Not that it Matters | Page 9

ball straight after a week of slicing, the joy of putting a
mashie shot dead, the joy of even a moderate stroke with a brassie; best
of all, the joy of the perfect cleek shot--these things the good player
will never know. Every stroke we bad players make we make in hope.
It is never so bad but it might have been worse; it is never so bad but
we are confident of doing better next time. And if the next stroke is
good, what happiness fills our soul. How eagerly we tell ourselves that
in a little while all our strokes will be as good.
What does Vardon know of this? If he does a five hole in four he
blames himself that he did not do it in three; if he does it in five he is
miserable. He will never experience that happy surprise with which we
hail our best strokes. Only his bad strokes surprise him, and then we
may suppose that he is not happy. His length and accuracy are
mechanical; they are not the result, as so often in our case, of some
suddenly applied maxim or some suddenly discovered innovation. The
only thing which can vary in his game is his putting, and putting is not
golf but croquet.
But of course we, too, are going to be as good as Vardon one day. We
are only postponing the day because meanwhile it is so pleasant to be
bad. And it is part of the charm of being bad at golf that in a moment,
in a single night, we may become good. If the bad cricketer said to a
good cricketer, "What am I doing wrong?" the only possible answer
would be, "Nothing particular, except that you can't play cricket." But
if you or I were to say to our scratch friend, "What am I doing wrong?"
he would reply at once, "Moving the head" or "Dropping the right
knee" or "Not getting the wrists in soon enough," and by to-morrow we

should be different players. Upon such a little depends, or seems to the
eighteen-handicap to depend, excellence in golf.
And so, perfectly happy in our present badness and perfectly confident
of our future goodness, we long-handicap men remain. Perhaps it
would be pleasanter to be a little more certain of getting the ball safely
off the first tee; perhaps at the fourteenth hole, where there is a right of
way and the public encroach, we should like to feel that we have done
with topping; perhaps---
Well, perhaps we might get our handicap down to fifteen this summer.
But no lower; certainly no lower.

Goldfish

Let us talk about--well, anything you will. Goldfish, for instance.
Goldfish are a symbol of old-world tranquillity or mid-Victorian
futility according to their position in the home. Outside the home, in
that wild state from which civilization has dragged them, they may
have stood for dare-devil courage or constancy or devotion; I cannot
tell. I may only speak of them now as I find them, which is in the
garden or in the drawing-room. In their lily-leaved pool, sunk deep in
the old flagged terrace, upon whose borders the blackbird whistles his
early-morning song, they remind me of sundials and lavender and old
delightful things. But in their cheap glass bowl upon the three- legged
table, above which the cloth-covered canary maintains a stolid silence,
they remind me of antimacassars and horsehair sofas and all that is
depressing. It is hard that the goldfish himself should have so little
choice in the matter. Goldfish look pretty in the terrace pond, yet I
doubt if it was the need for prettiness which brought them there. Rather
the need for some thing to throw things to. No one of the initiate can sit
in front of Nature's most wonderful effect, the sea, without wishing to
throw stones into it, the physical pleasure of the effort and the aesthetic
pleasure of the splash combining to produce perfect contentment. So by
the margin of the pool the same desires stir within one, and because
ants' eggs do not splash, and look untidy on the surface of the water,
there must be a gleam of gold and silver to put the crown upon one's
pleasure.
Perhaps when you have been feeding the goldfish you have not thought

of it like that. But at least you must have wondered why, of all diets,
they should prefer ants' eggs. Ants' eggs are, I should say, the very last
thing which one would take to without argument. It must be an
acquired taste, and, this being so, one naturally asks oneself how
goldfish came to acquire it.
I suppose (but I am lamentably ignorant on these as on all other matters)
that there