CHESMAYNE
Coffee Houses
The Chess Cafe - link
Right: This
quality jigsaw puzzle depicts Van Gogh’s Exterieur
De Cafe a Arles, nocturne, a wonderfully moody evening street
scene. Size: 33.5” x 23.5”. 1500 pieces. Manufactured in Spain.
Left: “Outdoor Café”, Vincent van Gogh.
Chessentials
Chessentials features Coffee-House Chess
Games and Tournaments, The Rockman’s Links, The Woodpusher’s Workshop, and
THECHESSFORUM
Cafe de la Regence: first opened in 1670 in Paris
when players moved here from the Cafe Procope and frequented by Voltaire,
Robespierre and Napoleon. Ignazio Calvi, 1792-1872 taught traditional
chess here and earned 40,000 francs during a four year period. Coffee houses were popular meeting places
for chess players in the 18th and 19th centuries and even
today you can play chess at the Cafe Mozart in Hampstead in old Viennese-style
surroundings (73 Haverstock Hill, Hampstead, London). Ms. Edith C. Price of the ‘Gambit Chess
Rooms’ had the following notice displayed on her premises: “The Gambit Chess
Rooms are open to chess players for the enjoyment of social games. Visitors can usually obtain an opponent by
applying at the counter for an introduction.
Playing for money stakes is quite unnecessary and the management
strongly discourage the principle.
Should any visitor be pestered or annoyed by strangers asking them to do
so, information to the management will be much appreciated”. Other clubs in London in the past have
included:
Coffee Pickers
London:
01
Slaughter’s.
02
Parsloe's.
03 White’s
Choclate House.
04 Tom’s.
05
Salopian.
06
Huttman's Garrick Chess Divan.
07
Gatti’s.
08 Cafe
Caro.
09
Kilpack’s Divan.
10
Starie’s Philidorian Chess Rooms.
11
Purssell’s.
12
Gliddon’s Divan.
13 Gambit
Chess Rooms (Budge Row).
14 Dr
Butler’s Head.
Above:
Coffee Chess Houses Spain 2002 - “La
Tabla de Flandes” - Café
Es un local de
ambiente agradable en donde, además
de disfrutar de Buena música y de una carta de
bebidas muy variada, podrás
practicar diversas actividades de ocio y entretenimiento. Dispone de infinidad de juegos de mesa
a disposición de sus clientes. Además podrás
participar en torneos de tus hobbies favoritos: -
Ajedrez, Mus, Dardos, Billar, etc... Con
premios interesantes.
Others:
01
Amsterdam: Roode Leeuw.
02
Berlin: Bauer, Belvedere, Konig.
03
Geneva: Cafe de la Couronne.
04
Madrid: Cafe du Levant.
05
Leipzig: Hanisch.
06 New York:
International.
07 Rome:
Palazzo de’ Cinque.
08
Vienna: Rabel, Central.
09 Riga:
Reuter.
DANIEL HARRWITZ
By
G. A. Macdonnel
“What odds will you give me?” asked a provincial youth
of a well-known player at the Divan, as they were arranging the pieces on a
board close to the table at which I was sitting. “Well, let me see,” said the celebrity. “How do you play with
Mr. B. and Mr. O.?” (naming two magnates).
“They give me a knight, and win a slight
majority”. “Then I will give you a rook”. Here the
speaker flashed his eyes rapidly around him upon each of the spectators that
had already gathered to witness the coming fight, and as he did so there was a
peculiar twinkle in his dark orbs which admitted of various
interpretations. It might have been
construed into saying – “Behold in me a player superior to all other men;
please wonder and admire”. But to my
mind that twinkle seemed but to say – “I know that I am bold, but am I not also
generous? Moreover, have I not created
a small sensation that amuses you all and frighten my
opponent?”
In short, it was more the flash of fun than of conceit that sparkled in
the eyes of Harrwitz, who was the hero of this little
incident. I observed in after times
that Harrwitz generally gave greater odds than any other player, but I think he
was influenced to do so, not by his belief in the superiority of his own
powers, but by the delight he took in coping with difficulties. He certainly was a wondeful
odds-giver-amongst the very best. His
manner and his speech, coupled with the peculiar nature of his mental gifts,
all favoured his success in this department of the game. He played with great, almost unsurpassed
rapidity, scarcely ever pausing more than a few seconds to think out his moves, and when his opponent was poring over the board
unlike most fast players, he was looking about him on all sides, twittering out
some gay or witty remarks. There is nothing more calculated to disturb the equilibrium and
lessen the strength of an inferior player than a lively manner and a seeming
carelessness as to the result of the game.
