Watching these last stages was like watching the quick motions of a
precisely tooled machine, a relentless mathematical progression, and there
was an aesthetic pleasure too in the order and the formal propriety. We were
watching a battle, but it took clean forms. The figures of the players
themselves, their eyes never leaving the board, added to the formal
appropriateness.
From about Black 177 to White 180, Otaké seemed in a state of rapture,
in the grip of thoughts too powerful to contain. The round, full face had the
completeness and harmony of a Buddha head. It was an indescribably
marvelous face—perhaps he had entered a realm of artistic exaltation. He
seemed to have forgotten his digestive troubles.
Perhaps too worried to come nearer, Mrs. Otaké, that splendid Momotaro
of a baby in her arms, had been walking in the garden, from which she
gazed uneasily toward the game room.
The Master, who had just played White 186, looked up as the long siren
sounded from the direction of the beach. “There’s room for you all,” he
said amiably, turning toward us.
The autumn tournament having ended, Onoda of the Sixth Rank was in
attendance. Others too were watching as the battle pressed to a close:
Yawata of the Association, Goi and Sunada of the Nichinichi, the Itō
correspondent for the Nichinichi, the managers and other functionaries.
They were crowded together just inside the anteroom, and some were
beyond the partition. The Master was inviting them to watch from nearer
the board.
That Buddha countenance lasted for but a moment. Otaké’s face was
alive again with a lust for battle. The small, beautifully erect figure of the
Master as he counted up points seemed to take on a grandeur that stilled the
air around him. When Otaké played Black 191, the Master’s head fell
forward, his eyes were wide, he moved nearer the board. Both men were
fanning themselves violently. The noon recess came with Black 195.
