's over for you, Jean! You've run out of ideas; all's over.
Black leans forward-you see, Jean, he didn't need to think for long. Now it'll just be a case of blow for blow. Black moves towards his qu... and for a moment every heart stands still, for Black, contrary to all visible reason, does not move his queen in order to save her from that absurd attack of the pawn, no, Black carries out his earlier plan and puts his bishop on G7.
Baffled, they stare at him. They step back in awe, uncomprehending. He's going to sacrifice his queen and put a bishop on G7! And he's doing it in full consciousness and with his immobile face as he sits there calm and supercilious, pale, blas? and handsome. Their eyes grow a little moist and their hearts grow warm. He's playing as they'd love to play and never dare to. They cannot understand why he's playing as he does and they really don't care. Perhaps indeed they suspect that he is playing with suicidal daring. But all the same they'd love to be able to play like him-splendidly, certain of victory, Napoleonically. Not like Jean whose timid, hesitant game they are able to understand since they play the same way, only not as well. Jean's game is sensible. It is decent, law-abiding and enervatingly tedious. Black on the other hand creates a miracle in his every move. He sacrifices his own queen just to put his bishop on G7. Have you ever seen such a thing? They are deeply moved by this deed. From now on Black can play as he likes, they'll follow him move for move, until the very end, whatever that end may be. Now he is their hero and they love him.
Even Jean, the opponent, the sober player, preparing with trembling hand to move his pawn into the onslaught of the queen, hesitates as though shy in the face of the radiant hero and he says, excusing himself gently and as though begging not to be forced into this deed, "If you give her to me, Monsieur... I must, yes, I must," and he casts a beseeching glance at his opponent. The latter sits there with a face of stone and does not reply. The old man, bruised and shattered, makes his strike.
One second later the black bishop calls check. Check to the white king! The spectators' emotion now turns into enthusiasm. The loss of the queen is already forgotten. To a man they all stand behind the young challenger and his bishop. Check to the king! That's how they would have played. Exactly like this, no whit differently. Check! A cool analysis of the situation would certainly show them that White still has a wealth of possible moves for his own defence but that thought interests no one. They do not want sober analysis; they only want to see brilliant deeds, attacks of genius and powerful strokes which will lay the opposition low. The game-this particular game-has now only one meaning and interest for them: they want to see the young stranger win and the old matador bite the dust.
Jean hesitates and reflects. He knows that no one would put a penny on him any more. But he doesn't know why. He doesn't understand that the others-all of them experienced chess-players-do not see the strength and security of his position. He is the stronger by a queen and three pawns. How can they think that he will lose? He can't lose! Or can he? Is he deceiving himself? Is his concentration failing? Do the others see more than he does? He grows uncertain. Perhaps the fatal trap is already set and at the next move he will stumble into it. Where is the trap? He must avoid it. He must wriggle his way out of it. In any case he must make his enemy pay a heavy price... And now clinging to the rules of the game even more cautiously, with ever increasing care and hesitation, Jean weighs up and considers the situation. He decides to remove a knight and insert him between the king and the bishop so that the black knight now stands within the range of the white queen.
Black's response comes without any delay. He does not demolish the impeded attack but brings up reinforcements: his knight covers the threatened bishop. The public is in ecstasy. Now the battle proceeds blow upon blow. White calls upon a bishop for help, Black sends a rook to the front. White brings up his second knight, Black his second rook. Both sides assemble their forces round the square where the black bishop stands. The square where the bishop would have no more to do becomes the centre of the battle. Nobody knows why this is so-it is just that Black wants it like this. Every move of Black's as he escalates the game and inserts a new figure is greeted with long, open applause. On the other hand White's every move in his own enforced self-defence is received with undisguised grumbling. Then Black, once again defying all the rules of the game, embarks on a series of murderous exchanges. The book of rules claims that such ruthless carnage cannot be of advantage to a player in an inferior position. But Black begins it all the same and the audience rejoices. Never before have they witnessed such a slaughter. Black moves down everything within his scope regardless; he pays no heed to his own losses, pawns fall in rows, fall to the frenetic applause of this expert audience-knights, rooks and bishops likewise.
After seven or eight moves and countermoves the chessboard is laid waste. The result of the battle for Black is grim: he has only three pieces left, the king, one rook and one single pawn. White on the other hand has saved from the Armageddon not just his king and rook but also his queen and four pawns. Any reasonable man now looking at the scene should have no doubt what the end must be and who will win. And there is no doubt among them. For now as ever, their faces lit up with the fire of battle, the spectators still hold fast to the conviction, even when faced with disaster, that their man will win. They would still put any money on him and would reject the merest suggestion of his possible defeat.
The young man too seems completely unmoved by the catastrophic situation. It is his move. He calmly takes his rook and advances him one square further to the right. Silence again reigns among the watchers. Indeed tears come to the eyes of those grown men in their devotion to the genius of a player. It is like the end of the Battle of Waterloo when the Emperor sends his bodyguard into the long-lost conflict. With his last piece Black once again goes into the attack. White now has his king placed in the last row on G1 and three pawns are in the second row in front of him so that the king is hemmed in and would be in mortal peril were Black to succeed in his obvious plan of moving with his rook into the first row.
