"The Death of Chess" (1926)
A small Soviet sci-fi novella by Aleksandr Abramov, published in 1926.
The year is 1927. An elderly mathematician from Moscow claims to have built a true chess automaton that can defeat any human player. What happens if his claims are indeed true, and chess is solved?
Chapter 1. The Gordian Knot Is Tied
Thick, grey fog hung over Nikitskaya street that day. Perhaps that’s why the mood today was especially gloomy. Even the most carefree people sloshed hurriedly along the slippery sidewalk, thinking drearily about getting their feet wet. The lights in the semibasement windows didn’t attract any attention, and nobody would have thought about stopping and looking into one of them…
And if you did, the first thing you’d see would have been a portrait, huge and dusty. It portrayed a tall, stooped man, leaning thoughtfully on a ledge in some sophisticated hall. Behind him, there was an old park with a beautiful road stretching towards the horizon. All that would’ve remained you of our photographers’ similar landscape pictures, but let’s not dwell too much on that. The hand of this stooped, very distinguished-looking man is hidden behind the breast of an unassuming black frock coat. The eyes look directly at you and seem lifeless, almost glazed. The face is strict and sullen. The nose with a smallest hump is situated between the bulging, wide cheekbones. The chin is bordered by a small, thin beard. There’s also a thin, trimmed moustache.
If you’d look even closer, you would see the original. The same figure, stooped over a table covered with reddish oilcloth. The same beard, trembling over a small unfinished glass of vodka. The same cheekbones, made even more prominent in the old age.
And if you could hear his seemingly quite animated talk with a man who looked like a sly stock market native, you would’ve heard the ending of a somewhat strange, but meaningful dialogue.
“Ah, Professor, you’ve wasted so many years...”
“But I couldn’t, you see, I couldn’t… I was too distrusting to these people...”
“What value do people have, when you have pure money on your hands… Believe me, if you and I crossed paths, this cannot simply end… You don’t know all my talents, Professor. With me, you’ll make a bigger splash than Riza-Han in Persia or that Abd-el-Kerim in Morocco… The world, the whole world lies before you, in your very hands, but you just sit there and keep silence...”
“I don’t know what to say… You see, I’ve been working my whole life, never offering this to anyone, I was afraid that they wouldn’t understand me, wouldn’t appreciate… Who needs my work, anyway?..”
“Who needs it? First of all, you and me need it, Professor. How much do you get in your university? One hundred and fifty? I guarantee that you’ll be earning five, ten, twenty times more. You’re such an oddball, Professor, you don’t even understand the potential profits. If what you’re saying is true, you can become Napoleon, the conqueror… But you… ah!”
“I agree, but what could I do by myself?.. I’m old and ill, and all that...”
“Nonsense. We’re starting tomorrow, and I guarantee that you’ll be famous in just 24 hours...”
Chapter 2. The Poster and the First Impressions
On the Arbat, the side-streets, the Petrovka, Myasnitskaya, Povarskaya, Kuznetskiy, the people with leather briefcases and without them, people wearing coats, galoshes, sharp- and blunt-nosed boots, people with bags, with suitcases, people wearing peak caps and hats, people wearing gloves and those who hid their cold hands in their pockets, people who went to work, to the shops, to the market and to pawnshops; all of them, somewhat perplexedly, somewhat ironically, but essentially with the usual indifference of those who are too busy, read the poster.
SMALL HALL OF THE CONSERVATORY
On 2 o’clock on Sunday, the FIRST SIMULTANEOUS CHESS DISPLAY OF THE WORLD’S ONLY CHESS AUTOMATON built by the scheme of the Moscow University Professor
M. I Yastrebov by the engineer
Weiblitz in Nuremberg. The automaton plays against any player and always unmistakably wins. All Moscow maestros are invited:
Grigoriev, Nenarokov, Verlinsky, Zubarev, Seleznev et al.
Entrance fee 1 ruble, for trade union members 50 kopecks. Administrator A. Z. NAKHIMSON
On the same day, all Moscow newspapers printed an ad on the last page:
IF YOU WANT TO SEE A PHENOMENON, GO SEE THE CHESS AUTOMATON
And below that, in bold, obtrusive letters:
From the world press:
Times:
Professor Yastrebov’s automaton is a pinnacle of technology and chess art…
Maten:
There was never anything remotely similar in the world. Professor Yastrebov’s automaton plays better than all extra-class maestros. It never lost to anybody…
Berliner Tageblatt:
Professor Yastrebov’s chess automaton was met with amazement and admiration both in chess and scientific circles…
New York Herald:
We haven’t seen anything like this. Even the best players cannot decipher the mysterious playing style of the automaton… Professor Yastrebov had really created a masterpiece of technology and chess art…
On the next day, in the new issue of the central newspaper Krasniy Sport, the All-Union sports press organ, everyone – the intrigued and the indifferent, the amazed and the skeptics, the admirers and the detractors – could read the sensational interview with Professor Yastrebov:
Our reporter had a long talk with Professor M. I. Yastrebov about his automaton, the rumours of which are already making the rounds in the Moscow chess circles.
The professor told us the following:
“I am not going to share any technical or construction information about my chess automaton until we see it in action. I can only say that in this case, this is truly a mechanism, not a human hiding in some metal casing. I’m controlling the automaton as a machinist, or a chauffeur, if you’d like. I’m a rather poor chess player myself, to be honest. I would never try to play against a good amateur, let alone the best players of Moscow. My chess knowledge is limited to the initial position and the way the pieces move.
“How could I construct a chess-playing automaton without being a good player? This mysterious circumstance is actually not a bit mysterious. For a good mathematician who knows the move theory and the essence of chess combinations, it’s not hard to make certain calculations.
“As I said before, I’m not going to elaborate on my calculations, at least until I find it necessary. Anyone who’s interested in my automaton can come and see it with their own eyes on Sunday, in the Conservatory.
“How does the automaton work? I never intended to make it look even vaguely like a human. I put the mechanism into an iron casing, roughly parallelepipedal in shape. The automaton is outfitted with clock and a rectangular screen, which shows, after some technical manipulations, the letters and numbers corresponding to the desired move.
“How did I create the automaton? With years of assiduous work. Last year, when I was in Germany on a business trip, I found Theodor Weiblitz, the mechanical engineer from Nuremberg who agreed to make my idea real. He constructed the first model of this automaton, which you’re going to see in action here.
“Why haven’t I come up with the idea of a chess automaton before? Partly because I couldn’t construct it, partly – because, without a model, I couldn’t verify all my mathematical and technical theories.”
