Sneha Jaiswal (Twitter | Instagram)
A 1941 novel which prioritizes a middle-aged man’s mental well-being over a battle victory? Fantastic.
Even though my immediate reaction to The Royal Game’s climax was disappointment, it got me thinking why author Stefan Zeig chose to end the story the way he did. Only then did the subtle, quiet middle-finger to fascism truly hit me.
This is a deceptively clever novella about chess, intellect, individuality, human psychology, and well self-preservation. For the first few pages, the story seems to be centered around a chess champion, suddenly changing tack after about 30 percent of the story, by shifting attention to a wholly new player with a disturbing past.
Narrated by an unnamed passenger aboard a ship bound for Buenos Aires, “The Royal Game” follows his attempts to learn more about fellow passenger Mirko Czentovic, the reigning world chess champion. Czentovic is famous for his reclusive nature and widely regarded as dense, dull, and intellectually unremarkable beyond the sixty-four squares of the chessboard.
Not too surprisingly, the narrator indeed has a tough time breaching Czentovic’s high walls, so he devises a plan to lure the champion into playing a game of chess, since that seems to be the only thing he might be interested in. Czentovic does take the bait, but at a literal cost, agreeing to play against a whole host of enthusiastic amateurs for a handsome price. The whole thing is funded by an arrogant, wealthy businessman called McConnor, a man keen on having the honor to play and maybe even defeat a world master.
At first, “The Royal Game” seems like a straightforward tale about a chess champion taking on a bunch of rookies. However, when a mysterious Dr. B starts to advice the players and makes Czentovic sweat a bit, the novel becomes a story about how for the first time, the crowd sees real hope of defeating a formidable opponent. But the focus on this new player also completely changes the direction of the story, which will delight some readers, and perhaps frustrate others. But I am not going to reveal anymore.
As someone who doesn’t play chess and probably tried it last at least 15 years ago, some of the pages which were filled with chess jargon obviously flew over my head. The following quote from ‘The Royal Game’ perfectly sums up how someone like me would feel if we were to watch a grand-master compete in front of us:
“…truth be told, the gradual development of the position was rather disappointing for us amateurs, as every genuine tournament game tends to be. The more intricately the pieces intertwined into some strange ornament, the more impenetrable the actual position became. We could perceive neither what one opponent intended nor what the other intended, nor even who truly held the advantage.”
Thankfully, the chess jargon is limited and doesn’t really disrupt the reading experience, even if you aren’t familiar with the royal game. It’s the kind of novel where readers might be tempted to quit before they finish even a quarter of the story, because it is admittedly a little tedious until then. The anonymity of the narrator, combined with the detailed character sketch of Mirko Czentovic – an orphan raised in a village who would have remained completely unknown had his genius for chess not been discovered – makes it difficult to care about where the story is headed. It’s only when the mysterious Dr. B steps in that the novel gathers pace, intrigue, and finally becomes a game worth following.
The story is inventive, gripping, and offers a fantastic study of how people’s circumstances and experiences shape them. For instance, Czentovic comes from an impoverished family, yet his chess fame makes him cold, arrogant, and insufferable. Monomania is a major theme in the novel – an unhealthy obsession with a single pursuit. In Czentovic’s case, it’s chess. He doesn’t see the world beyond the royal game, considering himself superior to everyone else simply because he happens to be the reigning world champion. As the second half of the novel reveals, Dr. B is something of a monomaniac too. But unlike Czentovic, whose obsession feeds his arrogance, Dr. B’s becomes a vulnerability he must learn to confront.
The story uses a simple match between two players to examine identity, isolation and the fragile line between brilliance and self-destruction. I’d rather write an entirely separate article about what makes ‘The Royal Game’ such a memorable read than say anything further about the novel, because almost anything else would verge on spoiler territory. If you’ve been itching to read something from the 1940s, add it to your ‘to read’ list.
Rating: 5 on 5. The Royal Game (Schachnovelle) is also on Kindle Unlimited.
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