Joseph Grinton

I finally caught up with Henry Bird signing copies of his memoirs in a wigwam in Sarnia, on the shore of Lake Huron. “Mr Bird, you are a very difficult man to track down!”

He beamed benignly. “You might have found me recently in the Nest at Amsterdam, in the Bowery at New York, and in the accident ward at Vienna. I tell you, I’ve witnessed many strange things and distressing circumstances, have endured innumerable interviewers without a shudder, and have perhaps been asked more questions about chess than any man living or dead.”

“Why do you think that is?”

“Because I good naturedly always answer them, and have furnished matter enough in ten minutes for a two-column article.”

“That’s precisely what I wanted to discuss with you — your creativity. Is yours an exceptional temperament in a desert of dullness, or are all chess players creative, do you think?”

“The temperaments of chess players vary greatly. Some get easily disconcerted, disturbed and even distracted; others seem little affected by passing events, a few, apparently not at all.”

“Are they like artists or actors? Are chess games a form of theatre?”

“Some players might think so. Some even like a gallery and don’t object to reasonable conversation.”

“Conversation? I think that would be frowned on by modern chess players.”

“Well, it varies, you know. Conversations or little interruptions which would pass unheeded by a McDonnell or myself, or perhaps a Zukertortian would sadly disconcert a Buckle or a Morphy, make Staunton angry, and drive a Gossip to despair.”

“Gossip, I gather, was not a great chess player.”

“Do you mean great in stature?”

“Hardly anyone has heard of him now.”

“But he has left us a legacy nevertheless. He loved to write. Like myself.”

“It takes all sorts, I suppose.”

“The attitude as well as the deportment and demeanour of chess players at the board shows many varieties: Anderssen and Captain Mackenzie were statuesque; Staunton, not quite so tall as the Rev. J. Owen, seeming to be soaring up aloft. Harrwitz not quite so small as Gunsberg, seemed sinking to the ground, but the story that he once disappeared overawed by Staunton’s style and manner of moving, and was, after a search, found under the table, is a mere canard of Staunton’s which need not be too confidently accepted.”

“Is height an advantage in chess?

“It’s a factor rather than an advantage. Harrwitz disliked being called a small German by Staunton because it savoured too strongly of the sausage element.”

“Really? But how did it affect Harrwitz’s game? Did he hit back with the fried liver attack?”

“I once heard him say of Staunton ‘If he he makes sausage meat of me I will make mincemeat of him.'”

“A little ribbing brings out the competitive spirit, I suppose. I thought the chess players of your era were all gentlemen, Henry.”

“Not a bit of it, old chap. Staunton pretended sometimes not to see Harrwitz, and would look round the room and even under the chairs for him when he was sitting at his elbow, which greatly annoyed Harrwitz, who, however, sometimes got a turn, and was not slow to retaliate. In a game one day, Staunton materially damaged his own prospects by playing very tamely and feebly, and testily complained–‘I have lost a move.’ Harrwitz told the waiter to stop his work, and search the room until he had found Staunton’s lost move, and his manner of saying it caused a degree of merriment by no means pleasing to the English Champion.”

“Of course everyone now knows Staunton’s name because the style of chess pieces named after him must be used in competitions. But, in life, was he full-blooded or wooden, would you say?”

“Staunton was definitely considered full-blooded, and his amiable French opponent, who used to play for £5 a game no doubt thought he expressed himself favorably and forcibly when he said he is one very nice, charmant man, but he is a bloody fool!”

“A fool? He was a Shakespearian scholar, and a prolific author, wasn’t he?”

“He liked his stories, certainly.”

“What kind of stories?”

“His celebrated stories about Lowenthal and Williams, though very amusing to chess ears, are unrepeatable, though extremely funny as Staunton originally told them, and as MacDonnell repeats them; but they are probably not strictly founded on fact, and are lacking of the respect to which the memories of two such amiable and chivalrous chess players as Williams and Lowenthal are entitled.”

“Talking of reputations, it’s undoubtedly a great honour to have a chess opening named after you, particularly on the very first move of the game — 1.f4 — but how do you feel about The Bird’s lack of respectability?”

“Its reputation has fared a lot better than that of Miss Rooster.”

“Miss Rooster?”

“Miss Rooster, on one occasion when her dearest friend, Miss Pullet called, was found so absorbed in studying a problem by the great Schwerlagerbier, that her visitor could not obtain even a sign of recognition. After various unsuccessful efforts to attract the attention of the fair enthusiast, Miss Pullet departed, and meeting an acquaintance immediately afterwards jocosely remarked that she had left Miss Rooster engaged with thirty-two men, whereby she acquired the reputation of being a dangerous coquette. To this thoughtless jest Miss Rooster ascribed the circumstance, that during the remainder of her life she walked in meditation fancy free.”

“An apotheosis to which I can only aspire, dear Henry.”

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