Tremendous Trifles | Page 8

Fatherland, the four seas of Britain. I love the mere swing of
the mallets, and the click of the balls is music. The four colours are to
me sacramental and symbolic, like the red of martyrdom, or the white
of Easter Day. You lose all this, my poor Parkinson. You have to solace
yourself for the absence of this vision by the paltry consolation of being
able to go through hoops and to hit the stick."
And I waved my mallet in the air with a graceful gaiety.
"Don't be too sorry for me," said Parkinson, with his simple sarcasm. "I
shall get over it in time. But it seems to me that the more a man likes a
game the better he would want to play it. Granted that the pleasure in
the thing itself comes first, does not the pleasure of success come
naturally and inevitably afterwards? Or, take your own simile of the
Knight and his Lady-love. I admit the gentleman does first and
foremost want to be in the lady's presence. But I never yet heard of a
gentleman who wanted to look an utter ass when he was there."
"Perhaps not; though he generally looks it," I replied. "But the truth is
that there is a fallacy in the simile, although it was my own. The
happiness at which the lover is aiming is an infinite happiness, which
can be extended without limit. The more he is loved, normally speaking,
the jollier he will be. It is definitely true that the stronger the love of
both lovers, the stronger will be the happiness. But it is not true that the
stronger the play of both croquet players the stronger will be the game.
It is logically possible--(follow me closely here, Parkinson!)--it is
logically possible, to play croquet too well to enjoy it at all. If you
could put this blue ball through that distant hoop as easily as you could
pick it up with your hand, then you would not put it through that hoop
any more than you pick it up with your hand; it would not be worth
doing. If you could play unerringly you would not play at all. The
moment the game is perfect the game disappears."
"I do not think, however," said Parkinson, "that you are in any

immediate danger of effecting that sort of destruction. I do not think
your croquet will vanish through its own faultless excellence. You are
safe for the present."
I again caressed him with the mallet, knocked a ball about, wired
myself, and resumed the thread of my discourse.
The long, warm evening had been gradually closing in, and by this time
it was almost twilight. By the time I had delivered four more
fundamental principles, and my companion had gone through five more
hoops, the dusk was verging upon dark.
"We shall have to give this up," said Parkinson, as he missed a ball
almost for the first time, "I can't see a thing."
"Nor can I," I answered, "and it is a comfort to reflect that I could not
hit anything if I saw it."
With that I struck a ball smartly, and sent it away into the darkness
towards where the shadowy figure of Parkinson moved in the hot haze.
Parkinson immediately uttered a loud and dramatic cry. The situation,
indeed, called for it. I had hit the right ball.
Stunned with astonishment, I crossed the gloomy ground, and hit my
ball again. It went through a hoop. I could not see the hoop; but it was
the right hoop. I shuddered from head to foot.
Words were wholly inadequate, so I slouched heavily after that
impossible ball. Again I hit it away into the night, in what I supposed
was the vague direction of the quite invisible stick. And in the dead
silence I heard the stick rattle as the ball struck it heavily.
I threw down my mallet. "I can't stand this," I said. "My ball has gone
right three times. These things are not of this world."
"Pick your mallet up ," said Parkinson, "have another go."
"I tell you I daren't. If I made another hoop like that I should see all the
devils dancing there on the blessed grass."
"Why devils?" asked Parkinson; "they may be only fairies making fun
of you. They are sending you the 'Perfect Game,' which is no game."
I looked about me. The garden was full of a burning darkness, in which
the faint glimmers had the look of fire. I stepped across the grass as if it
burnt me, picked up the mallet, and hit the ball somewhere--somewhere
where another ball might be. I heard the dull click of the balls touching,
and ran into the house like one pursued.
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