They return at evening A book of ghost stories
clock, uneasy shufflings of the body, and so forth: my opponent in
this way completely betrayed his astonishment and dismay. Time ran
on, sweat burst out on his forehead. Elated as I was, the spectacle
became repulsive, so I looked round the room. And then, as my eyes
reached the door, they met those of Morisson sauntering in. He gave
me the slightest look of recognition, then strolled along to our
table and took his stand behind my opponent’s chair. At first I
had no doubt that it was an hallucination due to the great strain
to which I had subjected myself during the preceding months: I was
therefore surprised when I noticed the Russian glance uneasily behind
him. Morisson put his hand over my opponent’s shoulder, guided
his hand to a piece, and placed it down with that slight screwing
movement so characteristic of him. It was the one move which I had
dreaded, though I had felt it could never be discovered in play over
the board, and then Morisson gave me that curious searching smile to
which I have alluded. I braced myself, rallied all my will-power, and
for the next four hours played what I believe to be the finest game
in the record of Masters’ play. Osvensky’s agitation was terrible,
he was white to the lips, on the point of collapse, but the Thing at
his back--but Morisson--guided his hand move after move, hour after
hour, to the one perfect square. I resigned on move 64, and Osvensky
immediately fainted. Somewhat ironically he was awarded the first
Brilliancy Prize for the finest game played in the tournament. As
soon as it was over Morisson turned away, walked slowly down the room
and out of the door.
That night after dinner I went to my room and faced the situation.
I eventually persuaded myself, firstly, that Morisson’s appearance
had certainly been an hallucination, secondly, that my opponent’s
performance had been due to telepathy. Most people, I suppose, would
regard this as pure superstition, but to me it seemed a tenable
theory that my mind, in its extreme concentration, had communicated
its content to the mind of Osvensky. I determined that for the future
I would break this contact, whenever possible, by getting up and
walking around the room.
Consequently on the next day I faced my second opponent, Seltz,
the champion of Germany, with comparative equanimity. This time I
defended a Ruy Lopez with the black pieces. I made the second of my
stupendous surprises on the seventh move, and once again had the
satisfaction of seeing consternation and intense astonishment leap
to the German’s face. I got up and walked round the room watching
the other games. After a time I looked round and saw the back of my
opponent’s head buried in his hands, which were passing feverishly
through his hair, but I also saw Morisson come in and take his stand
behind him.
I need not dwell on the next twelve days. It was always the same
story. I lost every game, yet each time giving what I know to be
absolute proof that I was the greatest player in the world. My
opponents did not enjoy themselves. Their play was acclaimed as the
perfection of perfection, but more than one told me that he had no
recollection after the early stages of making a single move, and
that he suffered from a sensation of great depression and malaise. I
could see they regarded me with some awe and suspicion, and shunned
my company. It was also remarkable that, though the room was crowded
with spectators, they never lingered long at my table, but moved
quickly and uneasily away.
When I got back to London I was in a state of extreme nervous
exhaustion, but there was something I had to know for certain, so
I went to the City Chess Club and started a game with a member.
Morisson came in after a short time--so I excused myself and went
home. I had learnt what I had sought to learn. I should never play
chess again.
The idea of suicide then became urgent. This happened three months
ago. I have spent that period partly in writing this narrative,
chiefly in annotating my games at Budapesth. I found that every
one of my opponents played an absolutely flawless game, that their
combinations had been of a profundity and complexity unique in the
history of chess. Their play had been literally superhuman. I found
I had myself given the greatest _human_ performance ever known. I
think I can claim a certain reputation for will-power when I say the
shortest game lasted fifty-four moves, even with Morisson there, and
that I was only guilty of most minute errors due to the frightful and
protracted strain. I leave these games to posterity, having no doubt
of its verdict. To the last I had fought Morisson to a finish.
I feel no remorse. My destruction of Morisson was an act of common
sense and justice. All his life he had had the rewards which were
rightly mine; as he said at a somewhat ironical moment, he had
always been a lucky man. If I had known him to be my intellectual
superior I would have accepted him as such, and become reconciled,
but to be the greater and always to be branded as the inferior
eventually becomes intolerable, and justice demands retribution.
Budapesth proved that I had made an “oversight,” as we say in
chess, but I could not have foreseen that, and, as it is, I shall
leave behind me these games as a memorial of me. Had I not killed
Morisson I should never have played them, for he inspired me while he
overthrew me.
