IN THE HANDS OF THOSE PERSONS THEMSELVES

Ostap bowed, stretched out his hands as though restraining the public

from undeserved applause, and went up on to the dais.

"Comrades and brother chess players," he said in a fine speaking voice:

"the subject of my lecture today is one on which I spoke, not without

certain success, I may add, in Nizhni-Novgorod a week ago. The subject of my

lecture is 'A Fruitful Opening Idea'.

"What, Comrades, is an opening? And what, Comrades, is an idea? An

opening, Comrades, is quasi una fantasia. And what, Comrades, is an idea? An

idea, Comrades, is a human thought moulded in logical chess form. Even with

insignificant forces you can master the whole of the chessboard. It all

depends on each separate individual. Take, for example, the fair-haired

young man sitting in the third row. Let's assume he plays well. . . ." The

fair-haired young man turned red.

"And let's suppose that the brown-haired fellow over there doesn't play

very well."

Everyone turned around and looked at the brown-haired fellow.

"What do we see, Comrades? We see that the fair-haired fellow plays

well and that the other one plays badly. And no amount of lecturing can

change this correlation of forces unless each separate individual keeps

practising his dra-I mean chess. And now, Comrades, I would like to tell you

some instructive stories about our esteemed ultramodernists, Capablanca,

Lasker and Dr Grigoryev."

Ostap told the audience a few antiquated anecdotes, gleaned in

childhood from the Blue Magazine, and this completed the first half of the

evening.

The brevity of the lecture caused certain surprise. The one-eyed man

was keeping his single peeper firmly fixed on the Grossmeister.

The beginning of the simultaneous chess match, however, allayed the

one-eyed chess player's growing suspicions. Together with the rest, he set

up the tables along three sides of the room. Thirty enthusiasts in all took

their places to play the Grossmeister. Many of them were in complete

confusion and kept glancing at books on chess to refresh their knowledge of

complicated variations, with the help of which they hoped not to have to

resign before the twenty-second move, at least.

Ostap ran his eyes along the line of black chessmen surrounding him on

three sides, looked at the door, and then began the game. He went up to the

one-eyed man, who was sitting at the first board, and moved the king's pawn

forward two squares.

One-eye immediately seized hold of his ears and began thinking hard.

A whisper passed along the line of players. "The Grossmeister has

played pawn to king four."

Ostap did not pamper his opponents with a variety of openings. On the

remaining twenty-nine boards he made the same move-pawn to king four. One

after another the enthusiasts seized their heads and launched into feverish

discussions. Those who were not playing followed the Grossmeister with their

eyes. The only amateur photographer in the town was about to clamber on to a

chair and light his magnesium flare when Ostap waved his arms angrily and,

breaking off his drift along the boards, shouted loudly:

"Remove the photographer! He is disturbing my chess thought!"

What would be the point of leaving a photograph of myself in this

miserable town, thought Ostap to himself. I don't much like having dealings

with the militia.

Indignant hissing from the enthusiasts forced the photographer to

abandon his attempt. In fact, their annoyance was so great that he was

actually put outside the, door.

At the third move it became clear that in eighteen games the

Grossmeister was playing a Spanish gambit. In the other twelve the blacks

played the old-fashioned, though fairly reliable, Philidor defence. If Ostap

had known he was using such cunning gambits and countering such tested

defences, he would have been most surprised. The truth of the matter was

that he was playing chess for the second time in his life.

At first the enthusiasts, and first and foremost one-eye, were

terrified at the Grossmeister's obvious craftiness.

With singular ease, and no doubt scoffing to himself at the

backwardness of the Vasyuki enthusiasts, the Grossmeister sacrificed pawns

and other pieces left and right. He even sacrificed his queen to the

brown-haired fellow whose skill had been so belittled during the lecture.

The man was horrified and about to resign; it was only by a terrific effort

of will that he was able to continue.

The storm broke about five minutes later. "Mate!" babbled the

brown-haired fellow, terrified out of his wits. "You're checkmate, Comrade

Grossmeister!'

Ostap analysed the situation, shamefully called a rook a "castle" and

pompously congratulated the fellow on his win. A hum broke out among the

enthusiasts.

Time to push off, thought Ostap, serenely wandering up and down the

rows of tables and casually moving pieces about.

"You've moved the knight wrong, Comrade Grossmeister," said one-eye,

cringing. "A knight doesn't go like that."

"So sorry," said the Grossmeister, "I'm rather tired after the

lecture."

During the next ten minutes the Grossmeister lost a further ten games.

Cries of surprise echoed through the Cardboardworker club-room.

Conflict was near. Ostap lost fifteen games in succession, and then another

three.

Only one-eye was left. At the beginning of the game he had made a large

number of mistakes from nervousness and was only now bringing the game to a

victorious conclusion. Unnoticed by those around, Ostap removed the black

rook from the board and hid it in his pocket.

A crowd of people pressed tightly around the players.

"I had a rook on this square a moment ago," cried one-eye, looking

round, "and now it's gone!"

"If it's not there now, it wasn't there at all," said Ostap, rather

rudely.

"Of course it was. I remember it distinctly!"

"Of course it wasn't!"

"Where's it gone, then? Did you take it?"

"Yes, I took it."

"At which move?"

"Don't try to confuse me with your rook. If you want to resign, say

so!"

"Wait a moment, Comrades, I have all the moves written down."

"Written down my foot!"

"This is disgraceful!" yelled one-eye. "Give me back the rook!"