The possibility of declaring checkmate on one's opponent is the most well known and commonplace move in the game of chess; one might indeed say it is the most childish move if its success depends solely on the opponent failing to recognise the obvious danger and taking no steps to counter it. The most effective of these steps is to open up the line of pawns and in this way devise an escape route for the king. To try to call checkmate on an experienced player or indeed even on a reasonably advanced beginner by means of this sleight of hand verges on frivolity. Nevertheless the delighted audience marvel at their hero's move as though they were witnessing it for the very first time. They shake their heads in boundless admiration. It's true that they know White will have to make a fundamental error to let Black win. But they still really believe that Jean, the local matador, who has beaten them all in turns, who never ever permits himself to slip up, they still believe he will slip up now. And we can go even further-they hope he will slip up. They yearn for it to happen. In their hearts they pray fervently that Jean will make this slip.
Jean reflects. He nods his head as he ruminates. As is his wont, he weighs up the possibilities one against another, hesitates once more and then his hand, that trembling hand mottled with old age, his hand moves forward and moves the pawn from G2 and puts it on G3.
The clock in St Sulpice strikes eight. All the other chess-players in the Jardin du Luxembourg have long since gone home to their aperitifs. The man who hires out the boards has long since shut up his shop. In the centre of the pavilion there survive just the two players and their audience. With large bovine eyes they contemplate the chessboard where one small white pawn has settled the fate of the black king. They avert their bovine eyes from the depressing scene of battle and turn them upon the general himself as he sits there pale, blas? and handsome, immobile in his chair. "You haven't lost," say all the bovine eyes, "you'll now bring about a miracle. You've foreseen this situation from the very outset, you've brought it about. Now you're going to annihilate your opponent. How you'll do it we don't know, we're just simple players. But you, you miracle-worker, you can do it, you will do it. Don't let us down! We believe in you. Work the miracle, miracle-man, work the miracle and win!"
The young man sat there in silence. Then he rolled his cigarette between thumb, forefinger and middle finger and put it to his mouth. He lit it, pulled on it, puffed out the smoke over the chessboard, swept his hand through the smoke, let it hover for a moment over the black king and then knocked him over.
To knock a king down as a sign of one's own defeat is a deeply vulgar and ill-tempered gesture. It is as though one is destroying the whole game retrospectively. And it makes a hideous sound when the overturned king hits the board. It strikes into the heart of every chess-player.
After the young man had knocked the king over so contemptuously with his finger, he rose; he deigned to glance at neither his opponent nor his audience and uttering no word of farewell he walked away.
The spectators stood there disconcerted and abashed. They looked at the chessboard in helpless embarrassment. After a moment one of them cleared his throat, shuffled his feet and took out a cigarette. What time is it? Quarter-past-eight already! Heavens, is it as late as that? Au revoir! Goodbye, Jean, and whispering some apologies they quickly disappeared.
The local matador alone remained. He stood the king upright again and began to collect the pieces and put them in a box, first the ones lying down and then those still standing on the board. As he did this all the individual moves and positions went through his mind as they always did when a game was over. He had not made a single false move; naturally he hadn't. And yet it seemed to him that he'd never played so badly in all his life. He should have been able to checkmate his opponent in the very opening phase. Anyone capable of that wretched move with the queen proved himself to be an ignoramus in the game. Usually Jean dismissed such amateurs mercifully or unmercifully according to his current mood but he always did it swiftly and without misgiving. But this time quite clearly his feel for his opponent's true weakness had let him down. Or had he simply grown cowardly? Had he not had sufficient confidence to make short shrift of this arrogant charlatan in the way he deserved?
No, it was worse than that. He had not wanted to believe that his opponent was so wretchedly bad. And even worse than that: almost to the end of the game he had wanted to believe that he, Jean, was not a match for his opponent. The self-confidence, brilliance and youthful aura of the young stranger had made him feel his opponent was invincible. That is why he himself had played with such exaggerated caution. And he had to go further still: if he was to be really honest with himself he had to admit that he had admired the stranger, just as the others had done. Yes, he had wanted the stranger to win and bring about his, Jean's, defeat in the most impressive and inspired way. He had been waiting wearily for this defeat for years and it would at last have released him from the burden of being the greatest and of always having to beat the others. In this way the nasty crew of spectators, envious crew that they were, would at last have been satisfied and he would have had peace, at last . . .
But there we are; he had naturally won again. And the victory was the most distasteful of all his career for in his attempt to avoid it he had been forced to debase himself and lay down his arms before the most miserable, blundering player in the world.
Jean, the local matador, was not a man given to great moral perceptions. But this much was clear to him as he shuffled off home with his chessboard under his arm and the box of pieces in his hand: he had in truth suffered a defeat, a defeat that was all the more devastating and final because there was no way of avenging it. And so he decided-he was not usually a man of great decisions-to call it a day with chess, once and for all.
From now he would play a harmless, sociable, morally undemanding game. Like all the other pensioners, he would play bowls.