I have planned my disappearance with great care. I think I saw
Morisson in my bedroom again last night, and, as I am terribly tired
of him, it will be to-morrow. I have no wish to be ogled by asinine
jurymen nor drooled over by fatuous coroners and parsons, so my body
will never be found. I have just destroyed my chessmen and my board,
for no one else shall ever touch them. Tears came into my eyes as I
did so. I never remember this happening before. Morisson has just
come in----
A further note by J. C. Cary, M.D.:
Here the narrative breaks off abruptly. While I felt a certain moral
obligation to arrange for the publication, if possible, of this
document, it all sounded excessively improbable. I am no chess player
myself, but I had had as a patient a famous Polish Master who became a
good friend of mine before he returned to Warsaw. I decided to send him
the narrative and the games so that he might give me his opinion of the
first, and his criticism of the latter. About three months later I had
my first letter from him, which ran as follows:
“My Friend,
“I have a curious tale to tell you. When I had read through that
document which you sent me I made some enquiries. Let me tell you
the result of them. Let me tell you no one of the name of your
Professor ever competed in a British Chess Championship, there was
no tournament held at Pesth that year which he states, and no one
of that name has ever played in a tournament in that city. When
I learnt these facts, my friend, I regarded your Professor as a
practical joker or a lunatic, and was just about to send back to you
all these papers, when, quite to satisfy my mind, I thought I would
just discover what manner of chess player this joker or madman had
been. I soberly declare to you that those few pages revealed to
me, as a Chess Master, one of the few supreme triumphs of the human
mind. It is incredible to me that such games were ever played over
the board. You are no player, I know, and therefore, you must take
my word for it that, if your Professor ever played them, he was one
of the world’s greatest geniuses, the Master of Masters, and that,
if he lost them his opponents, perhaps I might say his Opponent, was
not of this world. As he says, he lost every game, but his struggles
against this Thing were superb, incredible. I salute his shade. His
notes upon these games say all that is to be said. They are supreme,
they are final. It is a terrifying speculation, my friend, this
drama, this murder, this agony, this suicide, did they ever happen?
As one reads his pages and studies this quiet, this--how shall we
say?--this so deadly tale, its truth seems to flash from it. Or is it
some dream of genius? It terrifies me, as I say, this uncertainty,
for what other flaming and dreadful visions have come to the minds
of men and have been buried with them! I am, as you know, besides
a Chess Master, a mathematician and philosopher; my mind lives an
abstract life, and it is therefore a haunted mind, it is subject to
possession, it is sometimes not master in its house. Enough of this,
such thinking leads too far, unless it leads back again quickly on
its own tracks, back to everyday things--I express myself not too
well, I know--otherwise, it leads to that dim borderland in which the
minds of men like myself had better never trespass. We see the dim
yet beckoning peaks of that far country, far yet near--we had better
turn back!
“I have studied these games, until I have absorbed their mighty
teaching. I feel a sense of supremacy, an insolence, I feel as your
Professor did, that I am the greatest player in the world. I am due
to play in the great Masters’ Tournament at Lodz. We shall see. I
will write you again when it is over.
“Serge.”
Three months later I received another letter from him.
“J. C. Cary, M.D.
“My Friend,
“I am writing under the impulse of a strong excitement, I am unhappy,
I am--but let me tell you. I went to Lodz with a song in my brain,
for I felt I should achieve the aim of my life. I should be the
Master of Masters. Why then am I in this distress? I will tell you.
I was matched in the first round with the great Cuban, Primavera. I
had the white pieces. I opened as your Professor had opened in that
phantom tourney. All went well. I played my tenth move. Primavera
settled himself to analyse. I looked around the room. I saw, at
first with little interest, a stranger, tall, debonair, enter the
big swing door, and come towards my table. And then I remembered
your Professor’s tale, and I trembled. The stranger came up behind
my opponent’s chair and gave me _just that look_. A moment later
Primavera made his move, and I put out my hand and offered that
sacrifice, but, my friend, the hand that made that move _was not
my own_. Trembling and infinitely distressed, I saw the stranger
put his arm over Primavera’s shoulder, take his hand, guide it to a
piece, and thereby make that one complete answer to my move. I saw my
opponent go white, turn and glance behind him, and then he said, ‘I
feel unwell. I resign.’ ‘Monsieur,’ said I, ‘I do not like this game
either. Let us consider it a draw.’ And as I put out my hand to shake
his, it was my own hand again, and the stranger was not there.
“My friend, I rushed from the room back to my hotel, and I hurled
those games of supreme genius into the fire. For a time the paper
seemed as if it would not burn, and as if the lights went dim: two
shadows that were watching from the wall near the door grew vast
and filled the room. Then suddenly great flames shot up and roared
the chimney high, they blazed it seemed for hours, then as suddenly
died, and the fire, I saw, was out. And then I discovered that I had
forgotten every move in every one of those games, the recollection of
them had passed from me utterly. I felt a sense of infinite relief, I
was free again. Pray God, I never play them in my dreams!
“Serge.”
THE THIRD COACH