In conclusion, Professor Yastrebov told us that due to the Second Moscow International Tournament, which is to take place soon, his automaton should attract even greater interest, because in his opinion, even the first-class chess players wouldn’t be able to defeat the automaton.
In the Moscow chess world, this issue of Krasniy Sport didn’t make any sensations. Two years ago, during the 1925 Moscow International tournament, the Moscow maestros had faced the foreign champions for the first time. Verlinsky played Capablanca, Zubarev played Lasker. And now, in 1927, they were preparing for a second meeting. So much excitement, joy and tension before the new struggle! How could you think about some automaton? Can you take notice about something as ridiculous as a machine made by some professor who doesn’t even play chess himself!
No, irony, only irony. The poster with its “quotes from the world press” is just frippery, and the “quotes” themselves are made up by advertisers. The legless officers of the Napoleonic army, climbing with great effort into the mechanical casing of the automaton, are long gone. The ugly monsters made of wood and iron, defeating lords from the Strand and bishops of Canterbury, exist only in the cinema. Some mechanical nonsense versus the Napoleons and the Kants of the chessboard! An automaton versus world champions, grandmasters and maestros! Preposterous! This can only make you smile.
But, in addition to smiles, there was curiosity. Light, amused curiosity of the renowned champions challenged by an unknown mask…
...And in London, Paris, Warsaw, Vienna, New York, Sofia, Brussels, there even was no curiosity. Twenty-six most famous maestros knew nothing about the automaton on that day.
Chapter 3. The Machine Versus the Napoleons
The Small Hall of the Conservatory is confused by the strange silence between its old, worn walls. They’d never seen anything like that. The ghosts of Beethoven, Mozart, Handel and Bach stopped in astonishment in the clouds of tobacco smoke – surprisingly, smoking was allowed – feeling most uncomfortable. It was the first time that they felt unwanted there.
And indeed, who would take interest in Bach? Bach is just a decoration. The Conservatory is a pseudonym for a place where you could suddenly see strange, almost impossible thing.
Do you really care for decorations when a creature made of wood and iron suddenly defeats the chess warriors from international tournaments? Who needs the decoration when the patented Alekhine defence cannot delay the inevitable? The great armour of the opening theory cannot stand against the silent onslaught of the automaton. How can you think about Beethoven and Mozart?
Strange, confusing thoughts are in the air. They’re confusing and offensive for the unseen dwellers of the old castle of melodies and sounds. They are mysterious and monstrously ludicrous, as ludicrous and monstrous as this grey metallic thing on the stage.
The grey metallic idol, usurping the rightful place of the Bechstein grand piano. And no melodies. Nobody plays even a simplest scale. No sounds at all. Silence. On a small, white glass screen, strange combinations of letters and numbers appear. Some abracadabra:
Nd2-f3. Or Bb3-d5.
What’s that? Beethoven and Bach have never played chess. Maybe it’s secret Masonic symbols? Or a ritual of some new religious sect?..
There’s a lot of smoke in the air. Cigarette butts. Pieces of paper. Short phrases. Sweaty brows.
One cigarette after another. Check. Knight f3 to d4. Think. Pawn moves forward. Okay. Down half a glass of tea quickly.
A ravenous-looking tall old man strokes the grey casing of the metallic idol. The idol is a parallelepiped. A ridiculous, stupid parallelepiped that represents nothing. Only letters and numbers constantly change on its white glass rectangular forehead, showing new moves.
What is this old man doing? Maybe the machine is a fraud? Maybe he’s just a genius player who poses as an automaton for some kind of a weird joke, some sensationalist trick?
But still. What an odd move it makes! Rook to g2. What does this strange combination entail? Think. Damn it, this idol is playing like Capablanca!
What spirit is hiding in the metallic bowels of the grey idol? Maybe a ghost of Chigorin or Morphy is playing here under a pseudonym of Professor Yastrebov’s automaton? Or it’s a legless officer who stole the idea of his Napoleonic-era colleague, an officer who’d left his stumps somewhere at Perekop or at the green fields of Ukraine? Who? Who?..
… … …
There’s a lot of noise in the lobby. Sweaty cheeks and bald spots are blotted by handkerchiefs. Wet, disheveled hairdos. Gesticulations. Words exchanged at the speed of a machine gun. And amazement, endless amazement.
“Damn it, I would have never thought that Grigoriev would lose to this machine...”
“You see, when he played Nh5, I though that the automaton wouldn’t find a decisive reply...”
“Still, my friends, I’m pretty sure that it’s a human playing...”
“An original thing this is. I would like to see Capablanca playing it...”
“That’s a scam...”
“A scam? So you say that Zubarev resigned to a scammer on the move 27?”
“Comrades, come here, there’s a super sharp position...”
… … …
Before the apparatus sits a young maestro with a burden of twenty-years-old wisdom on his broad shoulders. He’s following the game Lasker – Rubinstein from the Moscow International two years ago, which he knows by heart.
The young maestro is very sure in his victory. He’s unwavering like a rock. His game sheet is like the sword of the Nibelungs. His face is the face of a general, Caesar’s calm confidence coupled with Napoleon’s nervous fervour.
Move after move. The white rectangle shows the horrible numbers.
Nf3 – e5.
Napoleon falls from his horse. Alas! He loses his queen.
Chapter 4. The Present Trumps History
A few days later, Izvestia printed a story named “The Triumph of the Automaton”.
The games of the best Moscow players against Professor Yastrebov’s automaton in the Small Hall of the Conservatory in the last three days brought completely unexpected results.
To put it shortly, all the best Moscow players lost, and many amateurs did too. It’s hard to describe the ensuing panic. The oldest Moscow chess veterans said that they never remembered anything like that.
Levenfish and Rabinovich, coming from Leningrad, have lost to the automaton too. The latter’s loss is especially curious. Rabinovich, who achieved a string of good results in Moscow (1925), New York and San Sebastian (1926), played beautifully and masterfully. He used the Caro-Kann defence, and until move 17, his position was very good. But the move Bf4-c7, played by the automaton, locked away his knight and stopped the pawn movement. Rabinovich had to waste three moves to get his rook into play, so he exchanged the queens, as theory recommends, and lost a pawn after some great maneuvers by his opponent. He resigned on move 28.
The Moscow champions, who watched the game, the automaton put out brilliant moves, without a single mistake. They thought that the final combination was worthy of Lasker himself.
