The player at games of skill is always tempted to attribute to himself
a capacity superior to his real power. Such is the theorem advanced
in a curious study, half psychological and half algebraic, by an
Algerian engineer, Monsieur V. Cornetz. The player's desire to win,
the recollection of his past successes, his confidence in himself,
necessarily cause him, at a given moment, to think himself stronger
than he really is. So that, if he wins, he is not surprised; but if he
loses, he will tell himself: "I could have done better; I didn't do
my best, I didn't concentrate all my attention." For such an estimate
of himself to be just, it would be necessary for the player to base
the idea of his strength not only upon the average of his previous
victories, but also of his defeats. Self-conceit, however, prevents
unsuccessful contests from coming to his mind to counterbalance the
remembrance of his winnings. It comes about, then, that the player
constantly overrates himself, and in all good faith. Whatever be
his character, he is never tempted to attribute to himself a value
less than his real worth. The modesty of certain players is all upon
the surface and the mistrust of themselves, which they proclaim, is
transformed into excessive confidence as soon as the game has begun.
A player is a man who always compares himself to other men. He judges
himself, not as an individual independent of his surroundings, but
under the pressure of a vanity that is ever egged on by the presence of
rival vanities. The moment two such vanities clash, each of necessity
seeks victory, and begins by attributing to itself, without the least
regard for reality, the strength necessary for success. To accept the
combat is in itself, is it not, to believe that one is the stronger?
Monsieur Cornetz deals particularly with the chess-player, but his
observations, as he himself says in his preface, are applicable to
all games that are not purely games of chance, and even to athletic
contests, fencing matches, and one might add, military operations,
even of the most serious nature. To wage battle is to play a game.
This psychology of the player is also that of the general. How many
battles have been lost because the general overestimated himself. How
many governments even have fallen because they were abandoned to the
illusions of their self-conceit! Does not Napoleon III gayly setting
out for the frontier provide the spectacle par excellence of the player
who overrates himself? There is no such thing as a disinterested
contest; the dullest game of cards excites in the opponents a certain
desire to win. The very persons who boasted of their entire detachment
are often the most eager to win once the game has started; they enter
into it excitedly and when worsted keep watching for a favorable
opening. Those players who believe that they play the game for the sole
interest of its combinations, its emotions, are then, admitting their
good faith, the victims of an illusion: they judge themselves to be
other than they are. This is a rather common attitude in life. We all
of us believe ourselves more or less to be other than we really are;
so much so that an ingenious philosopher, M. Jules de Gaultier, has
created a special term by which to denominate this universal penchant.
He calls it _Bovarysm_, referring to the heroine of Flaubert's novel,
who thought herself a _grande amoureuse_ when she was really nothing
but a poor little sick woman. The player who pretends that he plays
without any interest in victory is afflicted with _Bovarysm_. But
perhaps he is also intent upon shielding his self-conceit in case
of failure. Beaten, he will vow that he had as good a time as if he
had won. This is a manner of self-consolation that does not lack a
certain elegance. The fox who found the grapes too sour has furnished
us with a charming example of this disdainful attitude. M. Cornetz
has seen, in Algiers, on an old Arabian chess-board, this motto: "The
loser always has his excuse." The basis of these excuses is this: "I
should have played otherwise. If I had used such and such a pawn, or
queen, or card, I would doubtless have won." Who has not been present
at those post mortems where the players forget only this, that they
know, at the moment of discussion, things that they did not know while
the game was in full swing? The truth is that at a given moment, when
one is seriously playing the game, one is playing as well as he can,
no more and no less. The loser has an excuse; very well. But it is
precisely because he is the loser. The winner needs none. To be winner
is a fact; to be loser is another. There is in facts a logic, and the
reason of the strongest is always the best. To believe, when one has
been beaten, that one might not have been, is by that very fact to
suppose that one might, at that moment, have been another person, which
is absurd. But perhaps this illusion is due to inevitable causes. The
chief point is, as I have already said, that at the moment when we have
been beaten we recall, not our former defeats, but rather our former
victories, and the victories only. We attribute to ourselves a general
capability, a capability that is a matter of principle, and which may
not be shaken by an accidental momentary inferiority. It never occurs
to us, "our vanity prevents it," that our real worth is probably but
a fairly equitable composite of equally accidental inferiorities and
superiorities. The balance will always incline toward the side of our
self-conceit.
It should be recognized that, if this illusion of our self-conceit has
its great inconveniences, if it vitiates our critical judgment, not
only of ourselves but of others, if it betrays us into false estimates,
it possesses, on the other hand, great advantages. "The illusion
that accompanies man in the course of his life," says M. Cometz, "is
a necessary condition of existence, a precious product of the vital
instinct." The man who overestimates himself is also he who is capable
of surpassing himself. It is necessary, in this great game of life, to
have confidence in oneself. If one estimated oneself only at his proper
value, one would not estimate himself sufficiently. If we did not grant
to ourselves a power superior to our real power, we would never dare to
undertake the impossible; now it is perhaps only the impossible that is
worthy of being undertaken. From the purely practical point of view,
if the end to be attained were not embellished by illusion, would we
ever set about the task? It is well for a man, after a game of chess,
to be able to say in all simplicity: "I could have played otherwise."
That is not true, of course, but it may create in the future a great
truth. Error is a great generator of truths. The truth of today has
its root in the error of yesterday. Illusions have often created real
powers. "You could do better," says the teacher to his pupil. He thus
implants in the child's mind a belief, an idea which will at once
engender a hope, and in the future, a force. Then let us not scoff too
gayly at the player who has such firm confidence in himself. Doubtless
this selfsame confidence will lead him to accept unequal battles in
which he will be worsted; but it will happen also that he will emerge
victor from struggles into which he would not have dared to venture
had not beneficent illusion considerably magnified in his eyes his
real capacity. And finally, it happens in many cases that the real
worth of a person coincides with the estimate placed upon him by his
self-conceit. One need not trust to it too much; it's only a matter of
a game. On the other hand one need not on that account fear to repeat
the old proverb: "Nothing venture, nothing have." All languages of
the world have similar proverbs. This helps to show that all peoples
have recognized that certain efforts are impossible without certain
illusions, and that, of all principles of action, the most powerful and
the most fruitful is still self-confidence.