A. A. Abramov, The Death of Chess

A wet, gray fog drifted along Nikitskaya Street this evening. Perhaps because of this people felt especially gloomy. Even the most carefree splashed along the slippery sidewalk, harboring melancholy thoughts, resigned to sopping feet. The illuminated windows of the semi-basement apartments did not arouse curiosity and it occurred to no one to stop and peer into one of them…

And looking in, you would first see a portrait, enormous and dusty. A portrait of a tall, stooped man, pensively leaning against a marble balustrade in some elegant entrance hall. Behind him, it seemed, stretched a beautiful path through an old park. All this would remind you of similar backdrops found in our photographers’ studios, but let’s not dwell on such trivialities. The stooping man, quite distinguished, has one hand tucked inside the front of his modest black frock coat. His eyes are looking straight at you, seeming dead, almost glassy. His face is severe, somber, and his arched nose stands out sharply between wide, protruding cheekbones. His chin is framed by a small thin beard, which matches an equally thin and neatly trimmed mustache.

And looking more closely, you would see the original himself. The same figure, stooped over a table covered with a yellowish oilcloth. The same small beard, stubbornly trembling above a glass of unfinished vodka. The same cheekbones, only now even more sharpened by the added weight of years.

And if you could overhear what seemed to be his very animated conversation with a man whose appearance vividly recalled the clever primates of the stock exchange, you would catch the end of a strange but meaningful conversation.

“Ah, Professor, how many years you’ve wasted…”

“But I couldn’t, you see, I simply couldn’t… I was too uncertain about these people…”

“What do people matter when you have pure profit at your fingertips… Believe me, now that I’ve crossed your path, things won’t end so simply… You don’t yet know all my talents, Professor. Thanks to me, you’ll make more headlines than Reza Khan in Persia or that Abd el-Krim fellow in Morocco… The world, the entire world is before you, practically in your very hands, yet you sit here in silence…”

“I truly don’t know what to say… You see, my whole life, an entire lifetime I’ve worked, never offering it to anyone, afraid they wouldn’t understand, wouldn’t value it… And who needs my work, my endeavors?…”

“Who needs it? First and foremost, you and I, Professor! How much do you make at the university? A hundred fifty? I guarantee you five, ten, twenty times more. You’re a strange one, Professor, really, not seeing your own advantage. If what you’re saying is true, you could become a Napoleon, a conqueror… And yet you… ah, what a shame!…”

“I agree with you, but what could I do on my own?… I’m old and sick and everything else…”

“That’s all nonsense. We’ll start the business tomorrow and I promise you that within 24 hours you’ll be famous…”

Along Arbat, through the side streets, down Petrovka, Myasnitskaya, and Povarskaya, along Kuznetsky, people with leather briefcases and those without, people in overcoats, in galoshes, in shoes with pointed and blunt toes, people carrying bags and small suitcases, people in peaked caps and fedoras, people wearing gloves and those with cold hands tucked into pockets, people hurrying in the morning to their offices, to stores, to kiosks and the pawnshop—all read the poster with mild surprise, with a touch of irony, but ultimately with the typical indifference of those preoccupied with their daily affairs.

On that same day, on the back page of all Moscow newspapers, was printed:

and a bit lower, in bold and insistent type, it announced:

From reviews in the world press:

“Times”.

…The automaton of Professor Yastrebov’s design represents perfection in technology and a model of chess artistry…

“Le Matin.”

…Never before in the world has there been anything like it. Professor Yastrebov’s automaton plays better than first-class masters. There has not been a single case where the automaton lost to anyone…

“Berlin Tagblatt”

…The chess automaton of Prof. Yastrebov’s system has caused surprise and admiration not only in chess, but also in scientific circles…

“The New York Herald.”

…Never before have we witnessed such a phenomenon. Even the finest chess masters falter before the enigmatic play of this automaton… Professor Yastrebov has genuinely created a masterpiece that marries technological innovation with the art of chess…

The next day, readers of all dispositions—the intrigued and the indifferent, the amazed and the skeptical, the enthusiastic and the scornful—could find a sensational interview with Professor Yastrebov in the latest issue of “Red Sport,” the central newspaper serving as the official All-Union authority on sporting matters:

“Our correspondent held an extensive interview with Professor M. I. Yastrebov concerning his automaton, which has already generated considerable buzz among Moscow’s chess circles.

