New Stories about Old Chess Players

We are pleased to present our newest columnist, Jerry Spinrad. We will let
Jerry's own words tell you what he - and his new column at ChessCafe.com.

I am a professor at Vanderbilt University, where I teach

theoretical computer science. My specific research area is
graph algorithms, and I have been an author of two books on
that subject.

I have been playing tournament chess since my high school

years during the Fischer boom. For many years, I have been
either a high class A player or a low expert. My most
impressive sounding achievement in chess is that I am 3-time
quick chess champion of Tennessee; actually, the only time I
New Stories beat out strong masters for the title, I was helped by a
ridiculously favorable pairing in the last round and a great
about Old deal of luck in the tiebreak system. I have coached my
daughters' school chess teams since they started school, and
Chess Players once had a team win the state championship.

When I started my investigations into chess history, I first

Jeremy P. Spinrad considered writing an ambitious and scholarly review of a
particular period of chess history. Although I might still like to
write such a book, I found myself increasingly interested in the
fascinating personalities of chess players in the time period,
and these stories are the result.

Introduction
There have been many developments in chess history in recent years. Game
scores of major tournaments, which once could only be found in old books,
are now easily available on the Internet. Old chess journals have been
reprinted, allowing anyone to own what once existed only in a small number
of chess libraries. Some wonderful biographies of chess players have been
published, as well as comprehensive game collections. This has been an
exciting time for serious chess historians.

Unfortunately, there are relatively few serious chess historians. There are, on
the other hand, many chess players who have some interest in chess history.
These players enjoy the stories of the bizarre, larger-than-life individuals who
have always made the world of chess a fascinating place.

We have not seen so many advances aimed at those who have a casual interest
in chess history. There has been some work in this direction. There have

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always been many sloppy authors who repeat false stories, but we now have a
zealot, Edward Winter, who is willing to separate fact from fiction and
embarrass the peddlers of tired old myths.

Instead of looking at the same old stories, this column attempts to use the
newly available sources to find new stories, which are both entertaining and
true, about old chess players. Some are actually much more interesting than
the false stories, and this is a celebration of chess culture in all of its glorious
strangeness.

These columns will fall into several categories, each really a separate
investigation into chess history. There are sections dealing with serious chess
players who have been forgotten, and others dealing with bizarre incidents
only tenuously connected to chess, but which I feel are very entertaining.
Some stories will be of interest to non-players, others to all chess players, and
still others primarily to chess history buffs. Some deal with individual figures
from chess (and occasionally non-chess) history, some with groups of chess
players, while others are organized around general themes rather than studies
of a particular player or type of player.

I hope that readers will come to realize that chess culture is much more than
variations of obscure opening lines, and will thus have even more fun with the
game. I hope non-playing readers will understand that chess is full of wild,
wacky characters, and thus may even be lured into playing and becoming part
of our eccentric world. Chess historians, I hope you will forgive my
occasional lack of academic rigor. My hope is that some readers will become
intrigued and come to enjoy your scholarly work as much as I do.

We hope you enjoy Jerry Spinrad and his New Stories about Old Chess
Players...

The Duke of Brunswick and Other Noble

Lunatics
In essays of this sort, I will be discussing people who were simultaneously
very devoted to chess and well known as eccentrics in their time, but were
never either truly famous as chess players or the sort of celebrities we
recognize today.

One player we will discuss is well known in chess circles, for one specific
game. This is the Duke of Brunswick. We all know the famous story of how
Morphy beat the Duke of Brunswick and Count Isouard in a game played
while they were at the opera, and that while Morphy would have preferred to
watch the opera he was instead forced to sit with his back to the stage, in the
process creating one of the most beautiful games of all time. However, very

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few of us realize that the same Duke of Brunswick was one of the richest
lunatics of all time, and that his wealth and aspirations were rumored to have
played a key role in an important historical event.

Technically, Charles d’Este-Guelph (at

right) was no longer the Duke of
Brunswick when he played Morphy in
Paris, though it would not have been wise
to mention it to him. Born in 1804,
Charles was of the highest royal lineage.
In fact, at one point he seemed destined
to become the King of England. The
London Times of November 10, 1817,
sees this as the most likely series of
events, given the lack of children among
others who preceded Charles in the order
of succession.

In reality, the Duke was not even able to

maintain his own title. In late 1827, his
bizarre behavior started making the
newspapers, as he tried to have his
former tutor imprisoned, and challenged his former guardian to a duel. His
antics were a regular feature in the news. In late 1829 stories appeared that he
was hoarding money in preparation for fleeing the country, but he still found
time for such strange regulations as forbidding all theater criticism in
Brunswick (London Times, November 20, 1829).

