I.

Although our conversation was quite informal and simply an after-dinner amusement, I found that it involved diligent preparation, especially when I was approaching one of the questions where I was in open conflict with current theories, which are often taken for granted on no better ground than their respectable antiquity.

One of these theories, which is described in fencing language as the importance of judging the blade by touch, I was now prepared to challenge, and I was ready to maintain the superiority of another principle, against which the professors raise their voices, almost with one accord, in a chorus of unmerited abuse. Accordingly when we assembled in the smoking-room, I took my usual seat and began without preface.

II.

“Perhaps I had better explain what is meant by refusing to join blades. It means that, as soon as you have come on guard, you break away from the engagement, and avoid crossing swords with your adversary, instead of allowing the blades to remain in contact.

“This, I consider, was one of the most successful innovations of what it is the fashion to call ‘The New School’; and I am therefore very far from sharing the opinions of the professors, who discover in the practice the corruption of the best traditions of sword-play, and declare that the refusal to join blades is equivalent to fencing blindfold, and without judgment; it leads, they say, to mutual hits, and deprives the fencer of one of the finest accomplishments he can acquire, the power of judging the sword by touch.

III.

“Undoubtedly the fencer’s touch is a great resource; I am even willing to allow that it is invaluable, and it is a thing that can only be obtained by practice and perseverance; it gives lightness and dexterity to the hand, and enables the foil to be manipulated with accuracy and speed.

“It is the refined result that is derived from extreme ease in regulating the extension of the arm, from exquisite subtlety in the use of the fingers, and from precision of play, which involves its victim almost unawares, dismays, and utterly confounds him. I profess the greatest admiration for this consummate power of fence, so seldom seen to perfection. No one can think more highly of it than I do, and on that account I am strongly convinced of the necessity of devising a means to resist it, when it is used against me. I shall perhaps be told to combat it by an equally fine sense of touch;—but it is still more rare to see a bout of fencing in which the two men are evenly matched in this respect, and general principles should be based on general grounds, not on exceptional cases.

“The man who possesses this consummate sleight of touch may almost be said to control his opponent’s blade by the exercise of his will. By a sort of hypnotic influence or fascination he does with it what he pleases. If you refuse the engagement, you create a difficulty for him; if you do not allow him to bring his blade into contact with yours, you put an impediment in his way, which his skill will doubtless overcome, but with less certainty; his course is not so clear, and he is no longer completely master of the situation. For if you join blades you are always within striking distance of his point, that is to say he can attack you at any moment without shifting his ground. Now such attacks are exceedingly difficult to stop, even for the most practised hand, especially simple attacks such as straight thrusts or simple disengagements.

“The mind perpetually held in suspense is harassed and distressed, you have no leisure to think for yourself and are demoralised by the slow torture of a constant strain. For, I repeat, it is very rare to find two fencers so evenly matched in this respect that the risk is equally divided.

“In that case I should say:—‘Do what you please.’ In the other case:—‘By refusing the engagement you can at first keep your opponent out of distance, which will compel him to advance in order to attack you, and so give you fair warning of his intention. You are no longer exposed to the paralysing influence of a constantly threatened attack, which destroys your liberty of action and judgment; you disconcert your adversary by leaving him in the dark as to the line in which he will encounter your blade; and you can choose your own time, when you are ready to attack or parry, to engage his blade with decision.’

“For my own part, I am quite satisfied that the system is a safe and sound defensive measure, which offers advantages that cannot be denied. Pressures, binds, beats and croisÉs, all those dangerous movements by which your opponent can bring the fort of his blade to bear on the faible of yours, are rendered very difficult to perform, and are much less likely to succeed. Surprise attacks are entirely or at least so nearly eliminated, that their occurrence is a rare event.

IV.

“I have endeavoured to state as clearly as possible the advantages that a weak fencer may derive from this system, when he is opposed to a combatant more experienced and more skilful than himself; but further than that, I believe that the skilful and experienced fencer has also something to gain by adopting this much despised method. I have myself never been able to discover that it is incompatible with perfect ‘form,’ or that it tends to wild play. It opens a wider field, it shows the fallacy of certain ideas, which have been wrongly supposed to be unassailable, and it furnishes a whole range of new situations, another world to conquer.

“What ground is there, I would ask my critic, for your assertion that I must be fencing blindly, because my sword does not happen to be in constant touch with yours? Why do you say that mutual hits must occur more frequently? If you are talking of a pair of duffers, who charge each other blindly, you may trust them to commit every possible blunder, whether they join blades or not.

