The Automaton

The Automaton ~ David Wheldon ~ 6/11/2011
Automaton played chess, and that was what the Automaton was billed to do: but really,
at the root of it, the Automaton was a stage property in a gambling scheme. No more
than that, it seemed: at least, that was how the Automaton’s proprietor — impresario
— treated her; and this upset me, for the Automaton had a feminine appearance
without any kind of that exaggeration so beloved of puppet-makers: her face was
vigilant, perceptive and wise: had she been alive you could easily have loved her. Yes,
a gambling act: the truly remarkable achievement — the ability of a machine to play
chess — was in his eyes merely a novelty. He would refer to her, somewhat mockingly,
as ‘Madame’. Every evening she was taken (Sedan-chair style) into the centre of the
auditorium (which was primitive and untiered) sitting at her kneehole desk on which
lay a very large chessboard of red and white inlaid marble, and red and white
chessmen, again large; their height was exaggerated to allow their identification at
some distance. Now, the general public — men and youths, mostly — would pay to
engage her in a game of chess. She would sit upright in front of the board in her darkgreen
satin dress, her long-fingered right hand resting on a large sand-glass. Money
having changed hands, her opponent would sit opposite her and toss a coin for colour.
And the game would begin.
Moves were timed. The Automaton would turn over her sand-glass and make her
move. Her movements were very smooth and graceful: and, it has to be said,
authoritative. This amazed me. I had always thought that automata would have a
mechanical, jerky kind of action. Not she. She would give a long sigh, almost below
the level of hearing, and her right hand would move with a fluid deliberation, her eyes
— almost but not quite unblinking — following the action of her hand. Her fingers
would gently touch the piece and lift it, carry it, and set it down on its allotted square.
Her fluidity and grace of movement unnerved most of her opponents. And she
didn’t seem to need much time to think. No sooner had her opponent made his move
than, with a sigh, she would reach her right hand above the board, its motion that of a
conjuror or a healer.
And she appeared to be unbeatable.
Well, I was fascinated by her. I hadn’t been taught to play chess, but even so I
could gather progress from the behaviour of her opponents. Frustration, anger, even:
the inevitability of that smooth right hand reaching for the enemy king: her eyes would
open and her dark irises would regard her opponent, as though absorbed in his
emotions. Then that long-fingered right hand would silently lay the defeated king on its
side.
‘Thank you, lady,’ some opponents would say, on standing, involuntarily bowing
before her, taking their humiliation in their stride. Others would remain silent and
perturbed.
And then there was the gambling.
There were many ways in which the gambling was done. You could simply place
a wager on the final result: the checkmate. At first this was highly successful and made
the impresario a lot of money. He was an ostensibly honest man and gave the agreed
percentage of takings to my father, who stowed it in the office safe. However, the
certainty of outcome after a while naturally made people reluctant to bet on the
Automaton’s losing. So the proprietor would advertise for good players. And they
arrived, full of confidence, a circle of their friends around them, and heavy money
would be put on their success. At the inevitable conclusion the loser would receive
banter from his friends: ‘see if you can do any better,’ he would say; and soon they
were all a good deal worse off. Then they retired to the bar.
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