by John Clarke
The third set was agonising and exhilarating. Mansfield grew weaker and weaker but was the key player. Enchanted by her wounded brilliance, the French crowd embraced her, encouraged her, and lifted her. At 2–2 she hit three of the best returns in the match and the antipodeans went a break up. At 4–2 she netted two regulation overheads and lost her own serve. At 5–4, by which time she could hardly move, Mansfield came up with a forehand drive that ripped past Lenya like a bullet, then a perfectly judged drop shot. The crowd was ecstatic. People were standing, applauding wildly, with tears streaming down their faces. This was heroic stuff.
It was now match point.
Dietrich got the serve back but without much on it, Hodgkins across court. Lenya the drive. Mansfield looked out of position but she got to the ball and hit a cross-court forehand which was a winner from the moment it left the racquet. The crowd went bananas. Hodgkins hoisted Mansfield in the air. At the press call, though, Hodgkins was alone. ‘Katherine isn’t well,’ she said.
‘Where is she?’ asked Mailer.
‘She is in hospital,’ said Hodgkins.
‘Will she be OK?’
‘We don’t know. Whatever happens, today Katherine was perfect. She had a great time here. She got to see Chekhov. She is very happy.’
Magritte and Dali, back on Centre Court for the men’s doubles final, entertained from the outset. Noticing the large video display which had been installed at the northern end for spectators without tickets, Dali spent the first set getting to the ball early, grinning at the cameras, saying, ‘Ladies and Gentlemen: the Great Dali!’, before playing his shot. The quieter Magritte had an idea of his own. He kept the ball between his head and the camera at all times so that the image projected around the world was of a neatly dressed man, behaving perfectly normally, with a tennis ball instead of a face.
In the second set, the Great Dali was generating such topspin that the ball would loop high away over the backline before it drifted back to drop just inside the line. Duchamp got to grips with this late in the set but by then the damage was done. Dali and Magritte were in command and the crowd had come to accept that if something looked possible, it was possible.
In the third set Beckett became obsessed with using a different ball each time he served. He put one in the left-hand pocket of his shorts and another in the right-hand pocket of his shorts. He put one down his left sock and one down his right sock. He put one up his left sleeve and another up his right sleeve. He held two in his right hand and two in his left hand. Beckett served using one of the balls in his left hand. He then moved the remaining ball into the ‘ready’ position, shifted the uppermost ball from his right hand into his left hand, moved the ball from up his left shirt sleeve into his right hand, the ball from his right shirt sleeve into his left shirt sleeve and the ball from his right sock up into his right shirt sleeve. He then transferred the ball from his left sock into his right sock and shifted the one from his right shorts pockets into his left sock and put the one from his left shorts pocket into his right shorts pocket. Then, calling for an extra ball, he sequestered it accordingly, in the left shorts pocket vacated by this last action. He served again, using the next ball, replacing it with the ball below it and shifting one of the balls in his right hand into his left hand. He then…
Duchamp stepped in. ‘See that stand the umpire’s sitting in?’
‘I do,’ said Beckett.
‘It’s a bride descending a staircase as viewed through a small hole in a fence.’
‘Of course it is,’ said Beckett.
‘Serve low to Dali’s forehand and don’t follow it in.’
Beckett followed the instructions. As the serve passed Duchamp, he moved to cover the return down the line. Dali lifted the ball across court and Beckett drove it back between them. This was bread-and-butter for Beckett. One break won them the set. They repeated the pattern in the next and the match went to a fifth. There was no longer any display from Dali and Magritte. No Great Dali, no man with a ball for a face.
Duchamp and Beckett were now in a familiar position. One set remaining, all other complications out of the way, someone would move, someone would counter, another move, another counter, the games running out all the time. And so it was. Games went with service until 8–8, Dali serving. He hit a superb cross-court drive at 30-all. Duchamp got to it and threw it high to the back court. Magritte smashed, Beckett got it back, Dali went for the winner but hit it long. 30–40. Good serve, deep to the backhand. Beckett whipped it back and came in after it. Dali went down the line, Duchamp got it back across court. Magritte lobbed and Beckett hit a backhand smash for a winner. That was the break and Beckett served out the match at 10–8. By the time the microphone and the carpet and trophies were brought out, Beckett and Duchamp had slipped quietly away. Dali and Magritte were magnanimous in defeat. It had been a worthy final and tournament organisers were now relaxed and enjoying themselves enormously.
