The world-wide sport of chess has had its glorious triumphs, but it has had its tragedies as well. And in all the history of the game, no world-class player has ever had to deal with more terryfying personal demons than Akiba Rubinstein, perhaps the greatest exponent who never won the world championship.
Born in the Polish border town of Stawiski in 1882, Rubinstein abandoned his talmudic studies while still in school to devote his life entirely to chess, a decision that inflicted undying grief on the rest of his family.
After a few years developing his skills, Rubinstein became a powerful force on the international scene and one of the world's dominant players from 1905 to 1911. His success at chess was all the more stunning for the fact that he suffered throughout his life with a nervous disorder known as anthrophobia, a fear of people and society.
His poor mental health caused him enormous suffering but, inspite of his disability, Rubinstein was able to compete brilliantly for many years with the best chess players in the world. He left a treasury of beautiful games that are carefully studied up to this day.
When he won the St Petersburg tournament in 1909, the 27-year-old Pole was widely regarded as the strongest player in the world, sharing the first place with champion Emmanuel Lasker whom he defeated in their individual encounter. Shortly after, at San Sebastian, he placed second to Capablanca also after beating the Cuban in their personal duel.
Reflecting on the tournament after, Jacques Mieses, a famous master himself, prolific writer and chess journalist, noted: "the Cuban must have been lucky, that's all.
"Rubinstein is not the man to have any luck - unless it is bad. His style is so free from any propensity to gamble, too honest, so to speak. His luck was in his power, and his power was overwhelming. That he demonstrated at San Sebastian again by defeating Capablanca in a magnificent game. In a way he emerged morally the winner there too."
On his way home from San Sebastian to Leipzig, Mieses met Rubinstein on the train and they had what was possibly the last chat anyone ever had with Rubinstein, who later became a virtual trappist.
"Are you going home to Lodz now?" Mieses asked in the course of their conversation.
"No," said Rubinstein, "I'm going first to Munich."
"Oh, giving exhibitions."
"No. No exhibitions. I have heard of a professor there, and I'm going to see him."
"What's the matter? Don't you feel well?"
"Oh no, I'm perfectly all right," answered Rubinstein. "It's only because of the fly." And he explained to Mieses how a fly was always settling on his head and disturbing him during play, just when he needed to think hard.
Thus had Rubinstein's tragedy touched the surface for the first time. But he kept on collecting successes. For about three years his achievements gave no inkling that there was anything wrong with him.
At St Petersburg, 1914, however, and without any warning, disaster struck. Rubinstein failed even to qualify for the final section of five. The prizes went to Lasker, Capablanca, Alekhine, Tarrash and Marshall in that order.
Loser Rubinstein, aged only 31, appeared a puzzle to the chess world. He participated in many more tournaments with some success, but the full blinding light of his star came back only once; that happened at the tournament in Vienna, 1922, which he won ahead of Alekhine and a galaxy of other contestants.
Forces, other than that fly, were increasingly at work to disturb him, particularly at night. There was always knocking on the walls, at his door, so he could not sleep. Once, when he "found out" who the "culprit" was, he broke into Richard Reti's room and almost succeeded in strangling him.
Later, for years, the knocking was done by a princess. He felt that people who tried to shake his hand were trying to infect him with germs. He developed the habit of leaving the board after every move, retiring to some corner, covering his mouth with his hand and having lively conversations with himself.
With the passing of his wife, Rubinstein apparently lost the will to live. He would no longer wash, shave, have his hair cut, change his clothes nor speak a word. The chess genius became a living corpse. The question is, without the "demons" that plagued him, would Rubinstein have been king?
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