It seems to say – “I feel and look happy because I am going to win; I do
not exert myself, because it is not necessary to do so”. Harrwitz was always very quick, even with
the strongest opponents. I saw him
once play a match-game with Anderssen, and he did not take half as much as that
quick-sighted player. Even in games
upon which considerable stakes depended, he seemed at times less anxious to
obtain a victory than to excite admiration by the
rapidity of his play. He was not
exactly nervous, but extremely restless, and exhibited this feeling throughout
the progress of the game in an almost perpetual motion, or sawing up and down
with one of his hands. His countenance
was highly intellectual, his eyes dark, full, deep-set, and lustrous with
varied expression; his head was large and well-shaped; his forehead was high
and broad, and looked all the broader on account of the form of his face, which
was long and tapered down to his chin.
He had, undoubtedly, a genius of the highest
order for chess, and it was only his restlessness, springing, no doubt, from
delicacy of health, that prevented him from taking his place by the side of the
very greatest masters. The indomitable pluck he displayed in his memorable contest with
Lowenthal, not merely enhanced his reputation as a player, but rendered him -
and very justly too - a hero in the eyes of all who admire the brave spirit
which never surrenders. I may here
mention, without in any way detracting from the merits of Lowenthal, that in
the early part of the match Harrwitz was suffering from severe cold in the
head, and it was to get rid of it, not to postpone a defeat which seemed looming
in the distance, that he went to Brighton for a week, when the score stood 7 to
2 against him, thereby forfeiting two more games. His match with Staunton of 21 games -
7 even, 7 at pawn and move, and 7 at pawn and two -
exhibited fine generalship on both sides, and perhaps
contributed more than anything else to increase the reputation of the
Englishman. It was, indeed, for him a
grand victory; but in justice to Harrwitz it should be remembered that at the
time he was a mere youth, unpractised with masters and unskilled in the odds
rendered. An amusing little incident
occurred in that contest which I think is worth recording. In one of the games Staunton made a sacrifice whereby he expected to win;
but Harrwitz retorted by also sacrificing a piece, and
the result was that the Prussian emerged from the scrimmage with a superior game
and a pawn ahead. Somewhat chagrined
at his discomfiture, Staunton muttered – “Dear me, dear me, I have lost a
pawn!” in a voice and with an accent that indicated rather anger towards his
opponent for his clever manoeuvre than blame towards himself for his faulty combination.
When he had repeated those words, “I have lost a pawn”, several times,
Harrwitz rang the bell sharply, and, upon the waiter appearing, he exclaimed –
“William, will you kindly look about the floor for a pawn. Mr. Staunton has just lost one”. Harrwitz was a great favourite at the
London and St. George’s Clubs, where for some years he had lucrative
engagements. His obliging disposition, amiable character, and readiness to
encounter all opponents in any way worthy of his powers, excited the admiration
and gained esteem of all with whom he came into contact. There was, however, a touch of cynicism in
his nature, which sometimes gave offence where it was really not intended; but
he never intentionally wounded any man, unless circumstances provoked and
justified the aggression. Here is an
instance of his fun, which has been mistaken for vanity. A gentleman from the provinces one day
visited the Divan and got into conversation with Harrwitz. He did not know the Prussian master, but
suspected his identity. “And whom,”
said he, “do you consider the best player who frequents this room?” “Do you
see,” replied Harrwitz, “that gentleman with yellowish hair, standing near the
fireplace?” pointing, as he spoke, to Mr. Williams. “Yes.” “Well, he is the
best”. “Indeed, and how do you play
with him?” “Well, I beat him every
game”. By-the-bye, it is only just to
Mr. Williams to state that he certainly owed his ingominious defeat by Harrwitz
to a time limit, which was most unfavourable to
him against so rapid an opponent.
Harrwitz was a clever epigramist.
On one occasion, when he was playing a match, annoyed with his opponent,
who frequently failed to keep his appointment, and habitually pleaded illness
as an excuse for his neglect, Harrwitz observed to him – “Yes, sir, you are
always ill; one day you can’t play because you are ill; and the next day you
are ill because you can’t play”. About
thirteen years ago Harrwitz retired altogether from chess, and left this
country to take up his residence at Botzen, in the Tyrolese mountains, where
surrounded by some of the loveliest scenery in Europe, and possessing a
competent fortune inherited from his father, he enjoys good health, and passes
his time in intellectual pursuits, the chess-world forgetting, but not by the
chess-world forgotten.
Jacques Davidson
In
Cafe Vienna in London, around the turn of the century, the professional chessplayers would gather near
the entrance, eager to catch
a promising customer as soon as he walked in. One of these professionals
was 17-year old Jacques Davidson, a Dutch boy living
in London. One year earlier his
father, who had settled in London
as a teacher of languages, had taught his son to play chess. Jacques had played with his father for a stake, he had won, and though he was not payed, the idea had
occurred to him that it could be
profitable to play chess against rich Englishmen. He learned how
to proceed from another Dutchman, Rudolf Loman.