The public and chess players are pretty sure that, despite Professor Yastrebov’s assurances, a living human is secretly playing the games, because only a human brain, and a genius brain at that, can create combinations so talented and profound.
A quote from Dr. S. Tartakover’s article, which he sent by telegraph for the 64 chess journal:
Chess automatons have never featured in serious chess practice. In the Middle Ages, there were some ideas about creating a mechanical human (homunculus), which, in their turn, gave birth to the idea of a chess automaton.
The thinkers and tinkers of the Middle Ages thought that this automaton should look like a human that plays chess on its own, without interference of a human mind. They quite seriously thought that the game of chess has mechanical basis, that is has some concrete numerical laws. The only thing we need to do is to find these laws. Find the formula.
Many genius minds have searched for this formula. The first efforts to create a chess automaton go as far as the 15th century. The Jesuit Order manuscripts say that abbot Antonio Ferrari from Bologna constructed such an automaton. Sadly, the secret of the mechanism died together with its creator when the abbey burned down.
The same can be said about the efforts of Rudolf Theolicius and Kurt of Nuremberg. In Simon Guillard’s Tresor d’histoires admirables (“The Treasury of Incredible Stories”), written at the end of the 18th century, there are some vague, but interesting hints about the work of Arnaud de Villeneuve from France, Karl Fogg and Dr. Sibelius, two mechanics from Lubeck, and Richard Heldingen’s from England. All these works, according to Guillard, didn’t bring any concrete results, there was only some “noise” around their names and ideas.
We know the most about Kurt’s automaton. Surviving witness accounts say that his automaton looked like a human with realistic face and hands. But this automaton never gave any practical results as well, since Kurt, in a fit of madness, destroyed his mechanical doll.
In the court of Philip II of Spain, a Dominican friar named Brockard had tried to demonstrate his chess automaton. Brockard even challenged the famous Ruy Lopez and other strong players of the era, such as Leonardo de Cutri and Paolo Boi. But Philip II blocked that demonstration for some reason, and Brockard ended up in an Inquisition prison. No other information about this automaton is known.
The remains of a chess automaton (the builder is unknown) are still kept in a museum of the Duke of Lichtenstadt’s palace. It’s a heap of old, rusty iron, ready to fall apart at the first touch. But still, you can recognize a rough effigy of a man sitting in a big chair behind the chess board on a small table. It’s unknown whether this automaton actually played chess.
The history also gives us examples of quite ingenious scams. In addition to the legless Napoleonic officer who hid in a hollow doll during games, we saw similar “automatons” at German and English fairs. Contemporaries said that many of such “automatons” played brilliantly, defeating even the strong players of the era. In majority of the cases, it was just a scam to rip money off gullible chess amateurs.
Judging by the newspapers’ accounts, Professor Yastrebov’s automaton is not human-shaped and does not move like a human. The size (if I’m not mistake, the automaton is about 1 meter long and wide) suggests that there’s a very solid mechanism inside. It’s hard for me to say anything about the automaton itself, since, firstly, I’ve never seen it, and, secondly, its construction is kept secret by the creator.
Is it a true mechanism, or a living human hiding somewhere? I can’t say for sure. The automaton always plays White, and we can speculate that there’s some mathematical idea behind it, but I cannot say that definitively.
It might as well be a scam. Still, this doesn’t change much. If it’s not an automaton, it’s nevertheless a strong human player, and I’d be very pleased to meet him.
There’s an international tournament starting soon in Moscow, and I think that every maestro coming to your city would be very interested in playing with the automaton.”
The Izvestia report and Tartakower’s article were reprinted by most popular European and American papers.
Twenty-six famous maestros have finally learned about the automaton. In Vienna, Paris, New York, Warsaw, Berlin, Prague, Brussels, they were smiling ironically. But somewhere deep in their mysterious eyes, there was curiosity. The same light, amused curiosity of the renowned champions challenged by an unknown, but clearly formidable mask…
Maestro Capablanca was going to Russia. At the international station Sebezh, in a cafeteria, the waiter gave him coffee with cognac and latest New York papers. The tired, jaded eyes of the world’s favourite ran along the lines, and the red Havanese lips stretched in the same ironic smirk. An automaton against the world champion? Ridiculous!
He dropped the newspaper indifferently. The automaton’s fate was decided.
Chapter 5. The Defeat of Señor Jose Raul Capablanca-y-Graupera
The whole world remembers this event. The players of all the world, talented and incompetent, theoreticians and beginners, those who never touched chess in all their life, people of all genders, ages and nationalities, the surviving aristocrats – from the House of Lords members to the unemployed scions of ruling families, the leaders of revolutionary and reactionary parties, deputies and bakers, engineers and clerks, notaries and headwaiters – everyone opened their newspapers on one fateful day, and their eyes lost their oval form and became round, like nuts.
This incredible event happened in Moscow, which remembers the non-too-successful, but still quite honourable visit of Capablanca two years ago, during the Moscow International in November 1925. This tournament didn’t bring the maestro from Havana much fanfare and applause. Back then, as his colleagues said, he was simply “unlucky”. But at the subsequent tournaments in New York, San Sebastian and Vienna Capablanca managed to regain his fame, somewhat tarnished.
However, in 1926, Capablanca lost to Dr. Lasker in San Sebastian. This game, where all Capablanca’s remaining pawns were isolated, and Lasker’s brilliant knight sacrifice (Nc3xd5) allowed him to win the queen on move 17, had joined the pantheon of chess art among the genius games of Anderssen, Morphy and Chigorin.
Nevertheless, the world champion managed to regain his best form and score several beautiful wins against Alekhine, Bogoljubov, Marshall and Reti. And the “old lion”, Lasker, wasn’t at his best in the last tournament, so he couldn’t pose much of a challenge for the swarthy Cuban.
So, everything was going pretty well, and then…
Something completely unexpected happened. Capablanca, who stayed in the two luxury rooms of the Savoy hotel, invited a host of Moscow reporters, and he was somewhat shocked that this time, he wasn’t asked the usual questions about the Russian chess players, his rivalry with Dr. Lasker which was getting on everybody’s nerves, his opinion about hypermodernism, etc. Everyone talked only about the automaton.
“Automata?” Capablanca would ask again and again, and the weary interpreter, who had to shoulder the brunt of this American-style cross-questioning, reminded the maestro about the last New York newspapers he’d read at Sebezh and told him everything Moscow knew about the wonderful automaton.
The Small Hall of the Conservatory had probably regretted that its walls weren’t made from rubber, so that it couldn’t become bigger than it was.