Whereupon the professor disclosed the following:

“I will not divulge any technical specifications or details regarding the construction of my chess automaton until the results of its performance in action have been properly assessed. I can assure you only that what we have here is genuinely a mechanism, not a person concealed within the automaton’s casing. I control the automaton merely as an operator or chauffeur, if you prefer that term. Personally, I am a poor chess player—or more accurately, I scarcely play at all. I certainly wouldn’t venture to compete against Moscow’s finest players, nor even against reasonably skilled amateurs. My chess knowledge extends only to a rudimentary understanding of the moves and positions of pieces on the board.”

“How, you might ask, could I construct a chess-playing automaton without being a skilled player myself? This seemingly paradoxical circumstance is, in fact, not paradoxical at all. For a competent mathematician familiar with the theory of moves and the essential nature of chess combinations, the required mathematical calculations present no extraordinary difficulty.”

“Regarding these calculations, as I have already stated, I do not intend to disclose any details until such time as I deem appropriate. In any case, anyone interested in the operation of my automaton may come and witness it firsthand this Sunday at the conservatory.”

“How does the automaton work? I had no intention of giving it any human form, nor even an appearance remotely resembling a human figure. I enclosed the automaton’s mechanism in an iron casing approximately shaped like a parallelopiped. The device is equipped with a clock and a rectangular screen behind glass, upon which—following certain technical operations—letters and numbers appear, indicating the intended move.”

“How did I create the automaton? Through many years of painstaking work. Last year, while on an official assignment in Germany, I met engineer-mechanic Theodor Weiblitz of Nuremberg, who agreed to realize my concept. It was there that the first model of this automaton was constructed—the very one you will see in operation.

“Why have I not presented the concept of a chess automaton until now? Partly because I was unable to implement it, and partly because, without a working model, I could not verify the correctness of my mathematical and technical hypotheses.”

In conclusion, Professor Yastrebov remarked that with the Second International Tournament soon to be held in Moscow, his automaton should arouse considerable interest, since, in his estimation, even world-class chess players would be unable to win a single game against his machine.

In Moscow’s chess circles, this issue of ‘Red Sport’ hardly caused a sensation. Two years earlier, during the international tournament in Moscow in 1925, the city’s masters had their first encounter with foreign champions. For the first time, Berlinsky faced Capablanca and Zubarev played against Lasker. And now, in 1927, their second meeting awaited them. Such excitement, joy, and tension in the preparatory battles! Who could spare a thought for some automaton? Why bother with contraptions made by idle professors who haven’t the faintest idea what chess truly is!

No, this called for irony, nothing but irony. The poster with its ‘reviews from the world press’—typical charlatanism of ‘gala concert’ promoters. Legless officers from Napoleon’s army, struggling to cram their truncated bodies into an automaton’s mechanical casing, had long since vanished into oblivion. Hideous monstrosities of wood and iron defeating lords from the Strand and Bishops of Canterbury exist only in the cinema. Mechanical nonsense against the Napoleons and Kants of the chessboard! Some contraption pitted against world champions, grandmasters, and maestros! What absurdity! It could only provoke laughter.

But beyond the smiles, there was curiosity. A mild, somewhat bemused curiosity from acknowledged champions summoned to battle against an unknown contender…

…While in London, Paris, Warsaw, Vienna, New York, Sofia, and Brussels, there wasn’t even curiosity. On this day, twenty-six of the world’s most renowned chess masters had not yet heard a whisper about the automaton.

The Small Hall of the Conservatory seemed embarrassed by the strange silence within its age-faded walls. Never before had it witnessed anything like this. The ghosts of Beethoven, Mozart, Handel, and Bach, frozen in astonishment amidst swirls of tobacco smoke—smoking was unexpectedly permitted—felt ill at ease. For the first time, they sensed they were strangers here.

And indeed, who cares about Bach? Bach is decoration. Conservatory is a pseudonym for a place where one might suddenly witness strange, almost extraordinary phenomena.

What does decoration matter when a creature of wood and metal unexpectedly conquers the knights of international tournaments? Who needs such decoration when Alekhine’s patented defense proves powerless to avert death? The magnificent armor of opening theory crumbles beneath the silent onslaught of the automaton. Who could possibly think of Beethoven and Mozart at a time like this?

Strange, incomprehensible thoughts hang suspended in the air. They are enigmatic and offensive to the invisible inhabitants of this ancient castle of melodies and sounds. They are mysterious and grotesquely absurd, as absurd and grotesque as that gray metallic contraption on the stage atop its massive pedestal.

