by David Lawson
I have spoken of his imagined salutations, and his pleasant bow and smile, and graceful wave of the hand, in response. This must have occurred twenty or thirty times, as he stood behind a massive column for a few minutes, in a position in which it was impossible for any one to see him from the direction in which he looked. In the speculations regarding his mental derangement it has been natural to attribute it, in a great measure, to an over-exertion of brain power in his wonderful feats at chess, but nothing has ever been found to establish positively such a conclusion. His astonishing achievements appeared to cost him no effort.
Analyses that would require weeks of laborious study on the part of the greatest masters, he would make as rapidly as his eyes could look over the squares. His eight or ten blindfold games, played simultaneously against strong players, appeared to require no more attention than the perusal of a book or paper. With rare exceptions, he appeared to know intuitively the strongest moves that could be made. His uncle, Ernest Morphy, during his visit to Cincinnati many years ago, told me how Paul, when a child, would suddenly drop his knife and fork at the table and set up on the checkered table-cloth a problem that had suddenly sprung into his head, using the cruets, salt-cellars and napkin-rings for pieces. I asked him if his nephew was remarkable for anything else than his peculiar aptitude for chess, and I recollect that he stated, among other things, that, after his return from a strange opera, he could hum or whistle it from beginning to end.
At school, and afterward at college, Paul Morphy was always criticized for his continuous study and aversion to youthful sports, he never taking any part in outdoor games or athletic exercises. So it seems that chess is not to blame for his present singular condition, except as it represents a portion of the mental operations in which his brain was constantly employed.
It is unquestionably an instance of a brain excessively developed at the expense of the physical man, having the mind expanded to the utmost bounds of sanity, and ready to wander outside its limits on the occurrence of some peculiarly exciting circumstance; and this happened, probably, in the sudden realization that what he had considered a competency was expended, and that he had become, for the present at least, dependent. After this he was in no condition to reason—to see that he had lived extravagantly while abroad and after his return, and that his expenditures were in excess of his share of his father’s estate. He imagined that he had been defrauded, intentionally or through mismanagement; hence the litigious course he has pursued. Possibly his aversion to chess came through associating it with his misfortunes, his heaviest expenditures having occurred while away on his victorious tour through Europe. Some have thought a complete restoration of his normal mental condition might follow a rendering of the particularized account he demands from trustees or administrators, for he is wonderfully acute at figures, and might be convinced if incontrovertible calculations were placed before him. Why it is not done is not known; whether on account of an impossibility, the amount of labor and trouble, or because of an indifference that is thought justified through the entire satisfaction of other interested parties. I understand that he has a right to demand such an account, and that he could enforce it, probably, if he were not regarded as insane, or if others would join his cause for the sake of humoring him. It is said, to the reproach of certain lawyers, that they would advise and encourage him in his hopeless case as long as he had money to fee them, but that now they will not give him a hearing.
Suggestions in reference to medical treatment amount to nothing, because he acknowledges no ailment. Efforts have been made to induce him to travel, that his physical health might be benefited, and that his mind might be diverted from its absorbing subject; but he regards this as playing into the hands of his enemies, says his absence from New Orleans is just what they are scheming for, and avows his intention of remaining to defeat them on their own ground.
It is distressing to admit that Paul Morphy is hopelessly lost to the intellectual world. Must that superhuman mind be forever devoted to the pursuance of such a petty, insignificant object, when it is capable of exerting such wondrous power? The gratitude of all mankind awaits him who can devise some means for giving flesh and strength to that attenuated body, and restoring the equilibrium of that disturbed brain, thus replacing this shining star in the brilliant galaxy from which it has fallen.
Dr. L. P. Meredith
16.
Dr. R. A. Proctor on Morphy
The Human Mind
The Wonderful Powers of Paul Morphy
Dr. Richard A. Proctor 1887
Oct. 16, 1887
The power of forming and retaining mental pictures is one of great value and great promise; though it is not capable of explaining feats of rapid calculation. Probably this faculty alone may suffice to explain the feats of blindfold chessplay, though some great players who are skillful over the unseen board assert that they form no mental pictures. Blackburne, for example, states that from the mere recording of the moves he is able to recognize the strength and weakness of the resulting positions, and the command of the several pieces over the board. This, however, is by no means the general experience. I have myself often played two games simultaneously without seeing the board; and were it worth while to give much time to such matters have no doubt I could play five or six. In every case I see a definite picture of the board and men. It seems to me so natural to do this, in thinking over a past game, that I wonder blindfold play began so late in the history of chess. Glanvill, in his “Vanity of Dopmatizing,” written in 1661, speaks of a blind man managing a game of chess much as one might speak of a gorilla speaking Greek; yet he was himself well acquainted with the game.
