Secrets of the Sword

“If you approve of the surviving methods of the old Italian school, you should admit all the precepts of that school, and then you will at least be logical.

“Your sword will have a long heavy blade, broad and perfectly rigid; the hilt will be surmounted by a little cross-bar of steel on which you will place your fingers, and to which you will attach them with a long ribbon; incidentally you will do away with the freedom of the hand, the supple action of the wrist and the niceties of finger play. You will have to make frequent use of parries of contraction, which are indispensable to Italian play, though they are little valued, not to say altogether ignored by the French school. You must learn your voltes and passes, the manoeuvres of ducking and dodging; and then, I repeat, you will at least be logical. But an agreement which recognises only one of these practices, while it disregards all the rest, seems to me absurd.

“Let me now show you the danger, which can hardly be avoided, of admitting this parry with the left hand.

“Between the open palm, which merely brushes the blade aside, and the hand, which by a nervous movement closes unconsciously on the blade and holds it fast, the difference is very hard to seize. The thing is done in a moment. It passes like a flash in the confusion of the encounter and leaves no trace behind.

“Without a doubt the man who has unconsciously arrested the blade, instead of merely turning it aside, will be in despair, and in the loyalty of his heart will be the first to accuse himself. But if his point has taken effect, if he has delivered a fatal thrust, will his despair or regret or any self-reproach heal the wound that he has inflicted, or restore the life that he has taken? If the odds were a thousand to one against a fatal issue, that one chance would be enough to condemn fatally this dangerous agreement.

“Moreover, I may remark, speaking from the experience that is obtained by long familiarity, and perhaps from some small skill in the practice of arms, that it is often very difficult, not to say impossible, for the most practised eye in the confusion of a multitude of thrusts, swiftly parried and as swiftly returned, to follow with accuracy the course of two swords, that pass to and fro and interlace like living things, or to judge with indisputable certainty the difference between these two movements, one of which is authorised by consent, while the other may suddenly turn an honourable fight into a foul assassination.

“The mere act of judging so bristles with difficulties, that it is likely to lead to a conflict of opinion between even the most unbiassed judges. Who can decide between them? The fact on which their judgment is based is there no longer. It passed in a moment, quick as thought. Consider the terrible position in which you are placed, in the presence of a man lying stretched on the ground before you, cold and lifeless, who ought to be a living man full of strength and vigour.

“And now, I appeal to all seconds. In the name of good sense, in common fairness, could you or could you not with a clear conscience take the heavy responsibility of such a risk?

III

“I am trying, you see, to obtain a comprehensive view of the manifold duties of seconds, and to omit none of the minute matters of detail, which it is their duty to attend to, and which ought to be present to their minds. Here is another point, which is worthy of their serious attention.

“When the combatants have taken sword in hand and the blades are crossed, the seconds should stand within reach, holding a sword or walking-stick, and ready to stop the fight should any irregularity occur, or if either of the men should slip, or stumble, or be disarmed, or wounded. This last case especially requires their utmost vigilance, for there are two events, both equally disastrous, that may occur.

“Suppose one of the men is wounded. In the natural excitement of the moment, the man who has delivered the thrust is often unaware that his point has taken effect. Before he can tell that his opponent is disabled, perhaps before he can check himself, he may inflict a second wound, unless the swords are instantly knocked up.

“The wounded man, on the other hand, may not immediately feel the effect of his wound, and by continuing to fight may run the risk of being wounded a second time, and that more seriously. It may also happen, and this is the great danger, that in a fit of blind rage he will rush madly on his opponent.

“Again, the man who has inflicted a wound and has felt his point go home, instantly and instinctively stays his hand, and even if his opponent renews the attack hesitates to strike a second time one who is already hurt. It is during this juncture of a moment’s pause with a moment’s hesitation that the wounded man may make his mad rush, and either run his opponent through the body, or meet his own destruction, if his opponent has promptly recovered his guard, and calmly offers him his point.

IV

“Both cases are alike disastrous, for either may lead to a fatal result at a time when by the wound already received the fight may be regarded as closed, or at least as suspended. The seconds, who by redoubling their precautions might have saved the useless shedding of blood, will of course be held to blame.

“No doubt it sometimes happens that in spite of the closest attention the attack is so prompt, so impetuous, so swift, that it is impossible to intervene in time. But then at all events the seconds will have no cause for self-reproach. Fortunately such cases are of very rare occurrence, but they do sometimes happen; and it is therefore very necessary for the seconds to watch the crossed swords incessantly, and to follow their every movement, in order to intervene the moment that one of the men is wounded, however slight the wound may seem.

“If on examination the wound is found to be so trivial that the fight can continue without disadvantage to the wounded man, the combatants will at least have had time to recover their coolness and self-possession.

“This close attention is one of the most important points; it is in fact a matter of absolute necessity. Here is the seconds’ real difficulty, for here the whole responsibility rests with them.

“I have still several things to say, of which you will recognise the importance. But it is getting late, and if you will allow me I will postpone them to our next meeting.”

The Ninth Evening

I

“I wish,” remarked the Comte de C… when we met the next day, “that you would tell us what you think of the corps à corps in the duel.”

“That,” I replied, “is the very thing I was going to talk about.”

“The right course in my opinion is to come to an agreement with the seconds of the other side that the combatants shall be separated and start afresh, when they become entangled at close quarters in what is termed a corps à corps. Otherwise, in a struggle of this sort it is impossible to say what may happen, except that both men are likely to receive their quietus, – a very symmetrical settling of their accounts by the process of double entry.

“But here again, one cannot help feeling that we have another thorny case, which calls for the exercise of judgment with due regard to the circumstances of the moment and fair play for both sides.