The ghosts of Beethoven and Bach, who’d already learned chess and were well-versed in the abracadabra of queen and king openings – even they were stunned by the silent greatness of the events that transpired.
Because what happened there and then was worthy of being written on the history’s scrolls, on the pages of brilliant novels or on the capricious note lines of a symphony.
Even the forgotten Bechstein grand piano, even the music-worn walls, even the docile chairs, pushed together by the crowd, these wordless extras of the grand performance – even they froze in intense anticipation of the extraordinary finale of this incredible struggle.
The chess players, maestros and amateurs, young and old, those who spoke all European languages and those who knew only Russian, all of them, like a pack of penguins before sleep, like figures created by a mad sculptor, were completely motionless, and only their hearts passionately fluttered and beat with all their being on the black and white squares of the hall’s only board.
The maestro whose name is twice hyphenated, the maestro whose name is known in every house of the City, Unter den Linden and Broadway, the maestro in a smart grey suit jacket looked like an elegant archangel of the impending doomsday.
His lips, brown like cigar, were curled in a thin, wicked smile. Yes, yes, despite losing a pawn on move 10 and having no possibility of getting his bishop into play, he was still smiling.
Professor Yastrebov, with his thin moustache, wistfully watched the smoky contours of the Staunton chess with his eyes, weary of sixty years of life. It seems that he didn’t even think of them. After maestro Capablanca’s every move, his thin fingers pushed some hidden switches on the automaton, and the metallic monster showed a new sequence of numbers and letters on its white forehead.
Sometimes even his razor-sharp lips would too throw a smile, light and vague, like theory of relativity, into the sweaty, thick crowd. It slid among the intense silence, ironically whispering to the perplexed people, “Fools. You think it’s me who’s going to checkmate your king and hero before the move 40? Naive enthusiasts, who forgot about the theory of growing numbers and elementary laws of differential calculus.”
The maestro from Havana didn’t make a sound. Only the nervous fingers and snaking bluish veins, twitching slightly under the graying temples, showed his suffering under that mask of affected apathy.
This was a struggle, compared to which, even the conflicts between France and Morocco, or Canton and Peking in China, looked like a kids’ play with toy soldiers.
The human brain was publicly dying in this struggle against the iron and steel of this new Moloch, frantically protesting on the 64 squares of the checkered board.
Dempsey versus Carpentier, Napoleon versus Blucher, Kuomintang versus Chinese armies, Carthage versus the Roman legions, the bible with its Jews and Philistines, David and Goliath – all that is nonsense, rubbish in comparison to what happened somewhere inside, hidden under the elegant coat and futile irony on the pale, tight lips.
And the people, smothered, sweaty, tense, were fitfully waiting for the end.
There weren’t many women. Chess is a men’s game. Chess is a scourge of wives and mistresses. Chess is the thief of half of the attention and duties given by the fate and laws to every man.
And there was a lot of men there. The crowd was strange and unusual. Greedy, yet silent. Excited, but restrained. They didn’t think or remember anything. Their eyes looked glazed, and in them, there was only a reflection of the board, where the most original mind in the whole world was sacrificed to an idol made of wood and iron.
Who can describe this? Which poet would venture to resurrect in his pale, feeble lines this scene, the directors of which had myriads of passion, tension, horror and wordless suffering. And they juggled these myriads, threw them onto the motley canvases of chess diagrams, onto the smoky contours of wooden pieces, onto the amazed, gaping mouths, onto the eyes that were ready to jump on the dark and light squares of the board, onto the stiff, tired faces, onto the silent, pale smiles, onto the nervous, creaking pencils of the reporters, onto the dumbfounded faces of the bartenders, onto the hands of the clocks that rushed as fast as a Rolls Royce.
The maestro is thinking, his lips a thin line. Yes, the clocks are rushing like crazy. The time, which crawled like caravans in the desert on the tournaments, is running like a prize horse at the derby. Who’s rushing it? Who?
Are they rushed only by a combination of mathematically precise calculations, only by turns of the switches of the mysterious mechanism that unleash such terrible attacks onto him? Such brilliant attacking technique – without a general to lead them?
No, there should be a general. A general without the pistol and the khaki-coloured cap, a knight without the sword and armor, a terribly strong, almost genius player.
He, Capablanca, had never met him at the tournaments. He’d never seen such a quick thinking and rare combinational talent. His line against the Caro-Kann is simple and infallible. And, nevertheless, it’s completely new to him, a renowned theoretician and virtuoso practician. It’s better than the famous Reti variant against Lasker at the last tournament in Vienna.
What a nonsense! His heart skips a beat. It’s beating even faster than the rushing clocks, threatening him with the unforgiving Zeitnot.
The bluish veins are bulging on his temples. He needs a glass of coffee. And another glass. Such a terrible struggle!
Give up the c4 pawn. Knight to b4. Queen to the right corner. Right. Why go to h4? Strange. But such a spectacular move! This sphinx, masked by the iron casing, is playing like a god. In three moves, he, the maestro of both hemispheres, is going to lose a piece.
Agony. The world champion’s thoughts are racing madly, spinning like the wheels of his brand-new Rolls Royce over the asphalt of Broadway. This is the final. This is Waterloo. Napoleon’s last bet. The death of glory. His genius star is falling.
That’s how the sun burns out. Slowly, but surely, it descends under the horizon. That’s how the heroes die. That’s how Napoleon lost, slowly crushed by Wellington. That’s how Leonidas died, trapped at the Thermopylae with his warriors.
Describe the audience hall? This vortex of perplexion, passions and amazement? This reaction of the three-hour silence and tension? This storm of hoarse screams, short phrases, words madly flying about?
No, let the cold-blooded reporters write their historical lines:
Capablanca’s game against the automaton that caused more and more stir had attracted exceptional attention. The hall wasn’t able to admit everyone who wanted to watch this curious event. Among the spectators, there was a lot of foreign correspondents who came for the opening day of the international tournament, the diplomatic corps members and almost all Russian maestros who currently were in Moscow.
Capablanca played Black, because the only condition that Yastrebov demanded from any opponent is that the automaton always play White. The world champion used the Caro-Kann defence, and until move 22, he held very well. On the move 23, after some subtle maneuvers of White bishops, he’d had to sacrifice a pawn to save his pawn front from immediate collapse.
But the pawn sacrifice didn’t save the Black from their demise. On the move 31, they were completely cramped. After Nd2xc4, which picked up another pawn, they were forced to exchange queens. After two more moves, the maestro lost a piece. Afterwards, it was only a matter of endgame technique, and Capablanca defended purely out of vanity, even though the game was already over.
