Read “A Chess Story”, by Stefan Zweig online on Bookmate – An epic chess match on a transatlantic liner unearths a story of persecution and obsession. One of. Chess Story by Stefan Zweig - Download as PDF File .pdf), Text File .txt) or read online. Chess Story, also known as The Royal Game, is the Austrian master. Editorial Reviews. Review. "[Zweig is a] writer who understands perfectly the life he is Chess Story (New York Review Books Classics) by [Zweig, Stefan].
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Chess Story, also known as The Royal Game, is the Austrian master Stefan Zweig's final achievement, completed in Brazilian exile and sent off to his American. Stefan Zweig his address book PDF. to top. Miniature book - Stefan Zweig Schachnovelle (chess story The Royal Game). Since October the. Chess Story, also known as The Royal Game, is the Austrian master St.. Stoner by John Williams Chess Story by Stefan Zweig The Invention of Morel by Adolfo Bioy Casares The Summer Book by Tove Jansson A Shelves: pdf, أدب-مترجم.
German edition of the chess story by Stefan Zweig Schachnovelle - book with an original pencil drawing signed by the artist Cover illustration by Elke Rehder.
German edition. Publisher S. Fischer, Frankfurt. With an original drawing by the artist on the second title page, signed and dated Set of six postcards to the chess story The Royal Game by Stefan Zweig to top Exhibition catalog showing the six woodcuts to the Royal Game by Stefan Zweig - the exhibition Landesweit nationwide with new acquisitions of the country's historical collection of 25 years was shown in the city of Kiel.
The portfolio with the six woodcuts for The Royal Game is shown on a double page in the exhibition catalog. Something in me wanted to be right after all, and I only had this other ego in myself that I could fight; so I improved during the game in an almost manic excitement. Size: 21 x 29,6 cm. Limited edition of numbered and signed copies in the Elke Rehder Presse and signed copies for the Edition Curt Visel. Exhibition poster on artists' books and prints to the chess story by Stefan Zweig - an image of one of my woodcuts to The Royal Game was selected for the art exhibition poster at the Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz Library in Hanover.
Rare numbered and signed edition of "Schachnovelle" containing the six color woodcuts by the artist Elke Rehder to The Royal Game by Stefan Zweig to top Chess Story signed woodcut with a quotation from the German first edition by Stefan Zweig - to the 60th death anniversary of Stefan Zweig I showed at the Literaturhaus house of literature in the city of Kiel my new art works on chess and Henning Westphal read from the book Schachnovelle by Stefan Zweig.
On this occasion a double page with a woodcut and a hand-set text a short quotation from The Royal Game was published in letterpress printing by my small press Elke Rehder Presse.
Quotation from Schachnovelle in German language, handset letterpress printing with a woodcut in black and white. B gains prominence in the story when he joins the group, indicating the correct sequence that leads to a draw in the rematch.
Stefan Zweig, his last address book 1940-1942
A face-off is suggested, and the mysterious opponent nervously accepts, aware that he had not played chess for almost twenty-five years.
The doctor had not forgotten the chess book that had served as an escape from boredom, nor had he forgotten the crumbs of bread and the square quilt that he had used as pieces and board. Recall that in captivity, he had managed to reproduce the games thanks to the skills developed by his obsession. He did not need the quilt nor the crumbs, he could do it all in his brain. And he was happy, as he described: For suddenly I had something to do—something meaningless, something without purpose, you may say, but still something that nullified the nullity surrounding me; I possessed in these one hundred fifty tournament games a marvelous weapon against the oppressive monotony of my environs and my existence.
He had left chess aside, until the trip to Buenos Aires, where, unexpectedly, by agreeing to face the champion, he risked a very dangerous relapse. During the game with Czentovic, the champion reflects on his moves while his rival — who apparently had everything under control — becomes increasingly impatient, not because of the position on the board, but due to his state of mind.
He began to move as if he were in the room of confinement. The past was coming back! The lawyer startlingly wins, and, breaking his promise, he accepts a rematch.
Read It & Steep Book Group
During the second game, his behaviour changes that sickly impatience! Luckily, a confidant, who knew the doctor's story, quickly brought him back to reality, warning him about the imminent danger. So that was, fortunately, the last chess game he would ever play. Different interpretations Regarding Zweig's powerful plot, the renowned American professor George Steiner b.
Steiner is very startled by the fact that the protagonist, in the hermetic confinement of a hotel room, uses chess as the final link with reality, when usually the exact opposite is true.