A gray metallic idol that has usurped the place of the Bechstein grand piano. Not a single melody. Not one note, not even the simplest scale. Absolutely no sound at all. Silence. On a small, white, glass-encased rectangular screen appear strange combinations of letters and numbers. Some sort of abracadabra:

Nd2-f3 or Bb3-d5

What is this? Beethoven and Bach never played chess. Perhaps these are secret signs of a Masonic lodge or the liturgy of some new religious cult?…

The air is thick with smoke. Cigarette butts. Scraps of paper. Fragments of exclamations. Sweaty brows.

Cigarette after cigarette. Check to the king. Knight f3 to d4. Think. Pawn forward. Just so. Hastily, half a glass of tea.

A tall, predatory-looking old man lovingly caresses the gray covering of the metallic idol. The idol—a parallelepiped. An expressionless, ridiculous, and stupid parallelepiped. Move after move, the numbers and letters ceaselessly change on its glassy-white rectangular forehead.

What is he doing, this old man? Could the machine be a hoax? Perhaps he is simply a brilliant player who, for a joke, for a sensational stunt, has disguised himself as an automaton…

But no matter. What a strange move he makes! Rook to g2. What could this odd combination be leading to? Think. Damn it all, the idol plays like Capablanca!

What spirit lurks within the metallic belly of this gray idol? Could it be the ghost of Chigorin or Morphy playing under the guise of Professor Yastrebov’s automated system? Or perhaps some legless officer, a brilliant thief of his Napoleonic colleague’s idea, an officer who left his severed limbs beneath the cliffs of Perekop or on the green fields of Ukraine? Who? Who?…………

In the foyer—commotion. Handkerchiefs slide and crumple against sweaty cheeks and bald spots. Damp, disheveled hair partings. Gesticulation. Machine-gun bursts of words. And astonishment, endless astonishment.

“…Damn it all, I never thought Grigoryev would lose to this machine…”

“…Just imagine, when he moved his knight to h5, I thought the automaton wouldn’t find a decisive response…”

“…And yet, friends, I am absolutely certain that it’s a living person playing…”

“…But it’s quite an original contraption all the same, wouldn’t it be something to see Capablanca play against it…”

“…Fraud…”

“…What fraud are you talking about, when Zubarev resigned on the 27th move…”

“…Comrades, come quickly, an extraordinarily sharp position…”

Before the apparatus stands a young maestro with the burden of twenty years of wisdom upon his strong shoulders. He plays according to the meticulously studied Lasker-Rubinstein game from the International Tournament in Moscow two years earlier.

The young maestro is certain of victory. He is immovable as a rock. His memorized game is his Nibelung sword. His face is that of a general, combining Caesar’s calm assurance with Napoleon’s nervous intensity.

Move after move. The white rectangle spews forth terrifying figures. Knight f3 to e5. Napoleon falls from his horse. Alas! He loses his queen.

Several days later, in Izvestia, under the headline ‘Triumph of the Automaton,’ the following was published:

“The matches between Moscow’s finest players and Professor Yastrebov’s automaton in the Small Hall of the Conservatory over three days yielded completely unexpected results.

In short, all of Moscow’s leading chess players lost to the automaton, not to mention numerous amateurs. It is difficult to describe the panic that ensued. According to Moscow’s most veteran players, they cannot recall anything comparable in their entire careers.

Levenfish and Rabinovich, who had traveled from Leningrad, also lost to the automaton. Particularly notable was Rabinovich’s defeat. Having performed brilliantly in recent tournaments in Moscow (1925), New York, and San Sebastian (1926), Rabinovich played with remarkable elegance and virtuosity. Employing the Caro-Kann Defense, he maintained an excellent position until the 17th move. But then the automaton’s move (Bf4 x c7) restricted his pawn front and trapped his knight. Unable to bring his rook into play for another three moves, Rabinovich opted for the queen exchange recommended by theory, which, due to his opponent’s masterful maneuvering, resulted in the loss of a pawn. By the 28th move, he was forced to resign.

According to the Moscow champions who witnessed the games, the automaton selected its moves flawlessly and brilliantly. The endgame it played, in their estimation, was worthy of Lasker himself.

Among the public and in chess circles, the prevailing opinion is that—despite Professor Yastrebov’s own assertions—a living person must be playing here, as only a human brain, and a genius one at that, could create combinations with such profound insight and talent.”

Excerpt from an article by Dr. S. Tartakower, telegraphed by him to the chess magazine ‘64’.