Charles was chased from his ancestral home in 1830 thanks to his spectacular
“indiscretions.” He was obsessively concerned about recovering his lands,
trying to foment revolution and even considering using his vast funds to
mount a naval expedition to take back his (landlocked) duchy. This is not
some weird slur, but part of his own rambling speech during his court case
when he tried to win back his lands. He notes that his adversaries want to
throw him into a madhouse, and emphasizes that his threat of attempting to
recover his territory by a naval expedition was not an idle or absurd one, and
how he could land at Bremen, cross through Hanoverian territory, and get to
Brunswick. As one writer from the Times described the courtroom scene,
“After other remarks not quite relevant to the point at issue,” the ex-Duke said
he should have little honor left if he entered into relations with felons, traitors,
and incendiaries (his description of his former subjects); he eventually was
called to order by the president of the court.

For all I know, the Duke might have been planning an air attack as well. The
Wiener Zeitung of November 29, 1836 says that the Duke was preparing a
balloon to fly across the English Channel. He apparently made the trip, since
the Deutsche Zeitung of August 20, 1873 mentions this trip, adding that he
took his diamonds with him on the ride.

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This was just the start of a long and outrageous life of exile. I base much of
my knowledge of the Duke on an article which appeared shortly after his
death (which came in the middle of a chess game: he got up, told his opponent
not to cheat him, and went to his room and died). The article appeared in
Appleton’s Journal, November 20, 1875, and starts with a quick summary
which is worth repeating here.

“There are but few person who have resided in Paris for any length of time
who do not remember the late Duke of Brunswick, that painted, bewigged
Lothario, whose follies, eccentricities, and diamonds made him the talk of
Europe.”

The strangeness started very early indeed. When he was born, the ceremonial
cannons announcing the royal birth beheaded an artilleryman. He came to the
ducal throne at an early age, his grandfather and father dying heroically in the
battles of Jena and Waterloo respectively.

After losing his throne in 1830 as described above, he allied himself with
anyone he could to get it back. The most important of these attempts is said to
have come when Prince Louis Napoleon was imprisoned. The Duke’s chief
treasurer visited Prince Louis, and left a package with 800,000 francs in return
for a signed document promising to get the Duke back his throne. This money
was used to help the Prince buy his way to freedom, and the Duke thus had a
great influence in “conferring upon France the doubtful blessing of the late
empire.” The Prince became Emperor, but he never did get the Duke his
throne, a fact that the Duke was quite willing to publicly rebuke him for.

The Duke built a huge palace in Paris, which mixed aspects of fairy tale and
horror story. It combined rose-colored walls and profuse gilding with security
features that appear quite paranoid. There were huge walls with gilded spikes,
electric apparatus (very early for these!) to warn of intruders, complicated
machinery to defy thieves and assassins, entrance only with a password, and
many other oddities. He kept his strong-box supported by four chains, which
were suspended in a well, needing devices to bring it into view; if you
attempted to open the lock to where the Duke viewed this without the code,
concealed gun barrels would blow you away, just like in some Indiana Jones
movie.

The Duke did not employ a cook, always eating out at one of the great
restaurants. At home, he would only have hot chocolate; the milk for this was
brought from the country directly and kept in a locked box, and he trusted no
one else to prepare it, but still had his valet taste it first. His eating patterns
were very strange; he ate enormous amounts of sweets, sometimes paying
sweet shops large sums of money for the privilege of coming in and eating as
much as he could stomach at once, leaving wrappings and other garbage on
the floor. I am no doctor, but I imagine this could be related to his “extreme
corpulence” in his later years.

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New Stories about Old Chess Players

He was also famous for his eccentric and gaudy appearance. The Duke stayed
in bed until the late afternoon, and started his immensely long preparations for
going out around 4 PM; he rarely saw the sun during winter months. He was
famous for using enormous amounts of face paint. He dyed his beard every
day, and had different wigs for each facial coloring he assumed. But most of
all, the Duke was known for his diamonds.

To this day, the Duke is remembered fondly in the diamond trade. He was
apparently the greatest collector of colored diamonds in history; having been
“owned by the Duke of Brunswick” is part of a diamond’s provenance. He
purchased so many diamonds that his death caused a significant decrease in
the price of diamonds on the market. He would wear ridiculously elaborate
costumes, such as dressing as a Brunswickian general, decorated head to toe
with diamonds. In fact, he told several ladies at a party that his undergarments
were also festooned with wondrous diamonds, but none took up his offer to
show them these particular crown jewels.