He emphasizes the schizoid aspect of the game of chess, when he states: What else exists in the world other than chess? A stupid question, but one that every true chess player has asked himself at least once. And the response — when reality has been contracted to sixty-four squares, when the brain becomes a luminous blade that points singularly to a set of hidden lines and forces — is at least uncertain. The character learns to play by himself and assumes both roles in imaginary games he is the player and his rival.
Despite the darkness they found in Zweig's story, the French researchers accept the fact that the game's attractiveness is undeniable: "It is the only one among those devised by man that escapes sovereignly any tyranny of chance and bestows the laurels of victory exclusively to the spirit, or better yet, to a very distinctive form of mental acuteness.
Under these circumstances, chess might become a temporary relief, but never a definitive solution! The author's own suicide, unfortunately, serves as evidence of the fact that neither the game nor literature sufficed as lifelines for someone who saw his soul and psyche — his existence — corroded by human malevolence.
The plot is centred on chess, specifically a chess book: the one written by the Austrian author. The comic book approaches the subject with strongly expressionist drawings and a very appropriate dark-tone narration. The action takes place in Argentina between and The story is filled with references to historical episodes that show the extraordinary instability of a country damaged by weak democratic governments and ferocious military dictatorships.
While these political wobbles take place, chess is seen as a safeguard of neutrality —or at least isolation if you ignore what happens outside the board.
The main character his surname is Huergo is a middle-aged man, a bookseller and collector of original German literature who, besides being a passionate chess player, is looking for a first edition of Chess Story, a book that at some point was part of his personal library. That copy had belonged to a wealthy old German Nazi who had escaped, like many others maybe even Hitler if we believe the hypothesis of him not having really committed suicide?
Zweig: A Chess Story and a dramatic death
In fact, the text mentions a submarine that had a swastika printed on it, and alludes to Adolf Eichmann's capture in the South American country. It also mentions another German who, in the s, by planting pines, gave shape to the beautiful Atlantic city known today as Villa Gesell. Precisely in that seaside location, things start to unfold. A box full of books disappears, and starts to go around: Huergo and his former business partner get it, amongst others — including the people in charge of a Jewish library in Berazategui, a town in the province of Buenos Aires.
The story includes many Argentine cultural references, from complete lyrics of tango songs to a street graffiti that read, "Let everything go", during , when the country was amidst a devastating crisis. He sat slowly and ponderously, but from the purely physical viewpoint the action cancelled out his condescending attitude towards us so far. We had forced him to come down to our level, at least in spatial terms.
He thought for a long time, eyes lowered and intent on the board, so that you could hardly see his pupils under his dark lids, and in his meditations his mouth gradually dropped open, giving his round face a rather simple expression. Czentovic thought for several minutes, then made his move and stood up. And our friend was already whispering: Delaying tactics! Good thinking! But dont fall for it! Force an exchange, you must force an exchange, and then we can get a draw and no god will be able to help him.
McConnor did as he said. In the next few moves between the two of them the rest of us had long since sunk to the status of mere extras a back-and-forth procedure that meant nothing at all to us ensued. After about seven moves Czentovic thought for some time, then looked up and said, Game drawn. For a moment there was total silence. We suddenly heard the sound of the waves and the jazz music playing in the saloon, we could hear every step on the promenade deck and the quiet, soft blowing of the wind as it came through the cracks around the portholes.
We were hardly breathing; it had happened too suddenly, and all of us were left in shock by the improbable way in which this unknown had forced his will on the world champion, in a game that was half lost already. McConnor leaned back with a sudden movement, the breath he had been holding emerged audibly from his lips in a contented Ah! Myself, I was watching Czentovic. It seemed to me that during the last few moves he had turned paler.
But he was good at keeping control over himself. He persisted in his apparently unruffled composure, and just asked in the most casual of tones, sweeping the chessmen off the board with a steady hand, Would you gentlemen care for a third game? He asked the question purely objectively, purely as a matter of business. But the remarkable thing was that he had not been looking at McConnor, and instead had raised his eyes to gaze keenly straight at our saviour. Just as a horse recognizes a new and better rider by his firmer seat, he must have identified his true, genuine opponent during those last moves.
Instinctively, we followed the direction of his eyes, and looked at the stranger in suspense.
However, before he could think about it, let alone answer, McConnor in his ambitious excitement was triumphantly calling out to him, Of course! But now you must play against him on your own! You against Czentovic! Here, however, something unforeseen happened.
The stranger, who curiously enough was still staring hard at the now empty chessboard, started when he felt that all eyes were turned on him and heard us appealing to him so enthusiastically.
