"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 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."

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