Jacques
Davidson was born in 1890, Rudolf Loman in 1861. Loman
had been living in London for a number of years. He also played chess for money, though he had
another profession, organ player.
Later, in 1912, Loman would become Dutch champion. And later still, in the twenties, Davidson
would finish second in the Dutch
championship twice, behind Euwe, who by that time was too strong for any Dutchman.
In
Cafe Vienna the stake was a shilling per game. Davidson could beat
most of the customers with his eyes closed, but from the experienced Loman he had learned that he had
to cede them a game
every now and then, or their interest would slack. About one in
five. Not more, because then the
earnings would be negligible and
even worse, one would stand the chance that the customer would lose respect for someone who could not
beat him consistently
and find another pro who was better.
The
pros liked it when they were invited by a rich customer to play chess at his home. There they had him for themselves, without interference from a competing
chessmaster. Davidson was lucky to have such a customer and he visited him
regularly. He was picked up by
car. Two servants were in it, one to
drive and one to open the garden
gate of the rich customer. When
Davidson was brought home after the chess session, two servants were
again in the car, because
the rich Englishman liked to indulge in the fiction that his chess partner also had a garden gate that
should be opened by a servant.
It
was wise for the professional to let the rich customer win the last game of the session. That would lead to a friendly after-chess
chat in
which the natural talent of the customer could be praised. If he would
try hard, he would become a master, for sure.
The rich customer
had been convinced of that all the time.
But try hard he would
never do, because trying hard in anything was contemptible for members of his class.
From
Loman, Davidson had learned that he should never ask for the money that was due to him. “Better try to get a meal at the Salvation Army than ask for your money, even
when it adds up to 200
shillings, for he will pay at once, but never ask you again”, Loman had said. And when pay-day came at last, one had to feign that one did not know exactly what was due,
looking in a notebook,
pretending to add figures. The rich
man knew exactly what
he had to pay, had the amount in hand, but kept up the fiction that he was above such financial
trifles.
Was
being so difficult in paying intended to humiliate the pros? No, Loman said. It was because
the rich people could not permit themselves
to realize that their opponents were poor chessplayers who had to live on their winnings. If that thought entered their minds, they wouldn’t be able to play
anymore. One only played with gentlemen.
But
in Cafe Vienna there was someone who really pestered the chess professionals. A pensioned colonel who took endless time thinking about his moves and kept a
professional busy for an entire evening
on one game for one shilling. And they
couldn’t refuse to play
him, according to the code of the cafe.
They all hated him.
One
afternoon they heard a chessboard fall to the floor, the pieces clattering all about. It had become too much for one of the pros;
his nerves
had cracked. Poor boy, never again
would he be allowed to play
in the Vienna, his colleagues realized. That also was part of the code.
The
colonel kept coming to the Vienna, and from that moment he felt forced to prove that he had not been
slowing down the game on purpose
to minimize his losses. The professionals jumped on him. Now it was five games an evening, and not ceding one game in five to the customer, oh no, that rule did
not apply to the colonel. A bit hard it was, because the colonel could
not really afford to lose so
many games. “Then let him burgle his
general’s house,” Loman said
pitilessly.
Most
of this I learned from an interview that Jacques Davidson gave in 1962 to the Dutch newspaper “Het
Parool”. The title that journalist Willem Witkamp gave to his
wonderful article was “The Great
Davidson”. This was somewhat ironic,
because Davidson was
a strong chessplayer, an international master, but he was not what most people would call a great
chessplayer. But it was not completely ironic. Davidson was the first
Dutchman who succeeded
in being a professional chessplayer, and that in a time when only the very best of the world could
live on chess.
Sometimes
Davidson had to take little jobs on the side.
For a while he
was a traveling salesman for a publisher of encyclopedias. But to
the end of his life, he was above all a professional chessplayer. And because of this, in a sense he was really a great man.
Around
1920 he was one of the strongest Dutch chessplayers, but not much notice was taken because Euwe was
so much stronger. Davidson
played in tournaments, the strongest being that in Semmering, 1926. But most of his income came from simultaneous
displays, lectures, newspaper articles and the selling of chess books, often going from door to
door. The income was small.
In the interview mentioned he said: “Nevertheless I have raised four children decently. You shouldn’t do that. Raise children,
yes. But not from chess”.
And he had petty enemies in the Dutch chessworld. Euwe was always helpful, but there were little men of influence who begrudged a professional chessplayers the light in his eyes. In the interview Davidson talked about a tournament held in Amsterdam