The world champion’s loss makes us think that the automaton is truly an exceptional phenomenon. And this makes us seriously demand explanations from Professor Yastrebov. We need to clarify whether we’re truly dealing with a sophisticated mechanism or with a supremely talented player who, for some reason, decided to mystify the public by posing as a chess automaton.
All in all, we have to think that this automaton is a great danger for the reputation of all the foreign maestros who came to the international tournament. Capablanca’s loss doesn’t automatically mean that the same fate would befall Bogoljubov, Torre or Lasker, but still, the games of these world luminaries against Professor Yastrebov’s automaton would be of exceptional interest.
Chapter 6. The Radio Amplifies the Moment.
The language of reporters is a direct wire to imagination. The language of radio is a dynamite that tears it down in a huge explosion. The broadcasting antennae of the Moscow radio station sent two words into the world, and these words became a spark that exploded millions of minds. The spark, sent out by an indifferent radio technician: CAPABLANCA LOST.
These words went around the world with a meteoric pace. Received by the radio stations of Berlin, Paris, New York, London, Chicago and Svalbard, they were relayed further. They flew triumphantly over the states and cities, over the green and yellow fields, over the taiga and Canadian forests, over the Indian jungles and Argentinian pampas, over the snowy slopes of Himalayas and sturdy Alpine peaks, over the glaciers of Greenland and sands of Egypt, over the skyscrapers and bridges, temples and pyramids, they flew, overtaking the meek airplanes and flocks of birds that looked so slow in comparison.
They attacked the cities with an avalanche of screams, exclamations, jumping newspaper and magazine lines, phone calls and letters; these words were punched in by thousands of Morses and Hugheses, they buzzed on the telegraph lines, on the cable lying on the ocean’s bottom, they lit up the signboards, newspaper boys screamed them out madly; they stopped everyone anywhere, stunning without a fail. CAPABLANCA LOST!!!
These words were spread by talks in clubs and hotels, international salons and theater foyers, resorts and dancing halls, everywhere and anywhere, from university auditoriums to bakeries. They were spoken quickly, between handshakes, before the next table d’hote, during the intermissions in plays and premieres, during the love scenes and business meetings.
Everyone who watched the international tournaments, everyone who knew how to put the Staunton pieces onto the light and dark squares of the board, anyone who’d at least heard the names of Lasker and Reti, Torre and Rubinstein, Spielmann and Bogoljubov, finally, everyone who read newspapers every day – all of them couldn’t and wouldn’t understand anything. The king of chess kings, the Napoleon of chess tournaments lost somewhere, in some Moscow, to a ridiculous automaton. Isn’t it wild and weird?
And in Moscow, among the dispersing public, the cinema operator was pretty busy. He’d already filmed Professor Yastrebov’s goatee, made a lot of close-ups and wide shots, where plain shirts, silk clothes and suit jackets mixed, and looked in vain for someone whose absence would deprive the footage of its sensation.
And finally, he found that someone and quickly started filming him. The celluloid world came alive, depicting an elegant hero with the profile of a Hollywood gentleman and the face of Childe Harold, capriciously transplanted into our completely un-Byronic age. His thin fingers nervously crumpled a scented handkerchief, and the smile, stuck on the dark lips, would sometimes shake, turning into a grimace.
In Berlin, in London, in Vienna, in Paris, in Prague and Brussels, on the Rue de la Paix, Wall Street, Broadway, Friedrichstrasse, Strand and Prater, the maestros rode to the train stations on their Rolls Royces, Fords, Mercedes, Fiats, Renaults, Packards. Twenty-six first-class champions and chess knights hastily downed their coffee in cafeteria, and the Pullman cars, rocking them gently on the soft sofas in the coupes, carried them to their destination. They all converged at Sebezh – the border city of the country where their doom awaited them, brought about by the automaton.
On the huge, thousand-tons steamer of the New York – Hamburg line, under a large canvas tent, Marshall, calm as a rock, read the newest number of the ship newspaper. There was a small, incredulous smile on his thin lips. The old Yankee didn’t believe in the automaton. Something happened with Capablanca. The elegant maestro was just out of form.
The automaton is nonsense. It’s been proven a thousand times over that the art of chess combinations isn’t subject to any mathematical laws. The automaton is just a disguise. The actual playing is probably done by human. A good, strong, perhaps genius, but still human. And if it’s human, then any kinds of accidents are possible. There can be no absolute wins. Capablanca is no benchmark.
… … …
In the soft coupe of the international train, the quiet, sad eyes, rounded by the thick horn-rimmed spectacles – for Torre was an American, and what American doesn’t wear round horn-rimmed spectacles? - slid thoughtully among the small print of the New York newspapers’ reports from Moscow.
He didn’t think about the automaton. What is Capablanca? Four impressive names, connected by hyphens. And further than that? Ageing brain and declining technique. What is Capablanca, when Torre scored a half-point more than the famous world champion in the last tournament? In the coming Moscow fight, Mexico should overtake Cuba. Mexico is young, fiery in its fights, the will to win is enormous. This will is even noted by the entrepreneurs, even the wise stock-exchange men, who are ready to exchange their Holico Oil stocks for the stocks of Torre’s future glory.
Champions? Such nonsense. He’ll overturn all those champions, as easily as this empty ashtray. The automaton is nothing to fear of. A loss is nothing. He’ll destroy it easily, much easier than the renowned maestro Capablanca-y-Graupera…
… … …
At the Volokolamsk station, the Vechernaya Moskva reporter, intrepid as an American, managed to get into the sleeping car that carried Dr. Emanuel Lasker himself.
A train car. A coupe. But it’s not Mexico, it’s Germany. Not the fiery youth, but the burden of sixty years.
A charming smile. The half-closed, jolly eyes are sparkling with something that forces you to take your hat off. The snowy white hair makes your step lighter, and your voice softer, meeker and very reverent.
The lips, poofing the cigar smoke between speaking, threw the weighty words towards the reporter, sweating from happiness:
“It’s hard for me, who doesn’t know the new generation of Russian players, to tell whether this automaton is just an elaborate disguise, a cheap sensation. Perhaps this common opinion is baseless, after all.
“However, mathematics have never penetrated the art of chess. With all their comprehensiveness, mathematics couldn’t solve it – chess resisted any mathematical efforts. The mathematicians, seeking some kinds of numerical laws in chess, were always dumbfounded by the endless, incalculable number of position. I personally think that it’s completely impossible to solve this problem, even to formulate it with definite mathematical terms.