“Chess automatons have never before appeared in serious competitive play. In medieval times, there existed, it is true, concepts for creating mechanical humans (homunculi), which in turn gave rise to the idea of a chess-playing automaton.”

Medieval thinkers and mechanicians always envisioned such an automaton in the form of a human figure playing chess independently, without the participation of a human mind. They quite seriously entertained the possibility of a mechanical basis for chess play, founded on certain numerical laws. One needed only to discover these laws. One needed only to find their formula.

Many brilliant minds labored in search of this formula. Attempts to create chess automatons date back to the 15th century. Manuscripts of the Jesuit order contain references to such an automaton created by Abbot Antonio Ferrari of Bologna. He even succeeded in constructing a mechanism, the secret of which perished along with its creator in a fire that consumed the monastery buildings.

The same can be said of the attempts by Rudolf Teolicius and the mechanic Kurt of Nuremberg. In Simon Goulart’s work from the late 18th century, entitled ‘Tresor d’histoires admirables’ (‘Treasury of Remarkable Stories’), there are, admittedly somewhat obscure but nonetheless adequate references to experiments in this direction by the Frenchman Arnaud de Villeneuve, the Lübeck mechanicians Karl Fogg and Dr. Sibelius, and the Englishman Richard Geldingen. All these experiments, according to Goulart, yielded no concrete results and merely generated a certain ‘fermentation of minds’ around their names and ideas.

We have the most information about Kurt’s automaton. According to eyewitnesses, his automaton took the form of a human figure with exquisitely crafted face and hands. However, this automaton also yielded no practical results, as Kurt, in a fit of madness, destroyed his mechanical doll.

At the court of Philip II in Madrid, during the First International Chess Congress, the Dominican monk Brocard attempted to demonstrate an automaton of his own construction. Brocard even challenged the then-famous Ruy Lopez and other strong chess players of the era, such as Leonardo de Cutri and Paolo Boi. However, Philip II inexplicably forbade this demonstration, and Brocard found himself in an Inquisition prison. In any case, no further information about this automaton has survived.

The remains of a similar automaton (its creator remaining unknown) are preserved to this day in the museum at the palace of the Duke of Lichtenstadt. They amount to little more than a heap of old rusty iron, ready to collapse at the slightest touch. Yet behind glass you will see a crude semblance of a human figure, seated in a large armchair before a chessboard mounted on a small table. Whether this automaton ever actually played chess has remained unknown.

History provides us, alongside attempts to create genuine mechanisms, with examples of sometimes quite ingenious charlatanism. Beyond the legless Napoleonic officer concealed inside a hollow doll during play, we encounter similar ‘automatons’ at fairs throughout Germany and England. According to contemporaries, many of these ‘automatons’ played brilliantly and defeated even the strongest players of the era. In most cases, however, these were simply commercially profitable schemes designed to ensnare credulous amateurs.

According to newspaper reports, Professor Yastrebov’s automaton neither takes human form nor attempts to imitate human movement. Based on its dimensions (if memory serves, it was reported to measure approximately one meter in both length and height), we are dealing with a rather substantial mechanism. It is difficult for me to comment on the automaton itself, since, firstly, I have not seen it, and secondly, the inventor maintains its construction as a closely guarded secret.

Are we dealing here with a mechanism or with a living person? I find it personally difficult to judge. One might surmise, given that the automaton always plays exclusively with white, that we have here a certain mathematical premise underlying some concept, but I dare not venture any definitive statement about this.

It is quite possible, however, that this is mere charlatanism. In any case, it matters little—if not an automaton, then a living master player, with whom it would be a pleasure to compete.

In light of your upcoming International Tournament, I believe that all the chess masters arriving in Moscow will find this encounter of considerable interest.”

The Izvestia report and Tartakower’s article were reprinted by most of the major European and American newspapers.

Those twenty-six of the world’s most renowned chess masters had finally heard about the automaton. In Vienna, Paris, New York, Warsaw, Berlin, Prague, and Brussels, ironic smiles played at the corners of their lips. Yet somewhere in the mysterious depths of their eyes, curiosity stirred. The same mild, somewhat bemused curiosity of acknowledged champions facing an unknown but formidable challenger.

…Maestro Capablanca was traveling to Russia. At the Sebezh international station, in the buffet, over a glass of coffee with cognac, he was handed the latest New York newspapers. The weary, jaded eyes of the world’s favorite skimmed the lines, and that same ironic smile crept across his crimson Havana lips. An automaton against the world champion? Absurd!

The newspaper fell indifferently to the floor, and the automaton’s fate was sealed.