EINS
THE PRINCIPLES OF TENNIS
Professor Dr Moritz-Maria von Igelfeld often reflected on
how fortunate he was to be exactly who he was, and nobody
else. When one paused to think of who one might have been
had the accident of birth not happened precisely as it
did, then, well, one could be quite frankly appalled. Take
his colleague Professor Dr Detlev Amadeus Unterholzer, for
instance. Firstly, there was the name: to be called Detlev
was a misfortune, but to add that ridiculous Mozartian
pretension to it, and then to culminate in Unterholzer was
to gild a turnip. But if one then considered Unterholzer's
general circumstances, then Pelion was surely piled upon
Ossa. Unterholzer had the double misfortune of coming from
an obscure potato-growing area somewhere, a place
completely without consequence, and of being burdened in
this life with a large and inelegant nose. This, of
course, was not something for which he could be blamed,
but one might certainly criticise him, thought von
Igelfeld, for carrying his nose in the way he did. A
difficult nose, which can afflict anybody, may be kept in
the background by a modest disposition of the head;
Unterholzer, by contrast, thrust his nose forward
shamelessly, as might an anteater, with the result that it
was the first thing one saw when he appeared anywhere. It
was exactly the wrong thing to do if one had a nose like
that.
The von Igelfeld nose, by contrast, was entirely
appropriate. It was not small, but then a small nose is
perhaps as much of a misfortune as a large nose, lending
the wearer an appearance of pettiness or even irrelevance.
Von Igelfeld's nose tended slightly to the aquiline, which
wascompletely becoming for the scion of so distinguished a
family. The von Igelfeld name was an honourable one: Igel
meant hedgehog in German, and von Igelfeld, therefore, was
hedgehogfield, an irreproachable territorial reference
that was reflected in the family coat of arms — a hedgehog
recumbent upon a background of vert. Unterholzer, of
course, might snigger at the hedgehog, but what could he
do but snigger, given that he had no armorial claims,
whatever his pretensions in that direction might be.
But even if von Igelfeld was relieved that he was not
Unterholzer, then he had to admit to himself that he would
have been perfectly happy to have been Professor Dr Dr
(honoris causa) Florianus Prinzel, another colleague at
the Institute of Romance Philology. Prinzel was a fine man
and a considerable scholar, whom von Igelfeld had met when
they were both students, and whom he had long
unconditionally admired. Prinzel was the athlete-poet; von
Igelfeld the scholar--well, scholar-scholar one would
probably have to say. If von Igelfeld had been asked to
stipulate a Platonic von Igelfeld, an ideal template for
all von Igelfelds, then he would have chosen Prinzel for
this without the slightest hesitation.
Of the three professors, von Igelfeld was undoubtedly the
most distinguished. He was the author of a seminal work on
Romance philology, Portuguese Irregular Verbs, a work of
such majesty that it dwarfed all other books in the field.
It was a lengthy book of almost twelve hundred pages, and
was the result of years of research into the etymology and
vagaries of Portuguese verbs. It had been well received —
not that there had ever been the slightest doubt about
that — and indeed one reviewer had simply written, 'There
is nothing more to be said on this subject. Nothing.' Von
Igelfeld had taken this compliment in the spirit in which
it had been intended, but there was in his view a great
deal more to be said, largely by way of exposition of some
of the more obscure or controversial points touched upon
in the book, and for many years he continued to say it.
This was mostly done at conferences, where von Igelfeld's
papers on Portuguese irregular verbs were often the
highlight of proceedings. Not that this eminence always
bore the fruit that might be expected: unfortunately it
was Prinzel, not von Igelfeld, who had received the
honorary doctorate from the University of Palermo, and
many people, including von Igelfeld, thought that this
might be a case of mistaken identity. After all, from the
viewpoint of the fairly diminutive Sicilian professors who
bestowed the honour, three tall Germans might have been
difficult to tell apart. These doubts, however, were never
aired, as that would have been a breach of civility and a
threat to the friendship. But just as the doubts were
never mentioned, neither was the honorary doctorate.
