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I traveled far, crossing the boundless snowfields, passing through the vast ocean of forests, in search of a treasure. I did not know what it was, only that I had to find it, whatever the cost. At times I would fall into delirium; in the swirling snowstorm, I saw shadows—countless shadows, near yet distant; immense enough to crush me with ease, yet so small as to seem nonexistent.
You ask me their shapes? Strangely, I once felt they were so close at hand, and even now I sense them lurking in my mind. But when I try to draw them forth and show you a glimpse, I am helpless, tongue-tied.
I could not tell whether I was awake or dreaming, but I saw a house, standing upon the plain. A stately house, I must say. It was built of marble—a material long deemed a symbol of eternity. In the past we believed churches of such stone reached heavenward, joining the Father in His glory. I suspected I was seeing a deathbed vision, for how could such stone be found upon a flat, endless plain? Yet I still knocked at the door.
“Good day? I am a traveler passing through, seeking a night’s lodging!” I said, without much hope.
Unexpectedly, the door opened. No one stood behind it, but I took this as the host’s consent, not an intrusion on my part. I entered, removed my coat, and hung it upon the rack in the vestibule.
The interior was likewise curious. The floor was marble still—black and white squares, so clean they reflected my face. Glancing toward the vestibule, I saw many mirrors. Strange indeed—was it meant to imitate the Palace of Versailles?
“Travelers, even in such weather?” I heard a deep voice say. Usually in such places one expects fairies, wizards, or some god or devil at play. Yet when I looked, it was only an ordinary old man, save for the crown upon his head.
That crown was beautiful. I did not know its exact material, perhaps some metal. It was white, gleaming with a metallic sheen. In its center, set upon the cross, was a piece of wood. At once simple and sublime, it drew my gaze, and I could not look away. Suddenly, I felt I had found the treasure I sought.
“Why is your crown inlaid with a piece of wood?” I asked, glancing at the many reflections of myself in the mirrors.
The old man, fingering a chess piece, said calmly: “You should answer my question first, youth.”
“Well then, when I set out, the weather was nothing like this. As you see, I’ve traveled far—how could I control the weather along the way?”
“You do not ask why I wear a crown, but only why it bears wood.”
“I like it.”
“You like it?” He laughed. “Then sit with me, and play a game of chess. Will you?”
“And if I agree, what do I gain?”
“The chance to play a game with me.” He set the pieces back in place, making a gesture of invitation.
I sat opposite him, thinking it fair payment for lodging. With benevolence he said, “You may have the first move.” So I picked up a white pawn.
Despite his advanced age, the old man soon showed himself a formidable opponent. Calm, patient, never once venturing a reckless move, he forced me step by step into the noose, tightening it slowly, until I was strangled into defeat.
When he toppled my king, I said helplessly, “You win, sir.”
“You were too careless,” he said sternly. His gray-blue eyes glinted with a metallic sheen.
I shook my head. “I only played to keep you company.”
He stared at the chess clock in silence. Suddenly I realized—there were no other timepieces in this house. How then did he know the time? I too gazed at that clock, bearing the emblem of the ouroboros, and drifted into thought.
“Well then, traveler,” the old man finally spoke again, “I have been far too long without visitors. Let me tell you a story, shall I?”
“I am all ears.” Truly, I loved stories. Already this felt like a tale from One Thousand and One Nights, with wonders waiting at its end.
The old man sat upright and began:
“Once there was a kingdom whose monarch was not hereditary, but chosen through challenge. If the reigning king was defeated, he must yield the throne.
And yet, countless men yearned for the crown, for it was said that whoever became king might earn supreme glory—the Crown of Rationality.
There was a king, brilliant of mind, unfathomable in strategy, whose opponents could scarcely guess his next move. Yet he could never win the Crown’s favor. He was quick to anger, arrogant, discourteous, despised by many. His queen counseled him earnestly, but he repaid her only with harsh words and scorn.”
“Men like that lose their thrones soon enough,” I could not help but remark.
“No one reigns forever,” said the old man. “So it was. A challenger arose, clever and skilled. The king dismissed him, for he was not famed abroad.
‘Watch closely,’ the king boasted. ‘If he wins a game from me, it is only because I choose to grant the crowd some amusement.’
‘Why abuse him so?’ the queen urged. ‘He seems a worthy opponent. You are needlessly exhausting the people’s patience.’ She was wise and beautiful, yet her husband spurned her counsel.
He brushed her aside, but in their first game, he fell into disadvantage. Enraged, he abandoned the match.
The presiding god declared: Shameful! If the match was not resumed by the same hour on the morrow, the king would be dethroned, forced to compete anew with all others.”
I asked quickly, “Did something change, then?”
The old man nodded. “The queen intervened. She arranged to meet her husband’s opponent, hoping to reconcile the two. But in the palace garden, the challenger found only the queen.
