undress before the drug had overwhelmed him. I shut the window,
turned on the gas, and went out. I spent the next hour playing over
that fatal game. I quickly discovered the right line I had missed,
then with a wet towel over my face, I re-entered his room. He was
dead. I turned off the gas, opened all the windows, waited till the
gas had cleared, and then went to bed, to sleep as soundly as ever in
my life, though I had a curiously vivid dream. I may say I dream but
seldom, and I never before realised how sharp and convincing these
silly images could be, for I saw Morisson running through the dark
and deserted streets of Oxford till he reached his house, and then he
hammered with his fists on the door, and as he did so he gave a great
cry, “Marie! Marie!” and then he fell rolling down the steps, and I
awoke. This dream recurred for some time after, and always left a
somewhat unpleasant impression on my mind.
The events of the next day were not pleasant. They composed a testing
ordeal which remains very vividly in my mind. I had to act, and act
very carefully, to deceive my maid, who came screaming into my
room in the morning, to fool the half-witted local constable, the
self-important local doctor, and carry through the farce generally
in a convincing mode. I successfully suggested that as Morisson
had suffered from heart weakness for some years, his own Oxford
doctor should be sent for. Of course I had to wire to his wife.
She arrived in the afternoon--and altogether I did not spend an
uneventful day. However, all went well. The verdict at the inquest
was “natural causes,” and a day or two afterwards I was notified that
I was British Chess Champion and had been selected for Budapesth. I
received some medal or other, which I threw into the sea.
Four months intervened before the tournament at Budapesth; I spent
them entirely alone, perfecting my game. At the end of that period
I can say with absolute certainty that I was the greatest player
in the world; my swift unimpeded growth of power is, I believe,
unprecedented in the history of chess. There was, I remember, during
this time, a curious little incident. One evening after a long,
profound analysis of a position, I felt stale and tired, and went out
for a walk. When I got back I noticed a piece had been moved, and
that the move constituted the one perfect answer to the combination I
had been working out. I asked my landlady if anybody had been to my
room: she said not, and I let the subject drop.
The Masters’ Tournament at Budapesth was perhaps the greatest ever
held. All the most famous players in the world were gathered there,
yet I, a practically unknown person, faced the terrific task of
engaging them, one by one, day after day, with supreme confidence.
I felt they could have no surprises for me, but that I should have
many for them. Were I writing for chess players only, I would explain
technically the grounds for this confidence. As it is, I will merely
state that I had worked out the most subtle and daring variants from
existing practice. I was a century ahead of my time.
In my first round I was paired with the great Russian Master,
Osvensky. When I met him he looked at me as if he wondered what I
was doing there. He repeated my name as though it came as a complete
surprise to him. I gave him a look which I have employed before when
I have suspected insolence, and he altered his manner. We sat down.
Having the white pieces, I employed that most subtle of all openings,
the Queen’s bishop’s pawn gambit. He chose an orthodox defence, and
for ten moves the game took a normal course. Then at my eleventh
move I offered the sacrifice of a knight, the first of the tremendous
surprises I sprang upon my opponents in this tournament. I can see
him now, the quick searching glance he gave me, and his great and
growing agitation. Every chess player reveals great strain by much
the same symptoms, by nervous movements, hurried glances at the
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
THE THIRD COACH
The only objection I have to the Royal Porwick Golf Club is that the
sixth green is only separated by a narrow lane from the Royal Porwick
Lunatic Asylum--or rather from its exercise enclosure--the saddest
playground I have ever seen. So-called mad people fill me with dread,
and yet a certain shamefaced fascination. “There, but for the grace
of God, goes Martin Trout”; though why that grace stopped short of
these poor lost souls is a curious mystery understood only by reverend
gentlemen.
So whenever I was approaching the sixth green--a hole I played by some
muscular aberration consistently well--I felt a flickering unease,
hoping to Heaven the inmates were locked in their cells; yet if they
were out at their pathetic exercises I could not keep my eyes off them.
There was one considerable compensation, however, in this proximity,
for it was through it that I made the acquaintance of Lanton, one
of the Asylum doctors. I not only took a strong personal liking for
him, but he interested me deeply. He is a distinguished alienist, and
passionately absorbed in the study of insanity, and yet at the same
time he detests his job.
Many a time he has had to cancel a round with me, and nearly always
for the same reason, that he has been assaulted by a patient. “Didn’t
get the hyoscin hydrobromide (or whatever it was) in quite quick
enough,” he will say, as he surveys me quizzingly yet wearily through
a pair of rainbow eyes, “and the Asylum chairs are infernally hard. It
took four of our strongest warders to keep him from creating a vacancy
on the staff.” As time went on the strain began to tell, and he has
lost his resiliency, but he has always remained a charming, and I felt
heroic, person. He has promised to chuck it if he gets a definite
danger signal, for he has the wrong temperament to resist the withering
experiences of his day’s work much longer.
Those patients who are allowed out take their daily walk along a
deserted bye-road which runs parallel to the third hole, and one day
when I was playing with Lanton, that shuffling, damned parade was
passing by just as I hit a quick, short hook into the hedge bordering
the road. As I walked towards it my eye was caught by an individual
walking alone and writing busily in a note-book. He was dressed in a
round clerical hat, a “dog-collar,” a clerical frock-coat, a pair of
riding breeches, and brown boots. As I approached he looked up at me
with an extremely penetrating, cunning, and yet preoccupied expression
on his face--and then he went on with his writing.
When we had finished the round I described him to Lanton, and asked who
he was.
