The Life Spherical
It was a beautiful September day, and they floated softly over green Surrey.
“And this is England!” said the foreigner. “I am indeed glad to be here at last, and to come in such a way.”
“You could not,” the other replied, “have chosen a more novel or entertaining means of seeing the country for the first time.”
They leaned over the edge of the basket and looked down. The earth was spread out like a map: they could see the shape of every meadow, penetrate every chimney.
“How beautiful,” said the foreigner. “How orderly and precise. No wonder you conquered the world, you English. How unresting you must be! But what,” he went on, “is the employment of those men there, on that great space? Are they practising warfare? See how they walk in couples, followed by small boys bent beneath some burden. One stops. The boy gives him a stick. He seems to be addressing himself to the performance of a delicate rite. See how he waves his hands. He has struck something. See how they all move on together; what purpose in their stride! It is the same all over the place—men in pairs, pursuing or striking, and small bent boys following. Tell me what they are doing. Are they tacticians?”
“No,” said the other, “they are merely playing golf. That plain is called a golf links. There are thousands like that in England. It is a game, a recreation. These men are resting, recreating. You cannot see it because it is so small, but there is a little white ball which they hit.”
“The pursuit has no other purpose?” asked the foreigner. “It teaches nothing? It does not lead to military skill?”
“No.”
“But don’t the boys play too?”
“Oh, no. They only carry.”
The foreigner was silent for a while, and then he pointed again. “See,” he said, “that field with the white figures. I have noticed so many. What are they doing? One man runs to a spot and waves his arm; another, some distance away, waves a club at something. Then he runs and another runs. They cross. They cross again. Some of the other figures run too. What does that mean? That surely is practice for warfare?”
“No,” said the other, “that is cricket. Cricket is also a game. There are tens of thousands of fields like that all over England. They are merely playing for amusement. The man who waved his arm bowled a ball; the man who waved his club hit it. You cannot see the ball, but it is there.”
The stranger was silent again. A little later he drew attention to another field. “What is that?” he said. “There are men and girls with clubs all running among each other. Surely that is war. See how they smite! What Amazons! No wonder England leads the way!”
“No,” said the other, “that is hockey. Another game.”
“And is there a ball there too?” he asked.
“Yes,” was the reply, “a ball.”
“But see the garden of that house,” he remarked; “that is not hockey. There are only four, but two are women. They also leap about and run and wave their arms. Is there a ball there?”
“Yes,” was the reply, “there is a ball there. That is lawn tennis.”
“But the white lines,” he said. “Is not that, perhaps, out-door mathematics? That surely may help to serious things?”
“No,” the other replied, “only another game. There are millions of such gardens in England with similar lines.”
“Yes,” he said, for they were then over Surbiton, “I see them at this moment by the hundred.”
They passed on to London. It was at that time of September when football and cricket overlap, and there was not only a crowded cricket match at the Oval but an even more crowded football match at Blackheath.
The foreigner caught sight of the Oval first. “Ah,” he said, “you deceived me. For here is your cricket again, played amid a vast concourse. How can you call it a game? These crowds would not come to see a game played, but would play one themselves. It must be more than you said; it must be a form of tactics that can help to retain England’s supremacy, and these men are here to learn.”
“No,” said the other, “no. It is just a game. In England we not only like to play games, but to see them played.”
It was then that the stranger noticed Blackheath. “Ah, now I have you!” he cried. “Here is another field and another crowd; but this is surely a battle. See how they dash at each other. And yes, look, one of them has had his head cut off and the other kicks it. Splendid!”
“No,” said the other, “that is no head, that is a ball. Just a ball. It is a game, like the others.”
He groaned. “Then I cannot see,” he said at last, “how England won her victories and became supreme.”
“Ah,” said the other, “at the time that England was winning her victories and climbing into supremacy, the ball was not her master.”