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Speaker 1: The Perfect Game by G. K. Chesterton. We have all

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met the man who says that some odd things have

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happened to him, but that he does not really believe

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that they were supernatural. My own position is the opposite

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of this. I believe in the supernatural as a matter

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of intellect and reason, not as a matter of personal experience.

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I do not see ghosts. I only see their inherent probability.

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But it is entirely a matter of the mere intelligence,

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not even of the motions. My nerves and body are

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altogether of this earth, very earthy. But upon people of

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this temperament, one weird incident will often leave a peculiar impression.

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And the weirdest circumstance that ever occurred to me occurred

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a little while ago. It consisted in nothing less than

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my playing a game, and playing it quite well for

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some seventeen consecutive minutes. The ghost of my grandfather would

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have astonished me less. On one of these blue and

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burning afternoons, I found myself, to my inexpressible astonishment, playing

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a game called croquet. I had imagined that it belonged

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to the epoch of Leech and Anthony Trollope, and I

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had neglected to provide myself with those very long and

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luxuriant side whiskers, which are really essential to such a scene.

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I played it with a man whom we will call Parkinson,

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and with whom I had a semi philosophical argument which

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lasted through the entire contest. It is deeply implanted in

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my mind that I had the best of the argument.

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But it is certain and beyond dispute that I had

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the worst of the game. Oh Parkinson, Parkinson, I cried,

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patting him affectionately on the head with a mallet. How

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far you really are from the pure the sport? You

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who can play, It is only we who play badly

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who love the game itself. You love glory, You love applause,

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You love the earthquake voice of victory. You do not

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love croquet. You do not love croquet until you love

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being beaten at croquet. It is we, the Bunglers, who

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adore the occupation in the abstract. It is we to

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whom it is art for art's sake. If we may

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see the face of Croquet herself, if I may so

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express myself, we are content to see her face turned

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upon us in anger. Our play is called amateurish, and

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we were proudly. The name of amateur for amateurs is

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but the French for lovers. We accept all adventures from

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our lady. The most disastrous or the most dreary, we

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wait outside her iron gates. I allude to the hoops,

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vainly essaying to enter. Our devoted balls, impetuous and full

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of chivalry, will not be confined within the pedantic boundaries

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of the mere croquet ground. Our balls seek honor in

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the ends of the earth. They turn up in the

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flower beds and the conservatory. They are to be found

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in the front garden and the next street. No Parkinson,

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the good painter has skill. It is the bad painter

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who loves his art. The good musician loves being a musician.

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The bad musician loves music with such a pure and

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hopeless passion. Do I worship croquet? I love the game itself.

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I love the parallela gram of grass marked out with

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chalk or tape, as if its limits were the frontiers

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of my sacred fatherland, the four seas of Britain. I

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love the mere swing of the mallets, and the click

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of the balls is music. The four colors are to

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me sacramental and symbolic, like the red of martyrdom or

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the white of Easter day. You lose all this, my

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poor Parkinson. You have to solace yourself for the absence

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of this vision by the paltry consolation of being able

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to go through hoops and to hit the stick. And

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I wave my mallet in the air with a graceful gaiety.

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Don't be too sorry for me, said Parkinson, with his

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simple sarcasm. I shall get over it in time. But

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it seems to me that the more a man likes

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a game, the better he would want to play it.

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Granted that the pleasure in the thing itself comes first,

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does not the pleasure of success come naturally and inevitably afterwards?

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Or take your own simile of the Knight and tis Ladylove.

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I admit the gentleman does first, and foremost want to

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be in the lady's presence. But I never yet heard

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of a gentleman who wanted to look an utter ass

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when he was there. Perhaps not, though he generally looks it,

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I replied, But the truth is that there is a

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fallacy in assimile. Although it was my own. The happiness

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at which the lover is aiming is an infinite happiness

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which can be extended without limit. The more he is loved,

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normally speaking, the jollier he will be. It is definitely

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true that the stronger the love of both lovers, the

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stronger will be the happiness. But it is not true

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that the stronger the play of both croquet players, the

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stronger will be the game. It is logically possible. Follow

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me closely here, Parkinson. It is logically possible to play

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croquet too well to enjoy it at all. If you

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could put this blue ball through that distant hoop as

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easily as you could pick it up with your hand,

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then you would not put it through that hoop any

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more than you pick it up with your hand. It

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would not be worth doing. If you could play unerringly,

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you would not play at all. The moment the game

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is perfect, the game disappears. I do not think, however,

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said Parkinson, that you are in any immediate danger of

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affecting that sort of destruction. I do not think your

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croquet will vanish to its own faultless excellence. You are

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safe for the present. I again caressed him with the mallet,

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knocked a ball about, wired myself, and resumed the thread

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of my discourse. The long warm evening had been gradually

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closing in, and by this time it was almost twilight.

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By the time I had delivered four more fundamental principles,

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and my companion had gone through five more hoops, the

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dusk was verging upon dark. We shall have to give

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this up, said Parkinson, as he missed the ball, almost

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for the first time. I can't see a thing, nor

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can I, I answered, And it is a comfort to

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reflect that I could not hit anything if I saw it.

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With that, I struck a ball smartly and sent it

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away into the darkness, towards where the shadowy figure of

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Parkinson moved in the hot haze. Parkinson immediately uttered a

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loud and dramatic cry. The situation indeed called for it.

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I had hit the right ball. Stunned with astonishment, I

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crossed the gloomy ground and hit my ball again. It

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went through a hoop. I could not see the hoop,

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but it was the right hoop. I shuddered from head

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to foot. Words were wholly inadequate, so I slouched heavily

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after that impossible ball again. I hit it away into

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the night in what I supposed was the vague direction

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of the quite invisible stick, and in the dead silence,

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I heard the stick rattle as the ball struck it heavily.

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I threw down my mallet. I can't stand this, I said.

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My ball has gone right three times. These things are

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not of this world. Pick your mallet up, said Parkinson.

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I'm another go I tell you, I daren't If I

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made another hoop like that, I should see all the

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devils dancing there on the blessed grass. Why devils, asked Parkinson.

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They may be only fairies making fun of you. They

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are sending you the perfect game, which is no game.

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I looked about me. The garden was full of a

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burning darkness, in which the faint glimmers had the look

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of fire. I stepped across the grass as if it

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burnt me, picked up the mallet and hit the ball somewhere,

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somewhere where another ball might be. I heard the dull

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click of the ball touching, and ran into the house

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like one pursued. End of the Perfect Game by G. K.

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Chesterton