The feats of the greatest chess genius that ever lived (let Steinitz argue as he may), Paul Morphy, associate blindfold chess play in some degree with precocity. I doubt if among all the records of boy chess players any case can be found more marvelous than that of Morphy, who, at the very beginning of his career, when he was little more than a child, beat his uncle Ernest Morphy, a strong player, and Lowenthal, the Hungarian champion, when only thirteen years old. Many of the stories of precocity at chess relate to boy players who beat those who were not, indeed, boys, but neither were they players; but Paul Morphy beating Lowenthal was quite another affair. Even when Morphy crossed the Atlantic to challenge and defeat all the finest players of Europe, he was barely out of his teens. One after another they met him and retired discomfited, or like our English Staunton, they compared his chess strength with their own by proxy, as it were, and retired without meeting him.
Now Morphy at the age of thirteen played a strong chess game without sight of the board. Rising step by step to two games, to three, to four, and so on we find him while still in his teens playing twelve games simultaneously blindfold, and against players to whom the champions of the day could not give more than a pawn and move with safety in a set match. More surprising even than the number of games which Morphy could thus play blindfold at one sitting, was the nature of his play under these seemingly difficult conditions. The brilliancy of the combinations was in most cases matched by their soundness and often by their depth—in the sense of the number of moves over which with lightning rapidity he carried his analysis. A veteran player told me of one of these games which he had carefully examined after it was finished; because he believed that a certain brilliant stroke could be more successfully met than it had been in actual play. “Along every line,” he said, “but one I found Morphy’s strategy sound; but along that line there seemed to me a safe though difficult defense, resulting in eventual victory over him. I passed an hour or two every evening for a week analyzing the game along this line; and having satisfied myself it was sound, I mentioned the point to Morphy when next I met him. I was for setting up the board to show him what I meant; but he would not suffer me. ‘I remember the game perfectly,’ he said. ‘Your defense is not sound, though it is the best available; you have overlooked a mate in three following the sacrifice of my king bishop after the f
ifth move of your defense.’ My veteran friend looked over the position the same evening and found the case was as Morphy had stated.”
Imagine the abnormal brain development in some special, though unknown way, which enabled a boy chess player, ten days after playing a game, which was one of twelve [he played only eight] played blindfold, to correct in an instant, and without setting up the position, the result, of ten or twelve hours of analysis of the game by a strong and veteran player!
Dr. Richard A. Proctor
The above is a portion of an article, “The Human Mind. Some Strange Mental Pictures Described—Blindfold Chess Play. The Wonderful Powers of Paul Morphy, the Precocious Genius.” (Written for the Louisville Courier-Journal, October 16, 1887.)
17.
Testimonial to Paul Morphy
18
19.
To The Memory of Morphy’s Mother
Mother of Morphy! what a fate was thine;
So loving-living only for thy son;
Granted brief tip-touch of his triumphs won,
Ere dashed with wormwood all life’s sparkling wine!
The mind that such transcendent marvels wrought—
Like blooming rose, the cherished garden gem,
Heart-bit, hangs listless on the blackened stem—
Sinks, walled in dim, damp cell of lovely thought.
Earth’s greatest, wisest, brightest, best of men,
Owe most to mothers; nor is genius loath
To own the debt; our Morphy’s mother, then,
Who warmed and watered all that beauteous growth—
Fading, still watched! Shall keep true union, when, Chess lays her deathless chaplet on the grave of both!
—I. O. Howard Taylor
20.
Paul Morphy and Robert J. Fischer
Certainly comparisons between Paul Morphy and Robert J. Fischer, the only Americans ever to dominate the world chess arena, come to mind. Both were prodigies and both were early in their lives convinced of their superiority as chess players. Both early played spectacular Queen Sacrifice games, Morphy against Paulsen, and Fischer against Donald Byrne. Oddly, Morphy’s Queen captured Paulsen’s Bishop while Byrne’s Bishop captured Fischer’s Queen, both Queens being captured by White on his 18th move.
As it happened, the author was with Bobby and his mother the night of his Queen Sacrifice game at the Manhattan Chess Club, and the three of them left together after the game to celebrate at a restaurant. Not much was said that evening at the club about the game, the significance of “The Game of the Century,” as it was later dubbed, being scarcely appreciated at the time. These two sacrifice games of Bobby’s and Paul’s, both winning as Black, are now considered among their most interesting games.
Both Morphy and Fischer were early convinced they would become the world’s foremost player, at the earliest opportunity, but Fischer had to wait longer due to FIDE Rules and Regulations. Both believed that only matches, not tournaments, determined relative strength, and that draws should not count.
There are also differences between them, not only in early circumstances, but also in their approach to the game. At thirteen years of age, Paul had never opened a chess book, while Bobby at that age had devoured everything on the game he could lay his hands on, and that was a lot in the 1950s, compared with the 1850s!
Morphy was practically isolated from good players until he was twenty (by 1850 Rousseau would no longer play with him and Uncle Ernest soon went North), while the young Bobby was in contact with the best players of the country and played in tournaments.
Fischer lives for chess. Maurian said Morphy “never was, strange as it will seem, an enthusiast” and, at the age of twenty-three, he refused to play in public.
It would seem that the contrasting personalities of Morphy and Fischer have drawn their chess careers to a similar ending for the time being and perhaps for longer. Morphy practically repudiated public chess almost as soon as he was universally accepted as World Champion. Although apparently he would have accepted a challenge soon after the Anderssen match, at which time he offered Pawn and move to any who wished to challenge his supremacy, no one came forth to take up his offer. Fischer resigned the title almost as quickly as had Morphy, but without making any attempt at further play.