“If one of the men makes a furious rush on the other, the seconds ought not to knock up the swords until the man who has stood the attack has delivered his riposte. For he has gained this clear advantage, that after stopping the rush he is prepared with an effective rejoinder, and this advantage he is clearly entitled to use.

“Many questions of duelling must be left to the impartial discretion of the seconds. There is therefore no need to consider what would happen, if a second were to take unfair advantage of an agreement, honourably entered into on both sides, by interfering when the case expressly provided for had not arisen.”

“Well, but suppose such a thing did happen?”

“Why, then, your conscience must tell you how to act. Perhaps you might interfere summarily to stop the proceedings, if the nature of the quarrel allowed it, or you might call upon the second who had so misconstrued his duty to withdraw and take no further part in the affair.

“I have often heard men say: – ‘If I were acting second in an affair that was not so serious as to warrant a fatal issue, and were to see that my principal was about to be run through the body by a thrust that would certainly be fatal, I should not hesitate to knock up the swords. I could not resist the temptation; my feelings would be too strong for me. And as a matter of fact should I be very far wrong?’

“Yes, my friend, you would be absolutely wrong. You would be assuming the most onerous, the most terrible responsibility, and your action, though dictated by a praiseworthy impulse, would probably cause you the most bitter remorse.

“For consider: – you have arrested the sword which would have struck one of the opponents full in the body. The fight continues, and the man whose blow you intercepted with the praiseworthy motive, I quite admit, of preventing a mortal wound, is himself wounded or possibly killed. Fortune which favoured him at the outset suddenly turns against him and favours his opponent, perhaps with a lucky fluke, a thing which no foresight can prevent. What would your feelings be, when you saw stretched at your feet a man whose death you had caused by exposing him to a danger that he ought never to have encountered?

“A duel is always a miserable business; but when once you have faithfully and energetically done all that you can to prevent it, you must leave chance to decide between the combatants; only see that you take all the measures that are in your power to minimise the chances of a fatal issue.”

“It seems to me,” someone remarked, “that if, when a friend asks you to oblige him with your services, one were to think of all these innumerable responsibilities, one would invariably decline to act.”

“I don’t know whether one would always decline, but I know very well that the second’s part is one of unsparing self-sacrifice and devotion. I know that the man who undertakes it lightly cannot be too severely blamed, and I may add that I have never accepted the charge without passing a sleepless night haunted by the most gloomy forebodings. The second who conceives that he is merely required to be a passive witness, robs the part of all its meaning, all its value, all its dignity.

“You remember, I was speaking just now of the case of a second who acting on the spur of the moment instinctively intercepts a blow. I will give you an experience of my own.

“I was once acting for a friend in an affair of honour; I was thoroughly on the alert and carefully following the play of the points with that close attention, and perhaps I may say with that sureness of eye, which one acquires from some familiarity with sword-play, when I saw the opponent’s point coming straight at my friend’s body. Before I could think, I saw in an instant, as no one accustomed to fencing could fail to see, that the wound would be mortal. I knocked up the swords, and as the two men had got to close quarters, I called out: – ‘On guard.’ But I had hardly done so, when I realised the full extent of my unconsidered action, and I felt – well, I really cannot tell you what my feelings were at that moment. Luckily for me, my friend, who was no less clumsy than brave, was not the man to leave me long in this cruel position. He fell a few seconds later seriously wounded.

“The simple fact is, that where so many considerations have to be taken into account, you cannot be too careful never to go a step beyond the limits of strict and unassailable justice, in fairness to yourself and to everyone else concerned.

II

“In this connection I am reminded of another case, which not unfrequently occurs, and on which I have sometimes heard the most contradictory opinions expressed, for it presents a really difficult problem.

“In the course of the fight one of the antagonists calls for a halt – have you the right to insist that the fight shall continue without interruption?

“In my opinion you unquestionably have that right, unless the case has been already provided for, or both men consent.”

“Still surely,” said the Comte de C… “in a prolonged set-to, if your opponent is exhausted, if he is so done that he can hardly hold his sword, if he is blown and distressed, you cannot refuse to give him a minute or two to recover his wind.”

“Well,” I replied, “I have stated what I believe to be the rights of the case, on which either combatant can fairly insist. I will now give you my reasons.

“Your opponent, you say, is done; well, perhaps he may be, but have you considered why? Is not his fatigue due to the violence and the excessive energy with which he began the fight, to the regardless eagerness with which he has assailed you, without consulting his staying powers or husbanding his strength? You have had to bear the brunt of all this fury, you have sustained incessant attacks, but you with more skill have economised your resources and have bided your time to attack him. That opportune moment evidently comes just when your opponent, exhausted by the failure of his repeated attacks, is likely to offer you the least resistance.

“Then what happens? He calls for a halt! And are you to let him off without pressing the advantage that you with your judgment and self-restraint have held in reserve? Are you to give him leave to recover his wind, that is to say to recover his strength and rally his scattered forces, in order that he may start afresh to make a second onset with the same ardour and the same violence as before? The danger that you have safely encountered once may prove too much for you the second time. How does that strike you? Surely it is as though a man, engaged in a duel with pistols, in which each party is at liberty to fire when he chooses, were to be in too great hurry to let fly at his opponent, and then, when his barrels were emptied and useless, were to ask permission to reload, before he has received his opponent’s fire.

III

“Situations requiring nerve and self-control undoubtedly occur in a duel with pistols, but similar situations, more trying and more critical, occur in a duel with swords. You are willing to admit them in the one case, yet you refuse to admit them in the other.”

“But, after all,” persisted my critic, “you can hardly strike a man, who is so utterly done that he can hardly keep his point up.”