Samuel Réti was born somewhere in Austro-Hungarian Empire, perhaps in what is now the Czech Republic or perhaps in Hungary. He and his wife Anna had three sons. Here, from a memoir of Richard Réti by his elder brother Rudolph Reti (1885-1957), are some details about the family: "Richard Réti was born on 28 May 1889 in Bösing (the German name for the little town then changed temporarily to the Hungarian Bazin, and later to the Slovakian Pezinok) as the third son of the physician Samuel Réti and his wife Anna. A son Otto had died in infancy. Mother often complained that Otto would probably have fulfilled what in both of us was only promised, for he had been a true infant prodigy, understanding whatever was said to him and, though not yet able to speak, capable of singing at true pitch any melody he heard.
I was born before midnight on 27 November 1885, and to the day three and a half years later, on the morning of 28 May 1889, Richard followed. While I was said to have greeted the world with a fearful noise, Richard was so completely silent that even Father, a doctor, was at first not sure whether he was alive at all. Father later remarked that Richard was so little impressed by this world that he did not consider it worthwhile to comment.
My parents remained in Serbia for several years. There I was born. When I was about two years of age, the family returned to Hungary, where my father acquired a sanatorium in Bösing. There Richard was born. With two sons, and already mindful of their education, the family moved to Vienna, where Father established a medical practice. The family, however, spent its summers at Father’s sanatorium in Bösing, a resort famous for its mineral baths and but an hour’s distance from Vienna.
The Vienna of 1890 was not only a political, medical and cultural center in general, but in it two arts, very different in nature, flourished: music and chess.
Richard became a chessplayer and I a musician.
My earliest memories of Richard’s interest in chess may sound far fetched. But they are true. On winter evenings, Father and Mother used to play a game of chess. We children were allowed to watch. I, then almost ten, had been taught the moves and already was audacious enough to offer my advice as a kibitzer. Richard, on the other hand, too young (as my parents thought) to be even introduced to the rules of the game, always sat quietly watching, without uttering a word. One day, however, he suddenly asked permission to play.
“Richard”, Father replied, “that is impossible. You are only six. You don’t even know the rules. Chess is a difficult game.”
As the tears filled in Richard’s eyes, Father relented. “All right”, he said, “sit down and play.”
Richard sat down, played – and won. A second game followed immediately, with the same result.
“How did you learn to play so well?”, we all exclaimed. “No-one ever showed you anything.”
“I looked on while you played”, said Richard, “and learned from your mistakes.”
(This memoir was found on line and placed there by chess historian Edward Winter.)
I was born before midnight on 27 November 1885, and to the day three and a half years later, on the morning of 28 May 1889, Richard followed. While I was said to have greeted the world with a fearful noise, Richard was so completely silent that even Father, a doctor, was at first not sure whether he was alive at all. Father later remarked that Richard was so little impressed by this world that he did not consider it worthwhile to comment.
My parents remained in Serbia for several years. There I was born. When I was about two years of age, the family returned to Hungary, where my father acquired a sanatorium in Bösing. There Richard was born. With two sons, and already mindful of their education, the family moved to Vienna, where Father established a medical practice. The family, however, spent its summers at Father’s sanatorium in Bösing, a resort famous for its mineral baths and but an hour’s distance from Vienna.
The Vienna of 1890 was not only a political, medical and cultural center in general, but in it two arts, very different in nature, flourished: music and chess.
Richard became a chessplayer and I a musician.
My earliest memories of Richard’s interest in chess may sound far fetched. But they are true. On winter evenings, Father and Mother used to play a game of chess. We children were allowed to watch. I, then almost ten, had been taught the moves and already was audacious enough to offer my advice as a kibitzer. Richard, on the other hand, too young (as my parents thought) to be even introduced to the rules of the game, always sat quietly watching, without uttering a word. One day, however, he suddenly asked permission to play.
“Richard”, Father replied, “that is impossible. You are only six. You don’t even know the rules. Chess is a difficult game.”
As the tears filled in Richard’s eyes, Father relented. “All right”, he said, “sit down and play.”
Richard sat down, played – and won. A second game followed immediately, with the same result.
“How did you learn to play so well?”, we all exclaimed. “No-one ever showed you anything.”
“I looked on while you played”, said Richard, “and learned from your mistakes.”
(This memoir was found on line and placed there by chess historian Edward Winter.)