"Come on, resign, and stop this fooling about."

"Give me back my rook!"

At this point the Grossmeister, realizing that procrastination was the

thief of time, seized a handful of chessmen and threw them in his one-eyed

opponent's face.

"Comrades!" shrieked one-eye. "Look, everyone, he's hitting an

amateur!"

The chess players of Vasyuki were aghast.

Without wasting valuable time, Ostap hurled a chessboard at the lamp

and, hitting out at jaws and faces in the ensuing darkness, ran out into the

street. The Vasyuki chess enthusiasts, falling over each other, tore after

him.

It was a moonlit evening. Ostap bounded along the silvery street as

lightly as an angel repelled from the sinful earth. On account of the

interrupted transformation of Vasyuki into the centre of the world, it was

not between palaces that Ostap had to run, but wooden houses with outside

shutters.

The chess enthusiasts raced along behind.

"Catch the Grossmeister!" howled one-eye.

"Twister!" added the others.

"Jerks!" snapped back the Grossmeister, increasing his speed.

"Stop him!" cried the outraged chess players.

Ostap began running down the steps leading down to the quay. He had

four hundred steps to go. Two enthusiasts, who had taken a short cut down

the hillside, were waiting for him at the bottom of the sixth flight. Ostap

looked over his shoulder. The advocates of Philidor's defence were pouring

down the steps like a pack of wolves. There was no way back, so he kept on

going.

"Just wait till I get you, you bastards!" he shouted at the two-man

advance party, hurtling down from the sixth flight.

The frightened troopers gasped, fell over the balustrade, and rolled

down into the darkness of mounds and slopes. The path was clear.

"Stop the Grossmeister !" echoed shouts from above.

The pursuers clattered down the wooden steps with a noise like falling

skittle balls.

Reaching the river bank, Ostap made to the right, searching with his

eyes for the boat containing his faithful manager.

Ippolit Matveyevich was sitting serenely in the boat. Ostap dropped

heavily into a seat and began rowing for all he was worth. A minute later a

shower of stones flew in the direction of the boat, one of them hitting

Ippolit Matveyevich. A yellow bruise appeared on the side of his face just

above the volcanic pimple. Ippolit Matveyevich hunched his shoulders and

began whimpering.

"You are a softie! They practically lynched me, but I'm still happy and

cheerful. And if you take the fifty roubles net profit into account, one

bump on the head isn't such an unreasonable price to pay."

In the meantime, the pursuers, who had only just realized that their

plans to turn Vasyuki into New Moscow had collapsed and that the

Grossmeister was absconding with fifty vital Vasyukian roubles, piled into a

barge and, with loud shouts, rowed out into midstream. Thirty people were

crammed into the boat, all of whom were anxious to take a personal part in

settling the score with the Grossmeister. The expedition was commanded by

one-eye, whose single peeper shone in the night like a lighthouse.

"Stop the Grossmeister!" came shouts from the overloaded barge.

"We must step on it, Pussy!" said Ostap. "If they catch up with us, I

won't be responsible for the state of your pince-nez."

Both boats were moving downstream. The gap between them was narrowing.

Ostap was going all out.

"You won't escape, you rats!" people were shouting from the barge.

Ostap had no time to answer. His oars flashed in and out of the water,

churning it up so that it came down in floods in the boat.

Keep going! whispered Ostap to himself.

Ippolit Matveyevich had given up hope. The larger boat was gaining on

them and its long hull was already flanking them to port in an attempt to

force the Grossmeister over to the bank. A sorry fate awaited the

concessionaires. The jubilance of the chess players in the barge was so

great that they all moved across to the sides to be in a better position to

attack the villainous Grossmeister in superior forces as soon as they drew

alongside the smaller boat.

"Watch out for your pince-nez, Pussy," shouted Ostap in despair,

throwing aside the oars. "The fun is about to begin."

"Gentlemen!" cried Ippolit Matveyevich in a croaking voice, "you

wouldn't hit us, would you? "

"You'll see!" roared the enthusiasts, getting ready to leap into the

boat.

But at that moment something happened which will outrage all honest

chess players throughout the world. The barge listed heavily and took in

water on the starboard side.

"Careful!" squealed the one-eyed captain.

But it was too late. There were too many enthusiasts on one side of the

Vasyuki dreadnought. As the centre of gravity shifted, the boat stopped

rocking, and, in full conformity with the laws of physics, capsized.

A concerted wailing disturbed the tranquillity of the river.

"Ooooooh!" groaned the chess players.

All thirty enthusiasts disappeared under the water. They quickly came

up one by one and seized hold of the upturned boat. The last to surface was

one-eye.

"You jerks!" cried Ostap in delight. "Why don't you come and get your

Grossmeister? If I'm not mistaken, you intended to trounce me, didn't you? "

Ostap made a circle around the shipwrecked mariners.

"You realize, individuals of Vasyuki, that I could drown you all one by

one, don't you? But I'm going to spare your lives.

Live on, citizens! Only don't play chess any more, for God's sake.

You're just no good at it, you jerks! Come on, Ippolit Matveyevich, let's

go. Good-bye, you one-eyed amateurs! I'm afraid Vasyuki will never become a

world centre. I doubt whether the masters of chess would ever visit fools

like you, even if I asked them to. Good-bye, lovers of chess thrills! Long

live the 'Four Knights Chess Club'!"

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Date: 2015-01-02; view: 889