She explained awkwardly: ‘My husband intended to come, but some matter detained him.’
‘No matter,’ said the challenger. ‘I haven't missed him so far.’
The queen smiled faintly, her heart unsettled. She said, ‘Perhaps, without my husband—’
‘We may still continue our talk,’ the challenger replied. ‘He might leap from the palace roof this moment, and I won't care.’
They smiled at each other. At that moment, the king stormed in.
‘Ah! My wife and my rival!’ he cried. ‘What plot are you weaving together?’
The queen sought to explain, but he refused to listen. Anger flared in the challenger’s breast—not for his own honor, but for the insult done to her. Watching the king’s back, he thought: We shall see.”
“Your story suddenly sounds like a tawdry romance,” I said.
The old man smiled. “Sometimes it is so.” He turned a chess piece between his fingers and went on. “Enraged, they fought again, and at last the king was defeated. Before the god’s witness, the challenger was crowned the new king. The queen was preparing to depart, when he said, ‘Stay. I ask you to remain as queen.’
‘But what of your wife? My husband is no longer king.’
‘I want only you as my queen,’ said the new king, calm and resolute.”
“Wait—this is the story of Oedipus?” I cried in shock.
“I assure you, there is no blood relation here,” the old man replied swiftly. “In any case, the queen remained queen. A year later, a strange guest arrived: the wife of the new king. She accused him of betrayal—he had abandoned his wife and children to wed his rival’s widow. She declared their union void.”
I was even more astonished. “He had a wife and children? What a scoundrel!”
“We speak of love,” the old man said softly, lowering his head. After a pause, he continued:
“Meanwhile, a new challenger rose against the king—this time with allies, spiders. The spider wove its webs and found the former king, sending him to tempt the queen: ‘Do you not long for your lost father? Persuade your man to lose the match, and I will tell you his fate.’
It also sought out the king’s wife, saying: ‘How long will he cling to this throne? Will he never think of his children?’
The king was troubled. He knew the queen’s grief for her missing father; as her lover, how could he fail her? And his children—though he had been a poor, even callous father, his conscience whispered still. Again and again he asked himself: Must I sacrifice for them? Must I abandon the Crown I have long pursued?
Through torment he endured the first games, fighting to a draw. At last they came to the final battle.
The god declared: This game decides your fate. Begin.
And so they played.
The king recalled a fallen foe’s warning—the former king had discerned his challenger’s defensive habit. He knew he could win. But should he win?”
By now I noticed—the crown upon the old man’s head sank deep into his white hair, fused with his very flesh.
“He will win,” I said.
“Why so certain?” asked the old man.
“Simple. A man who abandons wife and children once can do so again; likewise, he can forsake his lover’s cause.”
The old man paused, and I thought I glimpsed sorrow—but his face, his cold gray-blue eyes betrayed nothing.
“You are right,” he said. “The king won.
The god said: Now you have a choice. Take the Crown of Rationality, and you shall be forever unshaken, never swayed by passion, always making the most rational choice. But your queen will leave you, never to return. Choose the queen, and forsake the supreme glory you have sought for years.
‘And you chose the crown?’ I asked.
‘I am no longer moved by outward things. Thus you cannot read my feelings. They do not exist,’ said the old man.
Puzzled, I pointed at his face. ‘Then why are you crying?’
Beneath his right eye hung a tear. Not the dazzling pearl of a mermaid’s sorrow, nor the warm shard-melting tear of a boy named Kai, nor the mighty lament of Demeter mourning her daughter, which made all things wither. It was quiet, cold, yet it revealed a great truth.
Startled, the old man touched it. When he found it real, he whispered in wonder: “Why have I never seen this in the mirrors?” He looked around at the countless mirrors, and at last saw, upon his stern, aged face, that solitary tear of grief.
“The onlooker sees clearly,” I said, “while the actor is blind. Perhaps when you were blind to yourself, the mirror of your heart could not reflect your whole soul.”
He gazed at me. “Thank you.”
“No thanks needed. I believe I came here for you,” I said.
The old man rose. “Do you know who I am?”
“You are a chess player. A great chess player, but a failed husband, father, and lover,” I said with feeling. “Respected Anatoly Sergievsky.”
He stood frozen, like a white king upon the board. Had his eyes not widened, his lips not trembled, I would have thought him encased in ice. Calmly, I looked at him.
“I am sorry, Florence,” the old man said.
The storm pierced through the windows, howling into the marble house. The rational king stood tall, the snowflakes like blades cutting his skin. The mirrors of self-examination trembled. Before his eyes, I vanished into the blizzard beyond. The wind bore my murmur, as once the whispers of a lover lingered at his temple and ear:
“I love you, Anatoly.”
Anatoly Sergievsky wept in silence, but did not reach out to hold me back. His feet were nailed to the ground, unable to move—for this was no temple of reason, but long since a prison of his own pride.