Samuel Réti was born somewhere in Austro-Hungarian Empire, perhaps in what is now the Czech Republic or perhaps in Hungary. He and his wife Anna had three sons. Here, from a memoir of Richard Réti by his elder brother Rudolph Reti (1885-1957), are some details about the family: "Richard Réti was born on 28 May 1889 in Bösing (the German name for the little town then changed temporarily to the Hungarian Bazin, and later to the Slovakian Pezinok) as the third son of the physician Samuel Réti and his wife Anna. A son Otto had died in infancy. Mother often complained that Otto would probably have fulfilled what in both of us was only promised, for he had been a true infant prodigy, understanding whatever was said to him and, though not yet able to speak, capable of singing at true pitch any melody he heard.
I was born before midnight on 27 November 1885, and to the day three and a half years later, on the morning of 28 May 1889, Richard followed. While I was said to have greeted the world with a fearful noise, Richard was so completely silent that even Father, a doctor, was at first not sure whether he was alive at all. Father later remarked that Richard was so little impressed by this world that he did not consider it worthwhile to comment.
My parents remained in Serbia for several years. There I was born. When I was about two years of age, the family returned to Hungary, where my father acquired a sanatorium in Bösing. There Richard was born. With two sons, and already mindful of their education, the family moved to Vienna, where Father established a medical practice. The family, however, spent its summers at Father’s sanatorium in Bösing, a resort famous for its mineral baths and but an hour’s distance from Vienna.
The Vienna of 1890 was not only a political, medical and cultural center in general, but in it two arts, very different in nature, flourished: music and chess.
Richard became a chessplayer and I a musician.
My earliest memories of Richard’s interest in chess may sound far fetched. But they are true. On winter evenings, Father and Mother used to play a game of chess. We children were allowed to watch. I, then almost ten, had been taught the moves and already was audacious enough to offer my advice as a kibitzer. Richard, on the other hand, too young (as my parents thought) to be even introduced to the rules of the game, always sat quietly watching, without uttering a word. One day, however, he suddenly asked permission to play.
“Richard”, Father replied, “that is impossible. You are only six. You don’t even know the rules. Chess is a difficult game.”
As the tears filled in Richard’s eyes, Father relented. “All right”, he said, “sit down and play.”
Richard sat down, played – and won. A second game followed immediately, with the same result.
“How did you learn to play so well?”, we all exclaimed. “No-one ever showed you anything.”
“I looked on while you played”, said Richard, “and learned from your mistakes.”
(This memoir was found on line and placed there by chess historian Edward Winter.)
I was born before midnight on 27 November 1885, and to the day three and a half years later, on the morning of 28 May 1889, Richard followed. While I was said to have greeted the world with a fearful noise, Richard was so completely silent that even Father, a doctor, was at first not sure whether he was alive at all. Father later remarked that Richard was so little impressed by this world that he did not consider it worthwhile to comment.
My parents remained in Serbia for several years. There I was born. When I was about two years of age, the family returned to Hungary, where my father acquired a sanatorium in Bösing. There Richard was born. With two sons, and already mindful of their education, the family moved to Vienna, where Father established a medical practice. The family, however, spent its summers at Father’s sanatorium in Bösing, a resort famous for its mineral baths and but an hour’s distance from Vienna.
The Vienna of 1890 was not only a political, medical and cultural center in general, but in it two arts, very different in nature, flourished: music and chess.
Richard became a chessplayer and I a musician.
My earliest memories of Richard’s interest in chess may sound far fetched. But they are true. On winter evenings, Father and Mother used to play a game of chess. We children were allowed to watch. I, then almost ten, had been taught the moves and already was audacious enough to offer my advice as a kibitzer. Richard, on the other hand, too young (as my parents thought) to be even introduced to the rules of the game, always sat quietly watching, without uttering a word. One day, however, he suddenly asked permission to play.
“Richard”, Father replied, “that is impossible. You are only six. You don’t even know the rules. Chess is a difficult game.”
As the tears filled in Richard’s eyes, Father relented. “All right”, he said, “sit down and play.”
Richard sat down, played – and won. A second game followed immediately, with the same result.
“How did you learn to play so well?”, we all exclaimed. “No-one ever showed you anything.”
“I looked on while you played”, said Richard, “and learned from your mistakes.”
(This memoir was found on line and placed there by chess historian Edward Winter.)
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