Anna Akhmatova was focused from the moment she came out for the women’s final. Her presence was a testimony to endurance. After a promising career as a junior, she seemed headed for the Russian national squad but was taken to task by her coaches for her playing style. She silenced her critics when she won the Russian Open but, in the weeks following, her husband was killed. After a break from the game she came back and again won the national title. She was then banned from playing altogether and her son and second husband were imprisoned. Once more she disappeared from the circuit.
All the time, however, she worked on her game; she studied the play of Chekhov and Pushkin, Blok, Pasternak and Mandelstam, and she maintained her fitness. She arrived in Paris as part of the national team but, as with many of her fellow players, she represented both a tribute and a threat to Russian tennis. Akhmatova had strong wins against Pearl Buck and Elizabeth Bowen, got past Josephine Baker and then bamboozled top Englishwoman Virginia Stephen-Woolf before knocking out number four seed Sarah Bernhardt. If anyone has earned a place in a final here it is Akhmatova.
Millay also had an interrupted preparation. Impressive wins in the first few rounds preceded penetration of the Stopes defence and an outflanking of the Pavlova attack. Her next match was cancelled after the unexpected death of Bessie Smith and since that time Millay has not picked up a racquet. She has been out every night with friends and has been paying close attention to the men’s doubles, which she describes as ‘very tiring’.
She was nervous during the hit-up and twice returned to the locker room, but as the first set developed she became steady as a rock. Akhmatova also took several games to acclimatise and Millay, well supported by a group of attractive men in dressing gowns, broke the Russian’s serve at 5–5 and took the first set 7–5. If Akhmatova wanted this match, she was going to have to win it.
In the second set Akhmatova hustled better and we began to see her hand on the tiller. She served deeper, forcing Millay back and making her returns more defensive. She volleyed more often, making Millay play a more responsive game, and she dictated terms at the net. Millay played some lovely drop shots from the baseline, which delighted the dressing gowns but it wasn’t enough to save the second set.
Millay came out of the blocks well in the third and bolted to a 3–0 lead before the Russian got on the board. Looking as if the trials of Sisyphus were upon her, Akhmatova dragged herself about the court. She stemmed the bleeding by breaking Millay at 2–3 with three sizzling returns. Millay served two double-faults to lose her serve at 7–7 and the match looked to swing the Russian’s way, but Millay came back and at 10-all it was clear the broadcast would run over time. At 12-all Millay went ahead. Akhmatova broke back. At 14-all Ahkmatova broke, only to be gathered in the next game. At 17-all Akhmatova broke again.
A hush fell over the stadium. This had the whiff of destiny about it.
Akhmatova served. Millay got to it but pushed it wide. Akhmatova served. Millay hit a cross-court winner. Akhmatova served. Millay backhand lofted long. Akhmatova served. Ace. Match point. Ak
hmatova served, Millay good return, Akhmatova down the line, Millay cross court, Akhmatova deep to the forehand, Millay lob, Akhmatova smash. Millay got to it but couldn’t control it; the ball drifted out. The Russian was the champion.
For someone who had just endured the trials of Job, Akhmatova had a very light touch. She thanked the crowd, said Millay had played brilliantly and that this was ‘a match without a hero’. ‘We don’t know what we’re capable of until we are tested,’ she said. ‘As a general rule we are not being tested when we are being told we are being tested. We are being tested to the limit of human endurance when we are being told everything is normal. I’d like to dedicate this win to Osip Mandelstam, who is dead, and to Nadezhda, who is alive.’
The men’s finalists, fifth-seeded continental Dubliner James Joyce and the unseeded Englishman George Orwell, were given a standing ovation before the match had even started. Neither man is much accustomed to success and their attempt to acknowledge the spectators and behave like stars was endearing. They stood at the net, bowed slightly and pretended to be interested in their racquet-strings. Orwell did up his shoes three times. Joyce fiddled with his glasses as if he’d never seen them before. They were both relieved to get on the court, hit the ball and lose themselves in their work.
To get here Orwell looked the facts in the face and dealt with them. He got past Harry Arlen, Ford Madox Ford and Louis Armstrong. He beat Eddie Munch in three and outlasted the astonishing van Gogh before defeating Fats Waller and Duchamp to reach the final.
In the top half of the draw, meanwhile, Joyce had invented a new way of playing and had beaten allcomers: his friend Bartók, Kipling the old warhorse, the powerful Rachmaninov, the energetic Spockster and the Great Dali. He then conquered his own hero Chekhov and, semi-finally, in the match promoted on television as ‘the irresistible force versus the immovable object’, he threw a net over SuperTom.