He is remembered fondly by one more group other than chess players. To

understand why the city of Geneva has a large memorial to the Duke of
Brunswick, we first must understand his passion for lawsuits. He filed
hundreds of lawsuits, once suing a washer-woman over a seven franc bill, and
filing at least twelve lawsuits over the repair of a single watch. His greatest
lawsuits, however, involved his (illegitimate, but acknowledged) daughter,
whom he cut off completely after she converted to Catholicism. He lost a
lawsuit ordering him to support his daughter and her children, and fled his
palace in Paris to avoid the consequences, eventually ending up in Geneva.
After several changes of his will, he bequeathed his entire estate to the city of
Geneva, because of the wonderful condition of the tombs in the church of St.
Peters — he wanted his monument to be eternal. Shortly before his death, he
changed his mind again. He had thrown some water out his window and the
water drenched a passerby, who threatened a lawsuit. He was preparing to go
back to his palace in Paris, but before he could change the will he died. His
huge estate went to Geneva, in return for a grandiose monument which they
erected according to his wishes.

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The will itself caused a number of

lawsuits; Brunswick eventually dropped
its lawsuit when Geneva agreed to
return some of the artwork the Duke
had taken. My favorite detail of the
story is that with typical Swiss
precision, we are informed (der
Humorist, May 8, 1874) that Brunswick
had received 1,015,200 Francs worth of
jewels and 45,1223 in other goods from
Geneva.

We all know the opera-box game. Here

is a game in which the semi-Duke
draws against Morphy’s famous
opponent Daniel Harrwitz (Harrwitz
playing a blindfold simul). If you
believe that all chess games should be
decided on positional niceties, you should not be reading about 19th-century
chess. Our anti-hero finds a nice shot to force a draw. Harrwitz probably
would have won earlier if he had not been playing blindfold, but this shows
that the Duke was not such a patzer as you might have been led to believe by
the more famous game.

Harrwitz - Duke of Brunswick

blindfold simul, Paris (?), 1857
Evans Gambit Accepted

1.e4 e5 2.Nf3 Nc6 3.Bc4 Bc5 4.b4 Bxb4 5.c3 Ba5 6.d4 exd4 7.Qb3 Qe7 8.O-
O h6 9.Ba3 d6 10.e5 Qd7?! (better 10…Nxe5=) 11.cxd4 Nd8? (11…a6+/-)
12.exd6 c6

13.Ne5?! — Not bad, but immediately

crushing was 13.Qe3+ Ne6 14.Ne5 Qd8
15.d5 cxd5 16.Bb5+! (the reason 11…a6
was necessary earlier) 16…Kf8 17.d7+
Ne7 18.dxc8=Q Rxc8 19.Ng6+ fxg6
20.Qxe6+–. 13…Qf5 14.Qe3 Ne6
15.Bxe6 Qxe6 16.f4 f5 17.Nc3 Bxc3
18.Qxc3 Nf6

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New Stories about Old Chess Players

19.d7+? — Throwing away much of his

advantage. Better 19.Rfe1 Ne4 20.Qb2
(threatening 21.d7+ Bxd7 22.Qxb2)
20…b6 21.Nxc6. 19…Bxd7 20.Rfe1 Ne4
21.Qb4 b5 22.Qa5 g5 23.Rac1 gxf4
24.Qc7 Rc8 25.Qxa7 Rg8 26.Rc5?

Overlooking a powerful shot. After

26.Rc2, defending the a- and g-pawns,
White would still stand much better.
26…Rxg2+! — Forcing perpetual check,
viz. 27.Kxg2 Qxa2+ 28.Kh1 Nf2+ 29.Kg1
Nh3+ 30.Kh1 Nf2+ etc., hence ½-½.

I am jealous of the Duke, and not for his

diamond-studded underwear. He played at
least eleven games in consultation against
Morphy (of which he drew one, in
consultation with Isouard again and Count Casabianca), he played Ignatz
Kolisch, he played Harrwitz. I guess money gives opportunities, even in
chess.

Continuing in the vein of outrageous chess amateurs of noble birth, we come

to the Marquis d’Orvault, also known as de Maubreuil. Although he is by no
means a famous name among chess players, he apparently spent essentially all
his time in the years 1843-1856 playing chess at the Café de la Régence. I
would presume from this that he knew many great players, such as St. Amant,
Harrwitz, Kieseritzky, and many more. For those who want to read more
about this odd individual, I can recommend an article in the December 1879
Atlantic Magazine, which is where I first ran into this fascinating character. I
certainly was not able to read all the articles on “the Maubreuil affair,” which
still seems to be of interest, and a bit of a mystery, to historians; there is at
least one entire book dedicated to this incident.

De Maubreuil entered the French imperial service in 1806. After an eventful

series of events in which he became the rival of Napoleon’s brother in a love
triangle, he won the Cross of the Legion of Honor while fighting in Spain. He
was promised a lucrative post, but the promise was withdrawn, and de
Maubreuil became an enemy of Napoleon. During the occupation of Paris, he
made it a point to be seen with the English and Prussian officers, and once
rode down the boulevards in full evening dress with the Cross of the Legion
of Honor tied to his horse’s tail.