It remains to be seen whether Fischer, having achieved his goal, as did Morphy, will, like the latter, abjure public chess, and whether his chess success will also recoil upon him. But it may be that his great interest in the game will rekindle his desire to reenter the public chess arena and save him from the lonely road taken by Morphy, and from a similar imbalance.*
FOOTNOTE
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* EDITOR’S NOTE: Alas, that interest did not rekindle Fischer’s desire. In 1992, he returned from seclusion to play a rematch with Boris Spassky, from whom he had taken the World Championship in 1972. The two played in UN-sanctioned Yugoslavia, putting Fischer at odds with the American government. He publicly spit on the U.S. order that he not attend the Yugoslavian match. Fischer then resubmerged into obscurity, living in Hungary, the Philippines, and Japan. Fischer’s anti-Semitism had been present before his World Championship, but it only became more pronounced at the onset of his seclusion. Like Morphy, his persecution paranoia began to dominate his personality.
Arrest warrants in the United States stemming from his Yugoslavian play extended his paranoia toward his home country. Inf lammatory public statements following the September 11, 2001, terrorist attacks only grew his infamy. After an arrest in Japan for using an expired passport, Fischer was granted citizenship in Iceland, home to his original 1972 encounter with Spassky.
He died of renal failure on January 17, 2008. In the myriad obituaries of Fischer following his death, Paul Morphy’s name was often invoked. Both were American World Champions, both suffered from a form of debilitating mental paranoia, leading to their voluntary withdrawal from chess. But as Lawson’s biography demonstrates, Morphy’s illness was far less public, far less broad or treasonous. It was not willfully angry and retributive toward people, religions, or nations. It did not revel in death. Still, such distinctions seem much like angels dancing on the head of a pin in bulleted newspaper accounts chronicling Fischer’s life and death. The image of the diseased, reclusive, American chess champion will forever embed the metaphor in public perception—though it shouldn’t.
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* EDITOR’S NOTE (continued from previous page): For a strong recent biography of Fischer, emphasizing specifically his 1972 championship, but also providing analysis of his later life, see David Edmonds and John Edinow, Bobby Fischer Goes to War: How a Lone American Star Defeated the Soviet Chess Machine (New York: Faber & Faber, 2004). For more biography, see Hans Bohm and Kees Jongkind, Bobby Fischer: The Wandering King (New York: Batsford, 2005); and Frank Brady, Bobby Fischer: Profile of a Prodigy (New York: Dover Publications, 1989). For examples of Fischer obituary, see any major American or European newspaper, January 18, 2008.
AUTHOR’S BIBLIOGRAPHY
This bibliography is divided into five parts. The first consists mostly of sources devoted almost exclusively to Morphy. Many of these sources have been of much usefulness to the author in preparing this biography, others are of interest merely because they reflect the enthusiasm generated by Morphy during the height of his chess career and thereafter. The subject of and inspiration for many poems (listed in the Appendix), Paul Morphy has also had two novels written about him. The first by Frances Parkinson Keyes, The Chess Players, appeared in 1960. The second, written in Russian by E. Zagoryansky, was started in 1946 in Chess in the U.S.S.R. as A Tale of Paul Morphy, but was completed and published in book form in 1962.
During the early years of Morphy’s chess activity (1858–1860) a dozen publications were issued about him and his games, of which one has been reprinted many times down to the present while others have appeared in different languages. If anything, interest and understanding of Morphy appear on the increase,
for since 1960 ten books about Morphy or on his games have been published or reprinted in Swedish, Russian, French, German, Yugoslavian, and English.
The first part of this bibliography does not include such books as Staunton’s Chess Praxis, published in 1860, which will be found in the second part of the bibliography. This second part lists books having an entire chapter or important sections on Morphy, while the third part—books—and the fourth and fifth parts—magazines and newspapers, respectively—have contributed the greater portion of the essential information for this biography. The many mentions of Edge refer to his books on Morphy, even if not so stated, or to his letters, some possessed by the author, and other quotes are similarly possessed or available.
Part One
Couvee, M. M. Two Remarkable Games. (Dutch) ‘S Gravenhage: M. M. Couvee, 1858.
Doazan, G. E. Labourdonnais-Morphy. Paris: L. Tinterlin et Cie., 1859.
Dufresne, Jean. Paul Morphy’s Schachwettkampfe. Berlin: Carl Heymann, 1859.
________. Der Schachfreund. Berlin: Carl Heymann, 1862.
Edge, Frederick M. The Exploits and Triumphs in Europe of Paul Morphy. New York: D. Appleton & Co., 1859.
________. Paul Morphy the Chess Champion. London: William Lay: 1859.
Falkbeer, E. Paul Morphy, A Sketch from the Chess World. London: J. H. Starie, 1860.
Fiske, D. W. Prospectus of the National Chess Congress. New York: T. W. Strong, 1857.
________. The First American Chess Congress. New York: Rudd & Carleton, 1859.