His expression became confused. Oh, by no means, gentlemen, he stammered in visible dismay. Quite out of the question you mustnt think of me for a moment I havent sat at a chessboard for twenty, no, twentyfive years and only now do I see how improperly I behaved, interfering in your game without asking please excuse my presumption. And before we had recovered from our surprise, he had already turned and left the saloon.
But thats impossible! The man says he hasnt played chess for twenty-five years? Out of the question! He calculated every move, every counter-attack for five or six moves in advance.
No one can do that off the cuff. Its absolutely impossible isnt it? With this last question McConnor had instinctively turned to Czentovic. But the world champion remained as cool as ever. I really cant venture an opinion. Anyway, the gentleman played in a rather strange and interesting way, so I gave him a chance on purpose.
Rising casually to his feet as he spoke, he added in his matter-of-fact manner, If he, or indeed you gentlemen, would care for another game tomorrow, Im at your disposal from three in the afternoon. We couldnt suppress a slight smile. All of us knew that Czentovic had definitely not been generous enough to give our unknown helper a chance, and his remark was nothing but a naive excuse to mask his own failure.
Our wish to see such unswerving arrogance taken down a peg or two grew all the stronger. Suddenly we peaceable, easy-going passengers were overcome by a wild, overweening lust for battle. The idea that here on this ship, in the middle of the ocean, the palm of victory might be snatched from the chess champion a record that would be flashed all over the world by telegraph offices fascinated us in the most provocative way.
And then there was the intriguing mystery arising from our saviours unexpected intervention just at the critical moment, and the contrast between his almost timorous modesty and the professionals unshakeable self-confidence.
Who was this stranger?
Had chance brought a hitherto undiscovered chess genius to light here? Or was a famous master concealing his name from us for some unknown reason? We discussed all these possibilities with great excitement; even the most audacious hypotheses did not seem to us audacious enough to reconcile the strangers baffling shyness and surprising protestations with his unmistakable skill.
On one point, however, we were all agreed; we werent giving up the spectacular prospect of another encounter.
We decided to try every possible means of persuading our helper to play a game against Czentovic the next day. McConnor pledged himself to meet the expense. Since inquiries put to the steward had by now produced the information that the unknown man was an Austrian, I was charged, as his fellow countryman, to convey our request to him.
It didnt take me long to track down the man who had fled in such haste. He was on the promenade deck, reclining in his deckchair and reading. Before going closer, I took the opportunity of observing him. His head with its sharply cut features was resting on the cushion in a slightly weary attitude; once again I was particularly struck by the strange pallor of his relatively young face, framed at the temples by dazzlingly white hair.
I dont know why, but I had a feeling that this man must have aged very suddenly. I had hardly approached him before he rose courteously, and introduced himself by a name that was immediately familiar to me as that of a highly regarded old Austrian family. I remembered that a man of the same name had belonged to the circle of Schuberts most intimate friends, and one of the old Emperors physicians had been a family member too.
When I put our request to Dr B. It turned out that he had never guessed he had acquitted himself so well in our game against a grandmaster, indeed the most successful grandmaster of all at the time.
For some reason the information seemed to make a particular impression on him, for he kept asking again and again whether I was sure that his opponent had really been the acknowledged world champion. I soon realized that this fact made my errand easier, and I merely thought it advisable, sensing the delicacy of his feelings, not to tell him that the financial risk of possible defeat would be covered by McConnors funds.
After considerable hesitation, Dr B. For, he added, with the smile of a man lost in thought, I really dont know if Im capable of playing a game of chess properly by all the rules. Do please believe me, it wasnt false modesty when I said that I havent touched a chessman since my schooldays, more than twenty years ago. And even then I was considered only a player of no special talent.
He said this in such a natural way that I could not for a moment doubt his honesty. Yet I couldnt help expressing my surprise at the precision with which he could remember every single combination thought up by many different masters; he must at least, I said, have taken a great theoretical interest in the game.
A great theoretical interest? God knows, I can certainly say Ive done that. But it was under very special, indeed unprecedented circumstances. Its a rather complicated story, but it could make some slight contribution to the history of these delightful times of ours. If you have half an hour to spare He had indicated the deckchair next to his, and I was happy to accept his invitation. We had no neighbours.
But I dont suppose you will have heard of the legal practice that I ran with my father and later on my own, since we didnt deal with the kinds of cases that attracted newspaper publicity, and we avoided taking new clients on principle. In fact we didnt really have an ordinary legal practice any more, we confined ourselves entirely to giving legal advice to the great monasteries and in particular administering their property.
As a former parliamentary deputy of the Clerical Party, my father was close to them.