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This brought de Maubreuil to the attention of those trying to restore the

monarchy. The Russian Czar gave him a commission (reputable witnesses
testify to having seen documents giving him accesses to significant
resources), but just what he was supposed to do is not so clear. According to
de Maubreuil, he was ordered to kill Napoleon on his way to Elba, and he
accepted the mission to protect Napoleon rather than having the assignment
given over to someone else.

What de Maubreuil actually seems to have done was to seize the trunks and
valuables of the beautiful Queen of Westphalia. She began a lawsuit against
de Maubreuil. In view of his the claims of secret missions the court declared
itself incompetent to conduct the trial, and he was brought to a court-martial.
He was set free thanks to the influence of friends in March 1815.

He was arrested again in December, now acting on Napoleon’s orders, who

charged him with the assassination plot. Napoleon was furious that the court-
martial declared itself incompetent, and ordered de Maubreuil re-indicted in
criminal court. Before the trial, a young musketeer officer helped him escape.

The escape reads like a Dumas novel. He reached Ghent, but Louis XVIII
refused to see him. He broke his leg in Liege, and pretended to commit
suicide. He was arrested (it is unclear on what charge) in Antwerp, and
arrived in Paris again after Waterloo.

With Napoleon out of power, de Maubreuil was rearrested for the jewel theft.
The same officer who helped him escape Napoleon gave eloquent testimony
on how 22 members of the family had died for their loyalty; this appeal led to
a reduction of the charge to breach of trust. De Maubreuil escaped to England
before trial, and was condemned by default; divers found the loot carefully
boxed up in the Seine.

In London, de Maubreuil wrote a document called “A Petition Addressed to

the Congress at Aix-la-Chapelle, by Marie Armand de Guerry de Maubreuil,
Marquis d’Orvault, concerning the order to assassinate Napoleon and his Son,
Given by Russia, Prussia, and the Bourbons.” The document was suppressed
ruthlessly; no copies survived.

Years passed, and the world forgot de Maubreuil. On January 21, 1827, he
reemerged spectacularly, slapping Talleyrand in the face at a public
ceremony. De Maubreuil was arrested, as he expected; he claimed to want to
expose the infamous politicians who had wanted to assassinate Napoleon. His
defense was earnest and eloquent, but he was condemned to five years in
prison.

After the prison term, he went to Brittany, finally returning to Paris in 1843,
where he spent his time playing chess at the Café de la Régence using his title
of Marquis d’Orvault rather than the infamous name de Maubreuil. Perhaps

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his years of chess played from 1843 to 1856 taught him something, because
after a life full of unsound combinations de Maubreuil made a brilliant
transition to an endgame. At the age of approximately 80, he married a former
“bright star in the demi-monde”, giving her a title of Marquise d’Orvault in
exchange for a very comfortable final ten years of his life.

One last oddity: apparently the association between the aged Marquis
d’Orvault and the adventurer de Maubreuil had become so forgotten that it
only came to light because of a very odd crime which occurred after the death
of the old man. A man caught trying to burgle the house of the Marquise
turned out to be her own brother, and in the examination of the strange lowlife
crime among the upper classes, the press was delighted to find that this title
came from the man who long ago had his name linked with jewel thefts and
assassinations.

Finally, I have to add a word about one other odd character who was said to
be an excellent chess player. Nicholas St. André had a remarkable life, rising
from humble beginnings to the top rung of British society after George I made
him Anatomist to the Court. He is said to have saved Voltaire’s life, among
other brushes with the great and powerful. Unfortunately, though he had a
number of gifts in other intellectual areas, he had none as a physician. This
failing was not as grave as you might think; he gave popular public lectures
on the subject.

Ultimately, however, his ignorance came out in spectacular fashion. After a

girl named Mary Toft claimed to have given birth to a litter of rabbits, St.
André loudly proclaimed the authenticity, parroting some of the bizarre
theories which were proposed as to how this might come to pass. Much of
England believed this, amazingly enough; people stopped eating rabbits, and
children of men were said to populate the burrows. One scholar declared this
to be the fulfillment of a prophecy. Finally, with the help of the famous
satirist Swift, the country was brought to its senses, and St. André left London
in disgrace.

I have read (not that I really believe it) that Lasker had a great disappointment
when he failed to realize that in order for a poultry and egg farm to survive,
you need both roosters and hens. It seems that Lasker was not the first chess
player who failed to grasp this basic lesson of biology. So here is a tip: if you
are planning to breed a successful chess player, I would advise selecting stock
from both the GM and WGM lists.

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