"I Shall Most Likely Be Out on the Links": Golf As Metaphor in the Ghost Stories of M. R. James

Papers on Language and Literature, Fall 2004 by Thompson, Terry W

One of the main reasons golf is so appealing to Professor Parkins-a very cerebral and otherwise non-athletic man-is its rigid code of rules. In this highly structured game, players must obey precise regulations to the letter, and those regulations, as constant as the laws of physics, are put down in a code of conduct dating back to the game's Scottish origins in the fifteenth century. Little if any spontaneity, creativity, or deviation is allowed. With its strict score keeping-its bogies and pars, birdies and eagles-golf is a sport flush with mathematical absolutes and scientific exactitude; it is a contest of accurate angles and proper trajectories, of perfect club speed and precise ball placement. In fine, it is just as much a game of the intellect as of the body, requiring a knowledge of physics and geometry, of lift and drag, of inertia and wind-speed ratios. Finesse and strategy, not brute animal force, earn one victory out on the links. Golf is thus the perfect hobby for the vacationing Professor Parkins, a man who is, according to the narrator, invariably meticulous, "neat, and precise" in all of his endeavors (75), so much so that even his everyday conversations ring with the donnish "tone of a lecturer" addressing a room full of unenlightened undergraduates (85).

Another reason the bookish Parkins loves the game of golf and the land it is played on is simple class snobbery. Unlike today when almost anyone can enjoy a few rounds on a publicly owned course, at the turn of the century, this tranquil sport was largely the domain of the upper crust. Well-to-do patricians were the usual patrons on the exclusive courses in England and America, partly because equipment was so expensive, but also due to the rigid caste system. Professor Parkins, like almost all of James's main characters, is of the socially elite class, extremely well-educated and toppingly articulate, a sophisticated bon vivant who oozes culture, poise, and refinement from his very pores. Accustomed to private clubs, upper-class friends, and sophisticated functions, the Professor naturally seeks the same elevated status in his sporting pursuits. Sweaty, raucous, and plebeian team sports, like rugby or soccer, are far beneath his stature and breeding, whereas golf is an avocation for proper gentlemen, sporting types who are well-dressed, well-bred, urbane, and stylish. When the cosmopolitan Parkins goes to the links, he knows that the only people of lower social rank he will encounter are the caddies and the grounds keepers; and they shall be only too happy to accommodate his every whim and need.

When all things are considered, only those enterprises that are concrete and summative, solid and controllable, appeal to the fussy pedagogue from Saint James's, whether in the classroom or out on the windswept links. Before leaving his hotel to enjoy a leisurely round, the Professor, ever the finicky, foppish dresser, labors long to put "the finishing touches to his golfing costume" (84). And each evening, just before retiring, he is likewise compelled "to arrange his materials for work" the next morning "in apple-pie order upon a commodious table" across from his bed (77). If he does not perform this nightly ritual, then he cannot sleep for thinking that a pen or notebook might be somehow out of place or otherwise askew. In the opinion of the narrator, the obsessive Professor Parkins is "something of an old woman-rather hen-like, perhaps, in his little ways; totally destitute, alas! of the sense of humour, but at the same time dauntless and sincere in his convictions" that only the physical, the measurable, and the rational are subjects worthy of consideration by a civilized and order-loving Englishman (77). Whenever someone, even in jest, mentions the supernatural or the transcendental-topics that do not fit into the Professor's neatly structured and perfectly logical universe-he curtly dismisses such nonsense. When softly teased by one of his colleagues that he is about to vacation in a part of England that is famous for its haunted castles and specter-filled graveyards, Parkins responds testily, "'I hold that any semblance, any appearance of concession to the view that such things might exist is equivalent to a renunciation of all that I hold most sacred'" (77).