In addition and now that the monarchy is past history, I suppose this can be mentioned management of the funds of several members of the imperial family was entrusted to us. These links with the court and the clergy my uncle was the Emperors physician, another of the family was Abbot of Seitenstetten went back two generations; all we had to do was maintain them, and this inherited trust involved us in a quiet, I might even say silent form of activity, not really calling for much more than the strictest discretion and reliability, two qualities that my late father possessed to a very high degree.
Through his circumspection, he succeeded in preserving considerable assets for his clients both in the inflationary years and at the time of the coup. When Hitler came to the helm in Germany and began raiding the assets of the Church and the monasteries, many negotiations and transactions on the German side of the border also passed through our hands.
They were designed to save movable property at least from confiscation, and we both knew more about certain political dealings by the Curia and the imperial house than the public will ever hear about. But the inconspicuous nature of our legal office we didnt even have a brass plate outside the door as well as our caution, for we both carefully avoided all monarchist circles, were in themselves the best protection against investigation from the wrong quarters.
In all those years, in fact, none of the authorities in Austria ever suspected that the secret couriers of the imperial house always collected and handed in their most important correspondence at our modest fourth-floor premises. But the National Socialists, long before arming their forces against the world, had begun to muster another equally dangerous and well-trained army in all the countries bordering on their territory: the legion of the underprivileged, of people who had been passed over or who bore a grudge.
They had their so-called cells in every office and every business company, their spies and listening-posts were everywhere, all the way to the private offices of Dollfuss and Schuschnigg. And they had their man, as unfortunately I discovered only too late, even in our own modest legal practice.
He was no more than a poor, untalented clerk whom I had offered a job at a priests request, simply to give the office the outward appearance of an ordinary firm; in reality we used him only to run innocent errands, let him answer the telephone and do the filing thats to say, the filing of entirely harmless, unimportant paperwork. He was never allowed to open the post; I typed all important letters myself, never making copies, I took every important document home, and conducted secret discussions only in the monastery priory or my uncles consulting rooms.
Thanks to these precautions, the listening-post saw none of our important dealings, but through an unfortunate accident the vain, ambitious fellow must have noticed that we didnt trust him and that all kinds of interesting things were going on behind his back. Perhaps in my absence one of the couriers had once incautiously mentioned His Majesty instead of the agreed pseudonym of Baron Fern, or perhaps the wretched man had been opening letters on the sly at any rate, before I suspected him of anything, Munich or Berlin had instructed him to keep watch on us.
Only much later, long after my arrest, did I remember how his original lacklustre approach to his work had turned to sudden eagerness in the last few months, and he had several times almost importunately offered to take my letters to the post. So I cant absolve myself of a certain incautiousness, but after all, werent the best of diplomats and military men taken in by Hitlers insidious tricks? The close, indeed loving attention the Gestapo had been paying me over a long period was made evident by the fact that on the very evening when Schuschnigg announced his resignation, I had already been arrested by SS men.
Luckily I had managed to burn the most important of our papers as soon as I heard Schuschniggs resignation speech on the radio, and as for the remaining documents, with the indispensable certificates for the foreign investments of the monasteries and two archdukes, I sent them to my uncle, hidden in a laundry basket and taken away by my trustworthy old housekeeper literally at the last minute, just before my door was broken down.
In the flickering light I saw a nervous tic at the right-hand corner of his mouth which I had noticed before, and which recurred every few minutes. It was only a fleeting movement, not much more than the ghost of one, but it gave a curious look of unrest to his entire face. You probably think Im going to tell you about the concentration camps where everyone who kept faith with our old Austria was taken, about the humiliations, torments and tortures that I suffered there.
But nothing of that nature happened. I was in a different category. I wasnt herded together with those poor souls who suffered physical and mental degradation as resentments long nurtured were vented on them, I was put into that other, very small group from which the Nazis hoped to extract either money or important information. In itself, of course my modest person was of no interest to the Gestapo.
But they must have discovered that we had been the front men, administrators and intimates of their bitterest enemy, and what they hoped to get out of me was incriminating material: material to be used against the monasteries which they wanted to prove had been sequestrating property, evidence against the imperial family and all in Austria who sacrificed themselves in support of the monarchy. They suspected and to be honest, not incorrectly that considerable amounts of the funds which had passed through our hands were still hidden away safe from their rapacity, so they brought me in at the earliest opportunity to force these secrets out of me, using their tried and trusted methods.
