The Chess-Ghost

In the city of Luoyang there dwelt an old man, surnamed Ruan, who lived alone in a crumbling hermitage. He was greatly given to the game of go, and each night he would set a candle and sit facing an empty board, playing with his hands as though at ease, as if a true opponent sat before him. A neighbouring lad rose in the night and peeped in: he saw the old man move his stones like flying, black and white interlaced upon the board, yet the chair across from him stood empty and still, with no one there. Some thought him mad, some took it for sport. A curious fellow hid beneath the window to spy out this opponent, but watched the whole night through and never saw him—only heard the clear click of the stones, like pearls rolling on a jade tray, and the old man’s murmur: “This move of yours is rash,” and again, “Well played,” as though answering another. So it went for three years. One night the old man’s play suddenly fell into disorder; he sighed long, pushed the board aside and rose, and bowed twice toward the empty chair. “Thirty years,” he said, “and now we must part. You were once my disciple; you drowned in the game, neglected your calling and perished, and your soul clung to this board. I kept you company at the stones to comfort a lonely ghost.” No sooner had he spoken than the candle went out, and the stones upon the board moved of themselves into the character “thanks,” then scattered and were gone. At dawn the old man was dead, seated upright before the board, a smile upon his face. The neighbours searched his hermitage and found an old manual, its flyleaf inscribed: “Given to my disciple Li, who died of the game.” The Chronicler of the Strange remarks: With a single board he comforted a dead soul; for three years he kept company with barren bones. The world strives over go for victory and defeat, but this old man played for affection. When the game ends and the players part, yet his heart’s warmth was spent—is that not a deep kindness?