Orwell first grabbed the initiative in this match. A great reader of his opponent, he attacked as if he knew Joyce would reach his cruising height around game ten or twelve, playing long rhythmic points and dictating the form and structure of the match. Orwell intended to get on the board before that happened. If he left it too late the task might well be insurmountable. The Englishman got in and thumped the ball early, short, flat, fast, across court, forcing Joyce to scramble and not allowing any rhythm to develop. It wasn’t pretty and it wasn’t what a lot of the crowd had come to see, but Orwell wasn’t an artist painting a picture; he was an engineer diverting a river.
It worked. Orwell had a set in the bag.
When Joyce did respond, mid-way through the second, he turned on a display of unforgettable tennis. He wasn’t Orwell and he wasn’t going to play like Orwell. He was Joyce. He would play like Joyce, and if he could play like Joyce at the top of his form he would be playing like no one else before or since.
He started hitting the ball deeper, taking control. All Orwell could do, forced further back, was defend, improvise and hope. The Irishman was not only seeing it well now but was lost in the sound—the sound of the play, of the crowd of onlookenpeepers and of his own voice, a muttering, dancing singsong of words and noises and thoughts and ideas and commentary. This is what he had done against SuperTom. It was like a tide of tennis rather than a match.
Joyce won the second set and swept through the third. He broke Orwell at 2–2 in the fourth and held the break. At 5–4 he was serving for the match.
With nothing left to lose, Orwell hit two beautiful cross-court returns and a viciously sliced drop shot to get a break point. He then won the game with a simple lob—it wasn’t deep, it had no spin. It was like a shot played by a child. He repeated the same play in Joyce’s next service game, this time with three forehand returns to Joyce’s feet, taking the match to a fifth set.
Orwell sat for a long time in his chair before coming back out on court. He knew Joyce’s odyssey would continue unabated. Orwell needed to find another way home. ‘I didn’t have to play better tennis,’ Orwell said later. ‘I was never going to play better tennis than Jim. The second and third sets proved that. What I had to do was play better points.’ In the fifth set he concentrated only on the important points. He identified them carefully and he played them like a demon.
For Joyce it must have been like hearing a beautiful piece of music, and every now and then having to stop and wait while a number of wildebeest were removed from the auditorium. Long, richly detailed passages of play would suddenly find themselves juddering to a halt while the doors were opened and Orwell’s animals were herded outside.
At 4–4 Orwell decided it was now or never. He crept forward and put the Joyce second serve away three successive times. He lost the next two points but crowded the serve again and belted the passing shot to secure the break. The end came soon after.
The players thanked their supporters; this was unusual for Joyce. ‘I take my hat off to them,’ he said. ‘And I hope they’ll be standing a few jars at O’Dwyers tonight. I’d like to thank that woman in bare feet over there—she knows why. We had a fine match, didn’t we, George? Ah yes, a bit of exercise and a fine thing too. Great play today, George. Here’s to you, man.’
Orwell spoke briefly and with some difficulty before leaving ‘for tests’.
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘It is a great thing to be up here with James Joyce. I’d like to suggest that when the heroes and highlights of this tournament are recalled, attention also be given to remembering the monsters, the failures, the infamy and the disgrace…’ Orwell struggled to continue, but was assisted from the court. His words, painfully expressed yet defiant and clear, provided a sombre conclusion. There was some unease in the stadium as his wife, Sonia, collected his belongings, thanked the crowd and left.
Sports historians may be interested to know that Orwell’s possessions consisted of the men’s singles trophy, a piece of paper inscribed with his children’s story and a six-month-old slip from Ladbrokes, backing the following for a win:
Mixed doubles: Tallulah Bankhead and whoever.
Men’s doubles: Beckett and Duchamp.
Women’s doubles: Mansfield and Hodgkins.
Women’s singles: Akhmatova.
Men’s singles: Winston.