“The Reverend Wellington Scot,” he replied. “And a very curious case.
If you would like to know more, come down to my study this evening.
That’s all about him now.”
When I arrived at the Asylum, Lanton was just about to set out on his
evening round.
He went to a drawer and got out a note-book. “Read this while I’m away.
I’ll be back in about an hour. There are the drinks and Gold-flakes.”
When he had gone I picked up the note-book, and saw that it was filled
with a very delicate script. I began to read.
* * * * *
I remember that the reason for my being in the Pantham district that
day was that I was paying a visit to a widowed lady of means whom I
wished to interest in a Benefit Scheme. (A Benefit Scheme is a scheme
which benefits me.) I was “Mr. Robert Porter” on this occasion. Ten
pounds richer than when I left it, I was approaching Pantham Station
along a small road which topped the railway embankment. I noticed
casually a train approaching--it was too early to be mine--when
suddenly I saw sparks flashing up from it. It rocked violently, left
the rails, and crashed into a bridge. I saw that the third coach was
smashed to matchwood and bodies were hurled from it on to the side of
the embankment. I started to run--not for assistance, as you might
naturally but erroneously imagine, but to get the story through to the
_Evening News_--which might well result in my returning £20 to the good.
Suddenly I stopped in my tracks, for I subconsciously realised there
had been something very peculiar about that accident. What was it? And
then I knew. _I had not heard a sound._ I ran back to the top of the
embankment, and there was merely a placid row of metals shining in the
sun.
Whereupon I sat down on the grass and thought things over. Like most
superior men I am somewhat superstitious. I was, therefore, convinced
that there was some reason why I, alone of all mankind, should have
been vouchsafed this vision. The only supernatural personage for whom
I have any respect is the Devil, for I believe he looks after his own,
which is more than can be said for any of the more reputable deities.
I regarded this singular apparition as a hint from him, and carefully
recalled the hour of its occurrence in my note-book. I enquired
casually at the station, and found there was no train passing Pantham
at that time. The vision then probably referred to the future--to some
new train not yet in Bradshaw. There were many conceivable ways by
which I might benefit by a railway accident. The Editor of _Truth_,
for example, might be in that third coach, or various other personages
whose demise would not be regretted by me. Pursuing this train of
thought I journeyed back to London.
Now I have described myself as a superior man. I had better explain
that. A superior man is one who rises superior to his environment. All
great moralists from Mr. Pecksniff to the Bishop of London would agree
with me there.
Again, a superior man is one who, by grasping some simple principle
concerning humanity and acting ingeniously upon that knowledge, makes
a satisfactory livelihood. “Ninety-five per cent. of human beings are
mugs,” for example, which is the one I have acted upon. The Bishop and
Mr. Pecksniff might shake their heads over this, but I am convinced it
is true.
My father followed a peculiar profession. He conveyed second-rate
racehorses from one part of the globe to another. Sometimes he’d be
conducting a brace of duds to Jamaica or over to Ireland or France. He
received frequent bites and hacks from his charges, but he expected
them and, I believe, was invariably kind to these glorified “screws.”
Consequently he was away a great deal, but, as this traffic was
sporadic, had much spare time, most of which he spent in conveying
pints of stout from a pot to his belly.
My mother was a good-tempered slut, and the only quarrels she ever had
with the Pater concerned their respective shares of that filthy fluid.
Apart from her good temper and her thirst, there is nothing to record
concerning her.
My father, a squat, bow-legged little gnome, had that complete,
unquestioning belief in the mingled credulity and rascality of his
fellow-men which those who are connected professionally with the Sport
of Kings invariably share. “Racing,” he was wont to declare, “consists
of mugs, bloody mugs, crooks, bloody crooks and ’orses.”
“And which are you?” asked my mother.
“I ain’t neither. I just helps the crooks to skin the mugs by movin’
about the ’orses. I’ve seen too much of it. I’ve seen blokes who was
pretty artful at the doings in the ornery way become just too bloody
silly whenever they ’ear the bookie’s chorus.”
He was so convinced of the peculiar opportunities afforded to
bookmakers for plumbing the depths of human simplicity that he
suggested having me apprenticed to their profession, but my mother
threw a pot at his head for suggesting it. “I didn’t bear my boy to be
a bookie,” was her inflexible decision. All the same, these repeated
references to mugs and crooks had the effect of convincing my childish
mind that the world was entirely peopled by these two classes. As an
example of the lasting effect of those lessons learnt in infancy, I
remain of that opinion to this day.
Most of the money for my education went to quenching my parents’
thirst, but I was taught to read and write, and acquired the rest
myself. In my errand boy days the only literature I could afford was
a newspaper, but this was sufficient to enable me to test the truth
of my father’s generalisation. For the most part it seemed to me
triumphantly to support it.
Let me give a few examples. The head of the firm for which I worked
was one of the greatest commercial figures in England, and the papers
frequently contained articles from his (secretary’s) pen dilating
on the blessings of thrift, hard work and early marriage to “Miss
Right”--yes, he actually used that expression. Yet everyone from the
Managing Director to myself knew that he gambled wildly, ill-treated
his wife, and kept a succession of decorative harpies labelled “dancing
girls.”
Then one of our assistants helped herself to the till and was given
three months. She was anæmic, scrawny, middle-aged, yet the papers
described her as a “pretty girl.” I marked that down; obviously for
some obscure reason the populace preferred their minor female criminals
to be “pretty,” and the papers fostered this harmless inanity. I found
eventually that this rule applies to all women under fifty who earn
mentions in the Press.