I have been anxiously trawling the blogosphere, and it is unanimous. Zweig’s Chess is a masterpiece, a triumphant and exemplar instance of the novella. “Creepy and disturbing” are not words that I am seeing much. In fact, not at all.

Its strength, according to those others, is in part clear and precise writing (seamlessly translated by Anthea Bell) and an intense narrative that propels the reader compulsively through the scant pages. Easily a one-sitting read. And I am with his admirers up to that point.

Here’s a brief synopsis. An orphaned Slavonian peasant, raised in charity and apparently imbecilic, unexpectedly shows an aptitude, genius even, for chess. In a fairy-tale minus the happy ending Czentovic proceeds to become the youngest of chess-masters; rich, reclusive and… boorish.

‘To the amusement and annoyance of his chess-playing collagues, he clumsily and with positively shameless imudence sought to make as much money as he could from his gift and his fame, displaying a petty and often vulgar greed.’

This Czentovic is brought to bay on a cruise ship, by one man intent on psychoanalysis and another nursing an unbridled ego. Czentovic reluctantly agrees to a match – for a monetary stake. The chess is going badly for the opponents of Czentovic, until a tentative voice insinuates itself, issuing authoritative and inspired suggestions… The voice belongs to Dr B, the back story of whom is revealed, before the novella rushes on to a traumatic conclusion.

This should leave one impressed by the psychological depth of Zweig’s observation; the downward spiral of Dr B subjected to psychological torture at the hands of the Gestapo and the price to be paid for barricading the psyche against all-comers; the comparison of the two chess-players and their respective backgrounds, the relative merits of the methods by which they acquire their skill.

It is too easy. Czentovic is set up to be knocked down, and Dr B. is designed to attract our compassion. (I discovered one review that suggested Czentovic as Hitler.)

‘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.’

My compassion began, and remained, with Czentovic; as much a victim of fate as Dr B. This sympathy was intensified by several statements made by Dr B. to the effect that he, undergoing solitary confinement and verbal interrogation (there is no suggestion of physical violence), suffered more than those dying in concentration camps. I found this very difficult to accept and, taken in conjunction with the obvious direction of the sympathies of both the narrator and the author, it makes an unpalatable statement about the relative worth to be attached to the sensibilities and sensitivity of the less educated classes versus those of the intellectual.

There is psychological depth, but it may reveal more about Zweig than his characters. However, a little sensitivity would not go amiss. This novella was Zweig’s last work before his suicide and criticising the works of a troubled man sits uneasily with me.

June 8, 2011
Categories: 1001 Books You Must Read..., Austrian, Review, Translation . Tags: chess, stefan zweig . Author: Sarah

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