Fig. 23.
I now come to the automaton which for some years was the wonder of every country in Europe, the automaton chess-player of the Baron Wolfgang von Kempelen, constructed in 1776. This automaton was a life-size sitting figure dressed as a Turk, and having before it a large rectangular chest or cabinet, 3 feet 6 inches long, 2 feet deep, and 2 feet 6 inches high, on the top of which was a chessboard and a set of men. The seat on which the figure sat, was attached to the cabinet and the whole was on castors, so that it could be wheeled about the floor. When the automaton was exhibited, the exhibitor began operations by opening the doors of the cabinet so as to show its contents, and here I will throw on the screen a copy ([Fig. 24]) of one of the plates in a curious pamphlet,[10] printed anonymously in 1821, but probably by Professor Willis. It must, however, be recollected that these doors were opened in succession, and never all at the same time, but whichever door was opened, nothing could be seen but wheels, levers, connecting rods, strings and cylinders. After this the doors were closed and locked, the machinery was wound up, and the figure was ready to play a game of chess with any one who would challenge him. On commencing the game the figure moved its head, and seemed to look at every part of the board. When it checked the king, it nodded its head three times, and when it threatened the queen, it nodded twice. It also shook its head when its adversary made a false move, and replaced the offending piece. It nearly always won the game, but occasionally lost.
When it was completed, it was exhibited in Riga, Moscow, St. Petersburg, Berlin, Presburg and Vienna, coming to London in 1783, and having been seen by many thousands during those years with out its secret being discovered, but in the year 1789, a book was published by Mr. Freyherre of Dresden, in which he showed that “a well taught boy very thin and tall of his age, (sufficiently so that he could be concealed in a drawer below the chessboard,) agitated the whole.” In the plate before you, you will see that the author has shown in dotted lines, the position a boy might take when the left hand door was opened.
Fig. 24.
The real story of this most ingenious and successful scientific fraud is so interesting that I must tell it here, although it puts for ever Baron von Kempelen’s chess-player outside the circle of true automata. In the year 1776, a regiment, half Russian and half Polish, mutinied at Riga. The mutineers were defeated, and their chief officer, Worouski, fell, having had both his thighs fractured by a cannon ball. He hid himself in a ditch until after dark, when he dragged himself to the neighbouring house of a doctor named Osloff, a man of great benevolence, who took him in and concealed him, but he had to amputate both his legs. During the time of Worouski’s illness, Osloff was visited by his intimate friend the Baron von Kempelen, and after many consultations and much thought, Kempelen hit upon the idea of conveying him out of the country by devising this automaton (as Worouski was a great chess-player), and in three months the figure was finished.
In order to avoid suspicion he gave performances en route to the frontier. The first performance was given at Toula, on the 6th of November, 1777 (that is to say exactly 114 years ago to-day). The machine and Worouski were packed in a case and started for Prussia, but when they reached Riga, orders came from the Empress Katherine II., for Baron von Kempelen to go to St. Petersburg with his automaton. The Empress played several games with him, but was always beaten, and then she wanted to buy the figure. This was an awkward situation for Kempelen, and he was at his wits’ end to know how to wriggle out of it. He declared that his own presence was absolutely necessary for the working of the machine, and that it was quite impossible for him to sell it, and, after some further discussion, he was allowed to proceed on his journey.