Results
MEN’S SINGLES
QUALIFYING ROUND
H. Green (Eng) d. R. Firbank (Eng) 6–4, 7–6, 2–6, 6–4
J. Masefield (Eng) d. T. M. Rattigan (Eng) 4–6, 3–6, 7–6, 7–6, 10–8
J. Hasek (Czech) d. C. Day-Lewis (Ire) 7–6, 7–6, 7–6
A. Ribeiro (Por) d. H. Crane (USA) 2–6, 6–3, 2–6, 6–3, 6–1
R. P. Warren (USA) d. A. Blok (Rus) 6–1, 4–6, 6–4, 6–4
A. Hitchcock (Eng) d. J. Cheever (USA) 6–4, 7–6, 3–6, 6–2
J. E. Rodo (Urg) d. L. Durrell (Eng) 6–4, 3–6, 6–2, 6–0
J. E. Rivera (Col) d. A. Burgess (Eng) 6–3, 6–3, 6–7, 6–7, 7–6
J. Berryman (USA) d. F. Capra (USA) 7–6, 7–6, 6–4
P. Eluard (Fra) d. A. Powell (Eng) 3–6, 2–6, 6–3, 6–0, 6–2
H. Villa-Lobos (Bra) d. R. M. Helpmann (Aust) 7–5, 5–7, 7–5, 5–7, 10–8
N. Kazantzakis (Gre) d. G. Greene (Eng) 2–6, 6–3, 6–3, 7–5
E. Lubitsch (Ger) d. I. B. Singer (Pol) 6–4, 6–7, 7–5, 2–6, 6–2
B. Spock (USA) d. J. R. R. Tolkien (S. Afr) 6–4, 0–6, 6–3, 6–2
S. Lewis (USA) d. H. MacDiarmid (Scot) 1–6, 6–2, 4–6, 7–6, 6–3
A. A. Milne (Eng) d. P. E. Borduas (Can) 7–5, 6–4, 3–6, 6–1
J. B. Morton (Nark and Eng) d. M. Beckmann (Ger) 6–3, 6–4, 3–6, 6–2
S. Romberg (Hun) d. W. R. Reich (Ukr) 0–6, 6–3, 6–2, 6–0
J. Prevert (Fra) d. A. B. Paterson (Aust) 6–4, 6–7, 7–5, 6–3
E. Muir (Scot) d. N. Lindsay (Aust) 6–4, 6–3, 6–3
J. Galsworthy (Eng) d. J. S. Sargent (Eng) 3–6, 7–5, 7–5, 6–3
G. P. A. Grainger (Aust) d. F. R. Leav
is (Eng) 6–1, 6–0, 6–4
ROUND ONE
(1)A. Chekhov (Rus) d. G. Mahler (Aut) 6–2, 6–7, 6–1, 6–3
(Q)G. P. A. Grainger (Aust) d. (Q)S. Romberg (Hun) 7–6, 6–7, 0–6, 7–6, 6–2
(Q)E. Muir (Sco) d. (Q)J. Galsworthy (Eng) 3–6, 6–7, 7–6, 6–4, 6–3
H. Toulouse-Lautrec (Fra) d. A. József (Hun) 7–6, 6–2, 4–6, 6–4
M. Chagall (URS) d. A. J. L. Cary (Ire) 3–6, 7–6, 7–5, 6–4
P. G. Wodehouse (Eng) d. A. N. Scriabin (Rus) 1–6, 7–6, 6–3, 6–7, 6–4
H. G. Wells (Eng) d. J. E. Vuillard (Fra) 6–3, 4–6, 6–3, 6–2
L. Hearn (USA) d. I. Grunewald (Swed) 7–6, 6–7, 6–4, 6–4
H. Matisse (Fra) d. A. Miller (USA) 2–6, 7–6, 6–7, 7–6, 6–4
D. Low (NZ) d. N. Rockwell (USA) 4–6, 6–2, 6–4, 7–5
S. B. Leacock (Can) d. (Q)H. Villa-Lobos (Bra) 7–6, 6–3, 6–2
F. Kreisler (Aut) d. P. Bonnard (Fra) 7–6, 7–6, 6–2
R. M. Rilke (Czech) d. R. L. Frost (USA) 3–6, 6–2, 7–6, 6–1
F. L. Wright (USA) d. (Q)J. Masefield (Eng) 6–4, 6–3, 6–4
P. Casals (Esp) d. P. Mondrian (Hol) 6–4, 5–7, 6–3, 6–4
(13)S. Freud (Aut) d. A. Gide (Fra) 3–6, 6–2, 2–6, 6–4, 6–1
(15)G. Puccini (Ita) d. D. D. Shostakovich (URS) 6–2, 3–6, 7–5, 6–2
E. Rutherford (NZ) d. S. Joplin (USA) 6–3, 3–6, 7–5, 5–7, 10–8
P. Klee (Switz) d. G. Roualt (Fra) 7–6, 7–6, 6–1
M. Proust (Fra) d. J. M. Synge (Ire) 6–1, 6–4, 6–7, 2–6, 11–9
W. C. Fields (USA) d. W. S. Maugham (Eng) 6–4, 4–6, 6–4, 4–6, 6–4