“But, on the other hand, many things are possible. Maybe, just maybe, this problem was solved after all. Who can say that there couldn’t be a genius brain who solved the impossible?
“But then – what is all that for? Why, by checking harmony with algebra, we should completely, utterly destroy this harmony? Why should we deprive humanity of such a heroic art? Why?
“I would have welcomed a genius player with open arms, but I would have gladly destroyed the supergenius machine, because it would bring death to chess...”
Chapter 7. Moscow Plays Chess
Moscow is the Christ Saviour temple, the colourful domes of the St. Basil’s cathedral, Zaryadie, Sukharevka, Philippov’s bagels… Or, rather, it was all that.
Moscow is the automaton on Nikitskaya, chess diagrams on the streets and hotel direction. That’s what it is now.
However, this is only for the horde of non-Russian speakers who’d decided suddenly to leave the elegant avenues of Paris and London and come to the dirty gullies of Moscow. The Russian citizens, as we all know, have also got Narkompros and Narkomfin, the flats and registry offices, the layouts and the ageing Meierhold and Tairov.
For the foreigners, there are hotels. They are flooded with guests, filling the smoky air of their modest tables d’hote with a curious mixture of German, French and English words.
For the maestros, there’s Savoy, the Moskovskaya, the Metropol. For other folks, of simpler extraction, there are smaller hotels in all corners of the international city, the list of which, thankfully, can be found at all nine Moscow’s railway terminals.
The people in leather coats and gaiters, in soft felt borsalinos, in large clogs and round glasses, people in black, brown, grey and blue, people with notebooks and fountain pens, flew like a wind among the halls of Metropol, where the international tournament was going to start soon.
And there’s a stampede on the street. The lines, snaking from Lubyanka, Mokhovaya, Dmitrovka, intersecting at the Neglinniy drive, stopping the trams and buses, filling the Teatralnaya square to the brim.
The cordons of police, both on foot and on horses, faced the thousand-headed hydra of the crowd, which defied all laws of everyday life.
The trams stood still on the Mokhovaya, Lubyanka, Dmitrovka, Neglinnaya. The buses slept at the intersections. The passengers screamed, the conductors already lost their voices, the coachmen swore profusely, but it was all in vain.
All four ticket offices at the Metropol are long closed, and the cashiers have escaped from the roaring crowds through the back door. The “Sold out” signs were already hung out, and the stately doorman in blue livery was the only one who still held the crowd at bay – they were still filling out the Teatralnaya square.
There’s an event of global importance in Metropol. The event watched by millions behind Wisla, Rhine, Seine, the Atlantic. More thrilling than the ministerial crises, more popular than the rumours about the new war.
In Metropol, at the opening of the biggest assembly of chess geniuses, Professor Yastrebov’s automaton would face the strongest of them. The last knight standing in this terrible tournament was Lasker.
And Moscow was excited and anxious. Moscow waited.
At all the squares, side-streets, house corners, the chess section bulletins were sold, along with books. The newest theories of chess wisemen were selling like hot cakes.
Professor Yastrebov’s portraits were sold in the stationery shops for five kopecks. Mosselprom put out two new cigarette brands: Capablanca and Chess. The black-and-white chequered pattern became the most fashionable.
Chess was everywhere and anywhere. In the cafes. In communal cafeterias. In the clubs. In beer joints. In every flat and every room.
Chess became the essence of life. Its center. The medics registered a peculiar infectious disease: the chess fever. Everyone got infected. Even women already knew perfectly how to move queens, bishops and knights.
Even the kids. They would hastily put up the pieces during breaks in schools. They’d played on the school desks, during the lessons, even in the toilets.
The forgotten American movie Check and Mate with Priscilla Dean was quickly found in the Sovkino archives by cinema administrators. It featured a chess automaton, and it was shown in five biggest Moscow cinemas for three weeks straight. The Chess Fever, released by Rus in 1926, was screened as an addition, and the cinemas were sold out.
Tournaments were held in all facilities and offices. There were matches such as house versus house, flat versus flat. Each house had a champion. Each flat had a maestro.
“Petr Stepanovich gave a four-board simul yesterday...”
“Did you know that bishop and knight can only give checkmate if the opponent has a pawn?”
“Lasker will surely win...”
“Nonsense. Defeating the automaton is inconceivable.”
“Inconceivable? I’d try...”
“Maria Petrovna, do you want a rook odds?”
“How dare you? I didn’t lose to you even without odds!”
“Kolya, stop playing and go eat your lunch!”
“Wait a bit… Bishop to the right corner, and then...”
“Then I play Nh2.”
“Kolya!!!”
“The automaton has all chances to become the world champion...”
“Ha ha, a mechanical champion!”
“If you touched your piece, you have to move it...”
“But you can’t go under the pawn’s attack?”
“Well, comrades, this is not a tournament, this is child’s play...”
“The pawns do not go back...”
“Lenochka, it’s so hard playing with you, you’re always playing for a draw...”
“Alms, alms for a blind chess player!!!”
“So strange: you’re blind, and you’re playing chess?”
“Ivanov, you’re again playing during the lecture. Didn’t I warn you already?”
“Comrade, two bottles and a chess board!!!”
Such talks were as common as a cup of tea in the morning.
The automaton dominated all talks. People literally choked when they spoke about it. The reporters were at a loss for words when describing its wins. The spectators lost their breath when they saw Professor Yastrebov’s goatee.
The administrator, comrade Nakhimson, went everywhere by taxi and showed everyone two fingers. His face was always adorned by an angelic smile. Well, what’s an angel, anyway? He was a million times happier than an angel. He was a god.
The newspapers wrote about the automaton: a miracle. The Vecherka added: it’s genius. Only the 64 magazine was adamant: it’s all humbug and mystification.
The Metropol personnel were preparing for the simultaneous display: automaton versus Rubinstein, Marshall, Torre, Spielmann and Lasker. It was going to begin very soon.
Moscow was feverish and excited. It waited anxiously.
Chapter 8. Professor Yastrebov’s Tragedy
The last game was over. The agitated spectators, stunned, as though by explosion, relayed the sensational news to the huge crowd. The news struck the tired ears like a thunderbolt.
Marshall, Torre and Spielmann declined to play!
Rubinstein and Lasker lost!
Lasker, the great Lasker, the unbeatable genius lost!
Madness. Panic. Bafflement. Then rapture. Gesticulation. Hoarse, roaring mouths.