At the Annual Congress of Romance Philology in Zürich, the
three professors decided to stay in a small village on the
edge of the lake. There was an excellent train which took
them into the city each morning for the meeting, and in
the evening they could even return by the regular boat,
which called at the jetty no more than five minutes from
the hotel. It was altogether a much more satisfactory
arrangement than staying in Zürich itself, surrounded by
banks and expensive watch shops. As von Igelfeld remarked
to the others: 'Have you noticed how Zürich ticks?
Klummit, klummit, ding! I could never sleep in such a
town.'
The Hotel Carl-Gustav, in which the three professors
stayed, was a large old-fashioned establishment, much
favoured by families from Zürich who wanted to get away,
but not too far away. Anxious bankers, into whose very
bones the Swiss work ethic had penetrated, stayed there
for their holidays. It was highly convenient for them, as
they could tell their wives they were going for a walk in
the hotel grounds and then slip off to the railway station
and be in their offices in Zürich within twenty minutes.
They could then return two hours later, to pretend that
they had been in the woods or at the lakeside; whereas in
reality they had been accepting deposits and discounting
bills of exchange. In this way, certain Zürich financiers
had acquired the reputation of never going on holiday at
all, which filled their rivals with feelings of dread and
guilt.
Prinzel had arrived first, and taken the best room, the
one with the uninterrupted view of the lake. He had felt
slightly uneasy about this, as it was a room which should
really have gone to von Igelfeld, who always got the best
of everything on the strength of Portuguese Irregular
Verbs. For this reason Prinzel was careful not to mention
the view and contrived to keep von Igelfeld out of his
room so he could not see it for himself. Unterholzer, who
always got the worst of what was on offer, had a slightly
gloomy room at the side of the hotel, above the dining
room, and his view was that of the hotel tennis court.
'I look out on to the tennis court,' he announced one
evening as the three gathered for a glass of mineral water
on the hotel terrace.
'Ah!' said von Igelfeld. 'And have you seen people playing
on this tennis court?'
'I saw four Italian guests using it,' said Prinzel. 'They
played a very energetic game until one of them appeared to
have a heart attack and they stopped.'
The three professors contemplated this remarkable story
for a few moments. Even here, in these perfect
surroundings, where everything was so safe, so assured,
mortality could not be kept at bay. The Swiss could
guarantee everything, could coordinate anything — but
ultimately mortality was no respecter of timetables.
Then Prinzel had an idea. Tennis did not look too
difficult; the long summer evening stretched out before
them, and the court, since the sudden departure of the
Italians, was empty.
'We could, perhaps, have a game of tennis ourselves,' he
suggested.
The others looked at him.
'I've never played,' said von Igelfeld.
'Nor I,' said Unterholzer. 'Chess, yes. Tennis, no.'
'But that's no reason not to play,' von Igelfeld added
quickly. 'Tennis, like any activity, can be mastered if
one knows the principles behind it. In that respect it
must be like language. The understanding of simple rules
produces an understanding of a language. What could be
simpler?'
Unterholzer and Prinzel agreed, and Prinzel was despatched
to speak to the manager of the hotel to find out whether
tennis equipment, and a book of the rules of tennis, could
be borrowed. The manager was somewhat surprised at the
request for the book, but in an old hotel most things can
be found and he eventually came up with an ancient dog-
eared handbook from the games cupboard. This was The Rules
of Lawn Tennis by Captain Geoffrey Pembleton BA (Cantab.),
tennis Blue, sometime county champion of Cambridgeshire;
and published in 1923, before the tie-breaker was invented.
Armed with Pembleton's treatise, described by von
Igelfeld, to the amusement of the others, as 'this great
work of Cambridge scholarship', the three professors
strode confidently on to the court. Captain Pembleton had
thoughtfully included several chapters describing tennis
technique, and here all the major strokes were illustrated
with little dotted diagrams showing the movement of the
arms and the disposition of the body.
