In the first set against Anthony Wilding and Maxine Elliott in a mixed quarter-final on Court 2, Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers were tentative, but as light rain fell and everyone scampered under umbrellas, they seemed to get things together. When they came back out again they were superb; Astaire very much the ideas man, with Rogers moving backwards a lot to cover him. If they carry on as they did today, Fred and Ginger are going to be hard to stop.
‘Isn’t it a lovely day,’ said Astaire, ‘to be caught in a storm.’
In the other mixed quarter today, the Austrian pairing of Freud and Melanie Klein took out Beckett and Peggy Guggenheim. Freud developed the idea that Guggenheim’s habit of buying works of art by other players in the tournament was a response to having seen her parents in the act of congress.
‘Oh dear,’ said Guggenheim. ‘Can we just get on with the match?’
‘It’s obvious,’ said the Doc. ‘The paintings are on canvas. They cover the canvas just as our conscious masks our subconscious. But the canvas they hide is white, the colour of sperm.’
‘You could make anything fit that argument,’ said Guggenheim. ‘Canvas isn’t white, incidentally, it’s a hessian colour which has gesso-ground put on it and is then painted white.’
‘What colour is it after it’s been painted white?’ trumpeted Freud.
‘Furthermore, I had a very unsuccessful nose-job so I appreciate beauty which is outside myself, my father was lost on the Titanic so I’m keen on things that will last, and I’m rich, so if I don’t buy paintings from other players, who will?’
‘This breast is on my forehand side and is good,’ Klein announced. ‘This other breast is on my backhand side and is not good.’
Beckett said nothing but clearly wished the matter could be over at the earliest available opportunity and made every effort to ensure that it was.
Day 33
Waller v. Orwell • Chekhov v. Joyce • Lenya and Dietrich v. Gonne-MacBride and Markievicz • Elliott and Draper v. Sackville-West and Stephen-Woolf • Keller and Sullivan v. Akhmatova and Arendt
The Fats Waller bandwagon, which began as a hit and a giggle and became a juggernaut, came off the rails this afternoon. Orwell was just too good and those who had not witnessed his earlier matches on outside courts saw a player who quickly recognises what he is up against and steps up his play as required. Waller gave it the works today, but he made no impression on Orwell.
‘Had a great time here,’ said Fats. ‘Want to thank you. You’ve been a wonderful audience.’
‘I love the way that guy plays,’ said Orwell. ‘I wish I could play like that. That is the way I would like to play.’
‘But you must be happy,’ opined Plimpton of the Paris Review. ‘You won. You’re into the semi-final.’
‘Happy? I beat a guy in Burma once, in the All-of-England-Burma-Colonial-Police-White-People-Must-Win Tennis Tournament. I don’t know who was more humiliated, him or me.’
There was not an empty seat at the Chekhov–Joyce quarterfinal. The two heavyweights, seeded one and five, have met twice before, with honours being shared. Joyce has made no secret of his admiration for the brilliant Russian, referring to him as ‘the blessed St Anton’ and attributing his own early successes to the playing of Chekhov.
Just watching these two hit up was exciting. There was the Chekhov forehand, easy and strong and so variable it almost has a volume-knob. And Joyce’s backhand, assured, deep and with plenty of action on it.
The first set was towering stuff from the Russian. His service didn’t look like being broken and he left nothing in the bag with the ground strokes. Joyce was having trouble with his glasses and before the second set he paced out the distance between the side-edge of the court and the stands, because, he said, he couldn’t see it properly and was going to have to remember it.
The second set saw Chekhov consolidating his position, breaking Joyce at 3-all and holding on to the break. When the set finished Joyce asked for the wind velocity to be measured. He could feel a breeze, he said, but he couldn’t see the flags clearly and he needed to know what it was doing so he could remember it. Chekhov was well in front but Joyce had moved him around a lot and in the third set the Russian started to tire. Loose shots began to creep in. Easy volleys were netted. He took longer to serve and he walked around behind the baseline between points. By the time Joyce had taken the third set it was obvious Chekhov was in trouble. Joyce asked if he was OK. He was fine, he replied, although he was considering the possibility of going to Moscow.
In the fourth set Joyce produced one of the most remarkable passages of the tournament. He played to the Chekhov forehand he knows so well, and began hitting cross-court winners from outside the sidelines and creating angles the crowd sometimes didn’t believe. What we were seeing wasn’t just powerful. It was new and perfect.
By the end of the set Chekhov was run ragged and his doctor came on court. Although he waved the doctor away and insisted on continuing, it wasn’t surprising to hear later that he had been nursing a serious respiratory problem. Joyce took the fifth set and the match but concern was all for Chekhov. There was sustained applause as he gathered his racquets. He smiled, shook hands with Joyce and patted him on the shoulder.
‘I didn’t lose today because I wasn’t fit,’ said Chekhov later. ‘I lost because Jim played so brilliantly. I didn’t have breathing troubles in my earlier matches and I didn’t have them in the first two sets today. In my view Jim’s going to rewrite the
