The Perfect Game by G. K. Chesterton. 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 Leech 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
were 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 honor 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 hope as passion.
Do I worship croquet. I love the game itself. I love the
parallela gram of grass marked out with chalk or tape, as if its limits
were the frontiers of my sacred fatherland, the four seas of Britain. I
love the mere swing of the mallets, and the click of the balls is
music. The four colors 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 wave my mullet 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 tis 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 assimile. 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 lover 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 affecting that sort
of destruction. I do not think your crow cat will vanish to its own
faultless excellence. You are safe for the present. I again caressed him,
with the mallet knocked to ball about wired myself and resume 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 the 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, though, 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. I'm another girl. I'd tell you I dan'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 ball was touching, and ran into the house like one pursued.
End of the Perfect Game by G. K. Chesterton