“But why should you exalt so highly what you call the faculty of touch, the power of judging the blade by touch, and be so ready to degrade that other sovereign principle, which may be called the faculty of sight, the power of judging the sword by eye? Can you deny the controlling influence of the eye, the authority that belongs to it? Do you believe that the eye cannot be trained to the same degree of nicety as the hand? Why, when you have these two forces at your disposal, are you content to let one of them do duty for both?

“You may keep your opponent at his distance by the menace of your nimble point, which flashes in his sight incessantly; while your watchful eye follows the movements of his sword and reads his thought, as well as if the blades were crossed and questioned each other by the language of the steel. Then, when it suits your convenience, when you see a favourable opportunity, when you have by a rapid calculation reckoned up the situation, weighed the chances, taken everything into account, then is the time to offer your sword, then is the time to engage your adversary, or by bold decided movements to get control of his blade.”

V.

“But,” objected one of my hearers, “what if your adversary adopts the same tactics, and refuses the engagement?”

“That is where science and strength, skill and personal superiority tell. What is fencing if it is not the art of leading your opponent into a trap, the art of making him think that he will be attacked in one place, when you mean to hit him in another? the skill to outwit his calculations, to master his game, paralyse his action, outmanoeuvre him, reduce him to impotence?—That is the sort of thing the accomplished fencer sets himself to do.

“Your adversary, you say, will not come to an engagement. Very good; then you must force him to it by feints, or by threatening to attack. Either he attempts to parry or he attempts to thrust. In either case you get command of his blade by a simple or by a double beat, as the case may be, and then you drive your attack home.

“It holds good with fencing, as it does with all warlike measures, whether on a large scale or small, that you must not wait for what you want to be brought to you; you must learn to help yourself; take no denial, but by force or fraud get possession.

“Now, I appeal to you all as critics, not on a technical question of fencing, on which no one can be expected to give an opinion without a thorough knowledge of the art, but on a simpler matter. I will contrast two assaults. Imagine that you are the spectators. The first is between two fencers of the classical school, to use the conventional phrase.

“The swords are crossed, and the two adversaries, both gifted with consummate skill, stand facing each other, foot to foot. Feint follows feint, and parry parry; a simple attack is delivered, it is succeeded by a combination. The attitudes of both are irreproachable; the body always upright; the quick hand with exquisite finesse manipulates the dancing point by subtle and accurate finger-play. You admire the exhibition; for a moment you follow the quick passage of the blades, but your sympathies are not aroused, you are not carried away, or enthralled in spite of yourself in a fever of anxious expectation.

“Now turn to the other assault. This also is fought by two skilful fencers, but they go to work on quite a different system.

“Look at the combatants. Instead of standing foot to foot, and blade to blade, they are out of distance, on the alert, ready to strike but cautious. Their eyes follow each other, and watch for the tell-tale movement. Suddenly they close, the blades cross, interlock, and break away. That was a searching thrust! But by a sudden retreat, a rapid movement, perhaps a leap backwards, the fencer evades the hit, and is ready on the instant to give back the point. This assault is a battle between two men, who mean hard fighting, keen swordsmen, dodgy, artful, and slippery, who bring to bear all their science, employ every trick they can think of, and throw themselves body and soul into the fight.

“Now let me ask you, which of these two assaults is the more interesting to follow?

VI.

“I remember an assault, in M. Pons’s rooms, between one of my friends and a man who was generally considered and really was a strong fencer, although he insisted on clinging to that mischievous routine, which with some men is a superstition.

“They came on guard, and my friend, after crossing swords to show that he was ready to defend himself, quitted the engagement, attacked, and hit his opponent several times.

‘But, Sir,’ his opponent objected, ‘you do not join blades.’

‘Why should I?’

‘Unless you join blades, how am I to fence?’

‘That is your look-out.’

‘But you must join blades.’

‘Why must I? My only object, I assure you, is to endeavour, as well as I am able, to disconcert my opponent, and as I find that this plan disconcerts you considerably, I see all the more reason why I should continue to employ it.’

‘That may be,’ rejoined the other sticking to his point, ‘but if you do not join blades, it is not fencing.’

‘Well,’ said my friend, ‘let us try for a moment to discuss the matter. Tell me, are my hits improperly delivered?’

‘Oh, no.’

‘Did I stab, or come in with a round-arm?’

‘Certainly not’

‘Is there anything wrong with my parries? Are they too wide, or what? Is my hand too heavy, or do you complain of mutual hits?’

‘No, that is not the point.’

‘Then, what more do you want?’

‘I want you to join blades.’

‘To oblige you?’

‘No, I do not say that. But unless you join blades it is not fencing.’

“And say what one might, nothing would make him budge from his everlasting axiom.