Lasker lost!
What now?
Where’s the truth? Where it is?
The crowd started to disperse. They felt bewilderment. Depression. Strange compassion. They grieved for the human, for the brain, for the genius human brain.
The youth, the girls in red headscarves, the short-haired girls in old shoes, the people in leather coats and grey blouses – everyone was angry.
Machine? Who needs this machine? Why? Isn’t the art of chess beautiful? Doesn’t it give us creative joy? A sharp, full-blooded excitement after a win?
The machine kills it all. It kills the creativity. Mathematics destroy the idea. Why?
In the tournament committee room, the outwardly calm Krylenko, nervously biting his lips, made a slow, deliberate speech before the assembled Komsomol members.
“Comrades, you are right, of course. And your anxiety is very characteristic for the position we must take towards this automaton. This invention is not just useless. It does huge, irreparable harm not only to the art of chess. It strikes a blow against culture itself, chess being one of its modest conductors. It can immediately destroy all the work we did to make chess an asset not only for a small circle of professionals, but for the whole population, the widest masses. And if this invention is based on certain mathematical laws, then these laws refute the prime principle of chess game: the free choice of combinations and complicated, tense mind games. We could, of course, invent a sophisticated mechanism that could, for instance, immediately destroy a museum of fine arts of the Tretyakov gallery. But, as you, of course, understand, this mechanism wouldn’t be of any use. So, calm down, comrades, we’re going to discover the essence of Yastrebov’s invention very soon and solve the question that makes you so anxious...”
And everyone who’d left the room left it with an unclear, but angry thought:
“The professor is a murderer. The machine is a monster. It’s senseless and useless. And it will bring death to chess...”
The same thought crossed the mind of Rabochaya Gazeta’s feuilletonist. The thoughts lined up, straightened, evened out, formulated more clearly and strikingly – and the article was ready. Quickly, to the editor’s office. Give me some paper and a pen. Okay, now to the printer…
… … …
Professor Yastrebov, walking slowly in his old, worn galoshes, looked at the dispersing crowd for the first time.
So many young people! Hot, excited, passionate youth. They’re probably all chess fans.
So strange! Chess is becoming everyone’s interest. It’s more and more popular now. And he brings death to them.
Is he doing the right thing by killing the joy of thousands, maybe tens of thousands, of millions?
But science is behind him. Thirty years of hard work. The happiness of achievement. This justifies all sacrifices.
But does it? Was it all worth it? What if these years were wasted in useless work on a useless discovery? Maybe it’s not needed, it’s senseless?
The heart is in pain. It rattles like a broken drum. The weight of an ugly, insulting old age felt unbearable. Heart defect. Rheumatism. Long, persistent stomach pains.
Was his life, his work worth it…
The next day, Professor Yastrebov didn’t leave his home. His heart was in even more pain.
The Rabochaya Gazeta article only aggravated the thoughts of uselessness of his work. He didn’t try to justify anything before himself. In every line of the nervous feuilleton, he saw the bitter, biting truth.
Then someone brought Izvestiya to him. And he read, breathing heavily from the heart pain, the words of Emanuel Lasker, as though written in blood.
Professor, Lasker wrote, I hope you wouldn’t refuse to finally explain to us the essence of your invention. Our defeat gives us the right to ask for that. You do not have any more opponents. There’s no-one left to prevail over.
If you did really find the system of the game of chess, if you really managed to describe all its combinational complications in the strict language of mathematical laws, then reveal them. We’re asking for your reply, Professor.
We want to know the laws that so easily refute our theoretical research and best practical analysis. We want to know them to learn the basics and methods of the game. We want to know if chess can exist and develop further.
If not, if the creative processes of this subtlest and most curious of arts are replaced with dry arithmetical calculations, then your discovery is evil. Your invention will do colossal, irreparable damage. In this case, we will fight you. Fight with everything we’ve got. And the humanity, the people of the country that appreciates this art more than probably anyone – this humanity and these people will support us, not you.
So, we’re waiting for your reply. Only you and you alone can clarify the mysteries of this strange story.
And if – sorry for my distrust, Professor, but it’s quite justifiable here – if your mechanism is just a disguise for some person’s playing genius, then you should give us the name of this player. We all admit that he’s the best of us. We all bow before him. But we need him, and the masses of amateurs who study chess need him too. His playing is too valuable to hide under a scamming – sorry, if that’s true, there’s no other word to say that – disguise of an automaton.
We’re waiting! Signed on behalf of all Russian and foreign players, Dr. LASKER.
The professor stood up. He’d made up his mind.
Chapter 9. The Gordian Knot is Cut
One day, the people picked up their morning papers as usual. There were in their homes, on the streets, behind the tables of dull beer joints, at the dusty windows of trading offices. The eyes, watching, as usual, the pieces of sugar in the warm tea, slid across the lines and suddenly read:
THE AUTOMATON GAMES ARE HELD NO LONGER
The tickets already purchased are annulled.
The refunds can be collected in the ticket offices of the Small Hall of the Conservatory and the Metropol hotel everyday from 11 a.m. to 2 p.m.
The people were confused. How? Why? Did the mechanical knight decide to retire after besting the world champions? This cannot be! Nonsense. Humbug.
There’s an earthquake in the editors’ offices. Phone rings. Remingtons and Underwoods. More and more reporters are sent out. The editors ask them to bring back interviews.
Another sensation in the evening. It strikes the reporters first and foremost. The editors, angry and anxious, tear up the proofs of tomorrow’s papers.
Professor Yastrebov is ill and doesn’t accept any guests.
Quick, to the telephone. Hello. Hello. Hello… Station, please get us…
One call after the other. Long calls. Proof-reading table. The telephone lady again… Ah…
“The phone is damaged and doesn’t work.”
The reporters run to Nikitskaya, again and again. The tired doorman tells them: the professor doesn’t accept any guests, no, it’s impossible. He doesn’t budge, no matter how much they beg. Mr. Nakhimson, sweating from his anxiety, says sadly, “He’s ill, really ill. I can’t do anything. I’m as surprised as you are...”
The sensational news spread all around the Metropol, in all languages. The maestros are baffled. Thirty-nine foreign reporters put out their notebooks and start furiously scribbling with the fountain pens.
Ten minutes later, all thirty-nine newspapers get the incredible news.
The news are discussed quietly in the corners. The maestros are secretly satisfied, but their curiosity was piqued. It grows, filling the brain to the brims. The tournament is postponed. Lasker and Capablanca refused to play until all the details of this mystery are worked out.
