Tremendous Trifles | Page 7

it. There was something
unnecessarily horrible, it seemed to me, in the idea of there being only
two men in that train, and one of them dead and the other smoking a
cigar. And as the red and gold of the butt end of it faded like a funeral
torch trampled out at some symbolic moment of a procession, I realised
how immortal ritual is. I realised (what is the origin and essence of all
ritual) that in the presence of those sacred riddles about which we can
say nothing it is more decent merely to do something. And I realised
that ritual will always mean throwing away something; DESTROYING
our corn or wine upon the altar of our gods.
When the train panted at last into Paddington Station I sprang out of it
with a suddenly released curiosity. There was a barrier and officials
guarding the rear part of the train; no one was allowed to press towards
it. They were guarding and hiding something; perhaps death in some
too shocking form, perhaps something like the Merstham matter, so
mixed up with human mystery and wickedness that the land has to give
it a sort of sanctity; perhaps something worse than either. I went out
gladly enough into the streets and saw the lamps shining on the
laughing faces. Nor have I ever known from that day to this into what
strange story I wandered or what frightful thing was my companion in
the dark.
IV
THE PERFECT GAME
We have all met the man who says that some odd things have happened

to him, but that he does not really believe that they were supernatural.
My own position is the opposite of this. I believe in the supernatural as
a matter of intellect and reason, not as a matter of personal experience.
I do not see ghosts; I only see their inherent probability. But it is
entirely a matter of the mere intelligence, not even of the motions; my
nerves and body are altogether of this earth, very earthy. But upon
people of this temperament one weird incident will often leave a
peculiar impression. And the weirdest circumstance that ever occurred
to me occurred a little while ago. It consisted in nothing less than my
playing a game, and playing it quite well for some seventeen
consecutive minutes. The ghost of my grandfather would have
astonished me less.
On one of these blue and burning afternoons I found myself, to my
inexpressible astonishment, playing a game called croquet. I had
imagined that it belonged to the epoch of Leach and Anthony Trollope,
and I had neglected to provide myself with those very long and
luxuriant side whiskers which are really essential to such a scene. I
played it with a man whom we will call Parkinson, and with whom I
had a semi-philosophical argument which lasted through the entire
contest. It is deeply implanted in my mind that I had the best of the
argument; but it is certain and beyond dispute that I had the worst of
the game.
"Oh, Parkinson, Parkinson!" I cried, patting him affectionately on the
head with a mallet, "how far you really are from the pure love of the
sport--you who can play. It is only we who play badly who love the
Game itself. You love glory; you love applause; you love the
earthquake voice of victory; you do not love croquet. You do not love
croquet until you love being beaten at croquet. It is we the bunglers
who adore the occupation in the abstract. It is we to whom it is art for
art's sake. If we may see the face of Croquet herself (if I may so express
myself) we are content to see her face turned upon us in anger. Our
play is called amateurish; and we wear proudly the name of amateur,
for amateurs is but the French for Lovers. We accept all adventures
from our Lady, the most disastrous or the most dreary. We wait outside
her iron gates (I allude to the hoops), vainly essaying to enter. Our
devoted balls, impetuous and full of chivalry, will not be confined
within the pedantic boundaries of the mere croquet ground. Our balls

seek honour in the ends of the earth; they turn up in the flower-beds
and the conservatory; they are to be found in the front garden and the
next street. No, Parkinson! The good painter has skill. It is the bad
painter who loves his art. The good musician loves being a musician,
the bad musician loves music. With such a pure and hopeless passion
do I worship croquet. I love the game itself. I love the parallelogram of
grass marked out with chalk or tape, as if its limits were the frontiers of
my sacred