“It is always so, whenever an attempt is made to interfere with the traditions of any art whatever. The man who tries to strike out a new line cannot fail to disturb the tranquil repose of ancient custom. The conservatives resist, they object to interference, they feel that their placid triumphs, their cherished habits are threatened. The regular routine, which has been drilled into them, till they know it like an old tune of which every turn and every note is familiar, will be unsettled. They have good reason to be annoyed, but that does not prove them to be right.

VII.

“At the present day people have gradually come to admit that there is some good in these innovations, which have suddenly enlarged the scope of fencing. ‘Fencing,’ they say, ‘is more difficult than it used to be, but less graceful.’ Are these qualities then necessarily incompatible with each other?

“In order to make a clear distinction between those who run after strange gods, and the ‘auld lichts’ who have preserved intact the primitive tradition of the true faith, a phrase has been invented to describe the backsliders. They are said to be ‘difficult fencers.’

“Now what are these words supposed to mean? Do they imply that a graceful fencer is not difficult? No doubt, classical grace and a masterly style are very fine things, which I, for one, can appreciate and admire. But if I am asked to choose between the graceful and the difficult fencer,—if it is not possible to be both at once,—I much prefer the latter, for I suppose that ‘difficult’ can only mean difficult to hit, difficult to defeat.

“But there is no need to suppose that difficulty is incompatible with grace, at least with grace of a certain kind, the grace of manly and robust energy, which sits well upon the fighting man, such grace as in old times so well became the gallant chevaliers, who illumined by their prowess the spacious days of ruff and rapier.

“We have here another of the important points of difference between the two schools. Some people treat the newcomer like an inconvenient guest, whom they cannot very well turn out of doors. But they may as well make up their minds that the intruder can take care of himself, and will find room for his ample proportions in the domestic circle. He has come to stay, and whether they like him or not he means to make one of the party.

“The axiom—‘Hit and do not be hit back’ ought, in spite of everything that can be said against it, to be the motto of all who fight with the sword. Science may teach how to hit well, but its first lesson should be, how not to be hit at all by the arrant duffer, who uses his sword by the light of nature. When swordsmanship fails to keep this end in view, we may be very sure that it is off the track. ‘Business first’ must be the invariable rule.

VIII.

“There was a time when the mask was not worn for the assault. And I remember reading some time ago in the Encyclopaedia, published about the middle of last century (1755), under the word mask the following remarks:—

‘In foil-play Fencers have sometimes carried precaution so far as to wear a mask, to protect themselves from possible hits in the face. It is true that those who have acquired little skill in the Art may chance to wound their Adversary by a clumsy thrust, or cause themselves to be wounded by throwing up the point with a bad parry. It is however never worn at the present day.’

“This encyclopaedia evidently reflects the ideas which were generally accepted at the time. To wear a mask in a bout with the foils was as much as to say that you considered your opponent a duffer, and was not far short of an insult.

“Fencing in those days was nothing but a formal series of attacks, feints, parries and ripostes, well understood and defined by the code; every movement led up to some other movement, which was rigidly prescribed. If a fencer had ventured on a straight thrust while the feints were in progress, instead of elaborately following the blade through every turn of the labyrinth, he would have been considered an unmannerly cub, and sent back to study his rudiments. It was only in the last years of the period signalised by the famous Saint-Georges that the mask came into general use. Even then the only masks used were made of tin, and the professors’ view was that such safeguards were permissible for rough players. But it so happened that three professors each lost an eye. And their respect for ancient tradition did not go far enough to induce them to risk losing the one that remained. After that the wire mask was generally adopted, but not without regret.

IX.

“Every generation takes the march of progress one stage further, or at least modifies existing institutions in its own way. It is not so long since the fanciful multiplication of feints, of which I was speaking just now, was considered the correct game; the right thing to do was to follow the blade until you found it. At the present day it is no longer part of the necessary ritual to follow always every vagary. Suppose you feint inordinately, I suddenly let drive with opposition of the hand, or simply straighten my arm and hit you with a stop thrust, which interferes rather effectively with your trickiness, and spoils the magnificent flourishes of your arabesques. These hits are now recognised and regularly taught. If need be, instead of lunging you slip the left foot to the rear, throw the left shoulder well back, so as to be out of the way, and drop the body, in order to avoid being hit yourself.

“The system of our fathers, which in many respects was excellent but at the same time was remarkable for several very odd and very peremptory theories, has in many instances been successfully assailed. Perhaps in some cases its assailants have themselves been too peremptory, and this has led to that loss of temper and angry recrimination, by which the debate has been embittered.

“But I must not tax your patience further to-night. We had better adjourn the discussion until to-morrow; otherwise you will be tired of hearing me talk, and I am sincerely anxious to command your whole attention.”