I hope you will not seriously expect me to offer a genuine challenge to a chess master, indeed the greatest in the world. My only interest, the only attraction for me, is a postmortem curiosity to know whether that was chess or madness in the cell, whether at that time I was just on the brink or already over the edge—that’s all, nothing else.”

Just then the sound of a gong came from one end of the ship, summoning us to dinner. We must have been talking for two hours—Dr. B. reported everything in much more detail than I have set down here. I thanked him warmly and took my leave. But before I could move along the deck, he came after me and, visibly nervous and even stammering a little, added:

“One more thing! Will you tell the gentlemen beforehand, so that I won’t appear impolite afterwards: I’ll play just one game … it’s just to put paid to an old account—the finale rather than a new beginning … I don’t want to fall again into that passionate chess fever, which I recall with nothing but horror … and anyway … anyway the doctor warned me … warned me specifically. Anyone who has suffered from a mania remains at risk forever, and with chess sickness (even if cured) it would be better not to go near a chessboard … So you understand—only this one experimental game for myself, and no more.”

The next day, we assembled in the smoking lounge punctually at the agreed-upon hour of three o’clock. Our group had grown to include two more lovers of the royal game, two ship’s officers who had requested leave from duty so that they could watch the tournament. Even Czentovic did not keep us waiting as he had the previous day, and after the obligatory choice of colors the memorable game between this homo obscurissimus and the renowned world champion began. I regret that it was played for such thoroughly incompetent spectators and that its course is as lost to the annals of chess as Beethoven’s piano improvisations are to music. On the succeeding afternoons we put our heads together to try to reconstruct the game from memory, but without success; we had probably been too intent on the two players to follow the progress of play. For the contrast in the two players’ intellectual constitutions became more and more physically evident as the game proceeded. Czentovic, the old hand, remained stock-still the whole time, looking fixedly and severely down at the board: for him thought seemed to be close to physical exertion, demanding the utmost concentration in every part of his body. Dr. B. on the other hand moved completely freely and naturally. As a true dilettante in the best sense of the word, one who plays for the pure delight—that is, the diletto—of playing, he was utterly relaxed physically, chatting with us during the early breaks to explain the course of the game and casually lighting a cigarette. When it was his move he only glanced at the board. Each time he seemed to have been expecting his opponent’s play.

The requisite opening moves went fairly quickly. Something like distinct strategies did not seem to develop until the seventh or eighth. Czentovic’s pauses for thought were becoming longer; we sensed that the true battle for the upper hand had begun. But, to be perfectly honest, the gradual development of the game was something of a disappointment to us laymen, as that of any real game in a tournament would have been. For as the pieces wove themselves together into a strange decorative pattern, the actual state of play became increasingly impenetrable to us. We could not discern the intentions of either player or make out who had the advantage. We saw individual pieces moving like levers to pry open enemy lines, but, since everything these superior players did was always calculated several moves ahead, we were unable to grasp the strategic purpose of this give and take. Our lack of comprehension was gradually joined by a paralyzing fatigue, chiefly attributable to Czentovic’s endless delays, by which our friend too began to be visibly irritated. I watched uneasily as the game went on and he fidgeted more and more in his chair, now nervously lighting one cigarette after another, now seizing a pencil to make a note of something. Then he ordered more mineral water, hurriedly downing glass after glass. It was obvious that he was calculating his moves a hundred times faster than Czentovic.