It took no more than ten minutes for von Igelfeld and
Prinzel to feel sufficiently confident to begin a game.
Unterholzer sat on a chair at the end of the net, and
declared himself the umpire. The first service, naturally,
was taken by von Igelfeld, who raised his racquet in the
air as recommended by Captain Pembleton, and hit the ball
in the direction of Prinzel.
The tennis service is not a simple matter, and
unfortunately von Igelfeld did not manage to get any of
his serves over the net. Everything was a double fault.
'Love 15; Love 30; Love 40; Game to Professor Dr Prinzel!'
called out Unterholzer. 'Professor Dr Prinzel to serve!'
Prinzel, who had been waiting patiently to return von
Igelfeld's serve, his feet positioned in exactly the way
advised by Captain Pembleton, now quickly consulted the
book to refresh his memory. Then, throwing the tennis ball
high into the air, he brought his racquet down with
convincing force and drove the ball into the net.
Undeterred, he tried again, and again after that, but the
score remained obstinately one-sided.
'Love 15; Love 30; Love 40; Game to Professor Dr von
Igelfeld!' Unterholzer intoned. 'Professor Dr von Igelfeld
to serve!'
And so it continued, as the number of games mounted up.
Neither player ever succeeded in winning a game other than
by the default of the server. At several points the ball
managed to get across the net, and on one or two occasions
it was even returned; but this was never enough to result
in the server's winning a game. Unterholzer continued to
call out the score and attracted an occasional sharp
glance from von Igelfeld, who eventually suggested that
the Rules of Lawn Tennis be consulted to see who should
win in such circumstances.
Unfortunately there appeared to be no answer. Captain
Pembleton merely said that after six games had been won by
one player this was a victory — provided that such a
player was at least two games ahead of his opponent. If he
was not in such a position, then the match must continue
until such a lead was established. The problem with this,
though, was that von Igelfeld and Prinzel, never winning a
service, could never be more than one game ahead of each
other.
This awkward, seemingly irresoluble difficulty seemed to
all of them to be a gross flaw in the theoretical
structure of the game.
'This is quite ridiculous,' snorted von Igelfeld. 'A game
must have a winner — everybody knows that — and yet
this . . . this stupid book makes no provision for
moderate players like ourselves!'
'I agree,' said Prinzel, tossing down his
racquet. 'Unterholzer, what about you?'
'I'm not interested in playing such a flawed game,' said
Unterholzer, with a dismissive gesture towards The Rules
of Lawn Tennis. 'So much for Cambridge!'
They trooped off the tennis court, not noticing the faces
draw back rapidly from the windows. Rarely had the Hotel
Carl-Gustav provided such entertainment for its guests.
'Well,' said Prinzel. 'I'm rather hot after all that
sport. I could do with a swim.'
'A good idea,' said von Igelfeld. 'Perhaps we should do
that.'
'Do you swim?' asked Unterholzer, rather surprised by the
sudden burst of physical activity.
'Not in practice,' said von Igelfeld. 'But it has never
looked difficult to me. One merely extends the arms in the
appropriate motion and then retracts them, thereby
propelling the body through the water.'
'That's quite correct,' said Prinzel. 'I've seen it done
many times. In fact, this morning some of the other guests
were doing it from the hotel jetty. We could borrow
swimming costumes from the manager.'
'Then let's all go and swim,' said von Igelfeld,
enthusiastically. 'Dinner's not for another hour or so,
and it would refresh us all,' adding, with a glance at
Unterholzer, 'players and otherwise.'
The waters were cool and inviting. Out on the lake, the
elegant white yachts dipped their tall sails in the breeze
from the mountains. From where they stood on the jetty,
the three professors could, by craning their necks, see
the point where Jung in his study had pondered our
collective dreams. As von Igelfeld had pointed out,
swimming was simple, in theory.
Inside the Hotel Carl-Gustav, the watching guests waited,
breathless in their anticipation.