The people hurry home after work, to discuss, think, gossip about the events with their friends, guests and random strangers in the clubs.
Sleep escapes the eyes. Black and white Staunton pieces and grey body of the metallic monster slide in the bedroom’s air. Professor Yastrebov’s face appears on the wallpaper.
Morning brings another sensation. It doesn’t just stun – it strikes with such vengeance that your breathing stops, and your knees buckle.
Just a small article. But it grows and grows, turning into a nightmare that defies any explanations. Four lines of dry chronicle that caused panic, confusion, horror.
Yesterday, at 11 o’clock in the evening, Professor M. I. Yastrebov from the Moscow University suddenly died. The deceased suffered from an aneurysm for a while, and the doctors warned that death might come sooner than later.
Panic. Panic. Panic.
The reporters are in trance. Chasing the sensation of sudden death itself becomes a matter of life and death. From one publishing house to the other. The phones are wheezing. Enquiries to the Academy of Sciences. Mad races at the University.
Papers, give us papers. At least some torn leaves. Vechernaya Moskva pays 50 kopecks for a single line. The newspaper chronicle kings become as fast as cars.
But all for naught.
The last news are stunning, mindblowing. All speculations are crushed by the rock of an impenetrable mystery. The reporters’ stomachs turn, their hearts are heavy.
All for naught.
The sensation screams, stops, gives you a black, blunt nightmare.
There are no papers. The documents are destroyed. The automaton is broken and smashed.
Any clues! Maybe some paper pieces or formulas survived?
No! Nothing. The broken parts of the machine lay on the floor in a useless heap of iron and nickel.
The people calm down. Nothing can be done. Another unsolved mystery for the world. The Gordian knot, tied by Professor Yastrebov, is impossible to undo…
… … …
Sensation day. The editors have perked up. People sigh with relief. Finally!
The eyes are devouring the newspaper lines. The very letters are dancing in joy. The printing ink is blurring happily.
The Gordian knot is finally cut.
The Izvestia editors received a letter from an M. S. U. worker, M. Nakhimson, the son of the administrator of the notorious chess automaton show. Mr. Nakhimson himself knew nothing about Professor Yastrebov’s invention, and he could say nothing apart from what was already known after professor’s death. The lack of documents, destroyed by the inventor, stopped us from ever finding any scientific base behind that sensational invention.
So, deeming this letter the one and only source that could shed at least some light on the essence of Professor Yastrebov’s system, the editors have decided to publish it in full.
Dear comrade editor,
Since I turned out to be the only one person who knows at least something about the late professor M. I. Yastrebov’s discovery, I think it’s necessary to bring this information to light.
I met the professor back when I studied in the university – as you know, he taught differential and integral calculus there. Lately, I’ve met him often in my father’s house, and from him, I learned about the chess automaton.
As a mathematician and amateur chess player, I, of course, became interested both in the essence of professor’s system and the principles behind his mechanism’s construction. I pestered him for a very long time, and the professor finally relented and told me about the laws and premises behind his wonderful automaton, making me swear that I keep it secret.
His theory turned out to be very simple, and it wouldn’t be too hard to relate it here. So, supposing that this question is now interesting for great many minds, I’ll try to make my account as detailed as possible.
First, there’s some history.
In his youth, the professor was interested in Egyptology. During an archaeological expedition, he found a curious document, which was written approximately in the times of Amneris II. It was a papyrus scroll with a chessboard, primitive symbols for pieces and groups of various numbers and letters.
The professor spent five years to decipher this document. Ultimately, he determined that it was a peculiar theory of chess, describing mathematical laws of its combination.
The document’s authors assigned a constant number to each piece and each square. The combination of these numbers, calculated precisely, always gave the best move and the best variation.
The professor worked hard to develop and prove these, in essence, primitive principles and came up with a clear and precise system.
Here it is, more or less:
Each move has one and only one correct reply. There can be no other replies, because their identical value is an illusion, and every move except one is always erroneous.
The human brain is unable to always calculate the one correct answer in any given position, so the errors are inevitable. The partner who makes fewer errors usually wins.
Correct moves appear very often in the games now, because modern theoreticians have determined the very best moves for many position. But, having in mind the great number of chess positions (there are already 400 of them after the first move, and for the second move, you’ll have to use advanced mathematics to calculate the number), it’s clear that even the best chess maestros can only calculate a finite, limited number of correct moves.
So, if White play correctly, and Black make some mistakes, White win. Even if Black play absolutely correctly, White still win if they have the first move. That’s why the automaton always played White.
But how to determine that best move in every situation? By using numerical designations of pieces and squares from the Egyptian papyrus, the professor managed to create a definitive formula that allowed to calculate that one correct move in any position.
To create the formula, M. I. Yastrebov used the following factors:
1. X – the correct move.
2. The piece number: a1, a2, a3 etc., all the way to a16.
3. The square number: b1, b2, b3 etc., all the way to b64.
4. The proportion between the numbers of each piece: a/a1 = c.
5. The proportion between the numbers of each square: b/b1 = d.
6. The proportion between the numbers of pieces and squares: a/b = e.
Also, he used a coefficient 1.23 and some constants, which he described as α, β, γ.
If we use capital letters to designate the sums of pieces, squares and proportions, we’ll get this:
Σa = A, Σb = B, Σc = C, Σd = D, Σe = E.
Thus, we get the following formula:
By substituting the letters with numerical values, we always get a fraction, with piece number as the numerator, and square number as the denominator.
But I know nothing more about the professor’s system. He never told me the numerical values of squares or pieces, and he burned all this information together with the automaton’s blueprints. If anyone would ever discover those numbers again (the professor told me, as an example, that queen’s number was 73), this person may use M. I. Yastrebov’s formula to check his mathematical justifications and conclusions.
Now, the mechanism’s construction. I can’t say much about it. I only know that it was a complicated system of arithmometers that could calculate the best move in any occurring position. These arithmometers were controlled by two specialized keyboards: one for numbers, one for pieces and squares. To be honest, I don’t know much about the mechanism, because I was largely interested in the system itself, not its application.
That’s everything I know, related to you as closely as possible from what the late M. I. Yastrebov told me.”
The article didn’t cause furor in the academy, in the universities, mathematical and technical institutes. The science ran full steam ahead, and it didn’t even look at the small kings and queens, the small, laughable laws of their modest domains.
But the chess players have sighed with relief. The chess is safe. The art wasn’t executed on the mathematical guillotine.
And their life went on as usual.