People in my category, from whom important evidence or money was to be extracted, were not sent to concentration camps but kept for special processing. You may remember that our chancellor and Baron Rothschild, from whose family they hoped to extort millions, were not put behind barbed wire in a prison camp, but had what looked like preferential treatment and were taken to a hotel, the Hotel Metropole, which was also the Gestapo headquarters and where each had a room of his own.
Insignificant as I was, I received the same mark of distinction. A room of your own in a hotel it sounds very humane, doesnt it? However, you may believe me if I tell you that when we prominent people were not crammed into an icy hut twenty at a time, but accommodated in reasonably well-heated private hotel rooms, they had in store for us a method which was not at all more humane, just more sophisticated. For the pressure they intended to exert, to get the material they needed out of us, was to operate more subtly than through crude violence and physical torture: the method was the most exquisitely refined isolation.
Nothing was done to us we were simply placed in a complete void, and everyone knows that nothing on earth exerts such pressure on the human soul as a void. Solitary confinement in a complete vacuum, a room hermetically cut off from the outside world, was intended to create pressure not from without, through violence and the cold, but from within, and to open our lips in the end.
At first sight the room I was given didnt seem at all uncomfortable. It had a door, a bed, an armchair, a washbasin, a barred window. But the door was locked day and night; no book, newspaper, sheet of paper or pencil might lie on the table; the window looked out on a firewall; a complete void had been constructed around my self and even my own body.
Everything had been taken from me: my watch, so that I wouldnt know the time; my pencil, so that I couldnt write anything; my penknife, to prevent me from opening my veins; even the smallest narcotic such as a cigarette was denied me. Apart from the jailer, who spoke not a word and wouldnt answer any questions, I never saw a human face and I never heard a human voice. In that place your eyes, ears and all the other senses had not the slightest nourishment from morning to night and from night to morning.
You were left irredeemably alone with yourself, your body, and the four or five silent objects, table, bed, window, washbasin; you lived like a diver under a glass dome in the black ocean of this silence, and even worse, like a diver who already guesses that the cable connecting him to the world outside has broken and he will never be pulled up from those soundless depths. There was nothing to do, nothing to hear, nothing to see, you were surrounded everywhere, all the time, by the void, that entirely spaceless, timeless vacuum.
You walked up and down, and your thoughts went up and down with you, up and down, again and again. But even thoughts, insubstantial as they may seem, need something to fix on, or they begin to rotate and circle aimlessly around themselves; they cant tolerate a vacuum either. You kept waiting for something from morning to evening, and nothing happened. You waited again, and yet again. Nothing happened.
You waited, waited, waited, you thought, you thought, you thought until your head was aching. You were left alone. I lived like this for two weeks, outside time, outside the world. If a war had broken out during that time I wouldnt have heard about it, for my world consisted only of table, door, bed, washbasin, chair, window and wall, and I kept staring at the same wallpaper on the same wall; I stared at it so often that every line of its zigzag pattern has etched itself on the innermost folds of my brain as if with an engravers burin.
Then, at last, the interrogations began. You were suddenly summoned, without really knowing whether it was day or night.
[PDF] FREE The Collected Novellas of Stefan Zweig: Burning Secret, A Chess Story, Fear, Confusion,
You were fetched and led along a few corridors to you didnt know where; then you waited somewhere, again you didnt know where, and suddenly you were standing in front of a table with a few men in uniform sitting round it.
A pile of papers lay on the table: files, containing you didnt know what, and then the questions began, real and false, obvious and deceptive, cover-up questions and trick questions, and while you replied strange, malicious fingers leafed through the papers containing you didnt know what, and strange, malicious fingers wrote something in the record of the interrogation, and you didnt know what they were writing.
But the most terrible part of these interrogations, for me, was that I could never guess or work out how much the Gestapo really knew about what went on in my legal office, and what they wanted to worm out of me. As Ive told you, I had sent the really incriminating papers to my uncle at the last minute by way of my housekeeper. But had he received them? Had he failed to receive them? And how much had that clerk given away? How many letters had been intercepted, how many might they have extracted by now from some naive cleric in the German monasteries that we represented?Finally a simultaneous match was suggested.
Original Title. Behind my back. Suddenly there was something new between the two players: On a boat trip to Buenos Aires remember that Zweig initially considered this the promised land , Dr. Tactics - from Basics to Brilliance Vol. You are thinking: He tried to dissociate them so that each one ignored the intentions of the other.
A box full of books disappears, and starts to go around: Huergo and his former business partner get it, amongst others — including the people in charge of a Jewish library in Berazategui, a town in the province of Buenos Aires.
Having used these neuroses successfully, they threaten to become habitual.
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