The race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong; but as
Frank Adams once remarked, the betting is best that way. The event
at Boyle's Thirty Acres in Jersey City was the conclusive triumph of
Reality over Romance, of Prose over Poetry. To almost all the
newspaper-reading world--except the canny fellows who study these
matters with care and knowledge--Carpentier had taken on something
of the lustre and divinity of myth. He was the white Greek god, he
was Mercury and Apollo. The dope was against him; but there were
many who felt, obscurely, that in some pregnant way a miracle would
happen. His limbs were ivory, his eyes were fire; surely the gods
would intervene! Perhaps they would have but for the definite
pronouncement of the mystagogue G.B. Shaw. Even the gods could not
resist the chance of catching Shaw off his base.
We are not a turncoat; we had hoped that Carpentier would win. It
would have been pleasant if he had, quite like a fairy tale. But we
must tell things as we see them. Dempsey, in a very difficult
situation, bore himself as a champion, and (more than that) as a man
of spirit puzzled and angered by the feeling that has been rumoured
against him. Carpentier entered the ring smiling, perfectly at ease;
but there was that same sunken, wistful, faintly weary look about
his eyes that struck us when we first saw him, at Manhasset, three
weeks ago. It was the look of a man who has had more put upon him
than he can rightly bear. But with what a grace and aplomb he stood
upon that scaffold! Dempsey, on the other hand, was sullen and
sombre; when they spoke together he seemed embarrassed and kept his
face averted. As the hands were bandaged and gloves put on, he sat
with lowered head, his dark poll brooding over his fists, not unlike
Rodin's Thinker. Carpentier, at the opposite corner, was apparently
at ease; sat smilingly in his gray and black gown, watching the
airplanes.
You have read the accounts of the fight to small purpose if you do
not realize that Carpentier was utterly outclassed--not in skill or
cunning, but in those qualities where the will has no part, in power
and reach. From the first clinch, when Dempsey began that series of
terrible body jabs that broke down the Frenchman's energy and speed,
the goose was cooked. There was nothing poetic or glamorous about
those jabs; they were not spectacular, not particularly swift; but
they were terribly definite. Half a dozen of them altered the scene
strangely. The smiling face became haggard and troubled.
Carpentier, too, must have been leaving something to the gods, for
his tactics were wildly reckless. He was the aggressor at the start,
leading fiercely for Dempsey's jaw, and landing, too, but not
heavily enough to do damage. Again and again in that first round he
fell into the fatal embrace in which Dempsey punished him busily,
with those straight body strokes that slid in methodically, like
pistons. Georges seemed to have no defence that could slacken those
blows. After every clinch his strength plainly ebbed and withered.
Away, he dodged nimbly, airily, easily more dramatic in arts of
manoeuvre. But Dempsey, tall, sullen, composed, followed him
steadily. He seemed slow beside that flying white figure, but that
wheeling amble was deadly sure. He was always on the inner arc,
Carpentier on the outer; the long, swarthy arms were impenetrable in
front of his vitals; again and again he followed up, seeking to
corner his man; Carpentier would fling a shining arm at the dark
jaw; a clinch would follow in which the two leaned together in that
curious posture of apparent affection; and they hung upon each
other's necks--Carpentier, from a distance, looking almost like a
white girl languishing in the arms of some dark, solicitous lover.
But Mr. Dempsey was the Fatal Bridegroom, for at each union he would
rivet in several more of those steam punches.
There was something almost incredible in the scene--so we had been
drilled in that Million-Dollar Myth, the unscathability of
Carpentier. Was this Gorgeous Georges, this blood-smeared, wilting,
hunted figure, flitting desperately from the grim, dark-jowled
avenger? And then, in the latter part of the second round, Georges
showed one flash of his true genius. Suddenly he sprang, leaping (so
it seemed) clear from the canvas, and landed solidly (though not
killingly) on Dempsey's jaw. There was a flicker of lightning blows,
and for an instant Dempsey was retreating, defensive, even a little
jarred. That was the high moment of the fight, and the crowd then
showed its heart. Ninety thousand people had come there to see
bloodshed; through several humid hours they had sat in a rising
temperature, both inward and outward, with cumulating intensity like
that of a kettle approaching the boil. Dempsey had had a bigger hand
on entering the ring; but so far it had been too one-sided for much
roaring. But now, for an instant, there was actual fighting. There
were some who thought that if Georges could have followed up this
advantage he still had a chance. We do not think so. Dempsey was not
greatly shaken. He was too powerful and too hard to reach. They
clinched and stalled for a moment, and the gong came shortly. But
Carpentier had shown his tiger streak. Scotty Monteith, manager (so
we were told) of Johnny Dundee, sat just in front of us in a pink
skirt, and had been gathering up substantial wagers from the
ill-starred French journalists near by. Scotty was not in any doubt
as to the outcome, but even he was moved by Carpentier's gallant
sally. "No one knew he was a fighter like that," he said.
The rest is but a few words. Carpentier's face had a wild, driven
look. His hits seemed mere taps beside Dempsey's. In the fourth
round he went down once, for eight or nine counts, and climbed up
painfully. The second time he sprawled flat; Dempsey, still with
that pensive lowered head, walked grimly in a semi-circle, waiting
to see if that was the end. It was. Greek gods are no match for
Tarzans in this game.
It was all over in a breathless flash. It was not one lucky blow
that did it, but a sequence of business-like crushing strokes. We
shall not soon forget that picture before the gong rang: Carpentier,
still the White Knight of legend and glory, with his charming upward
smile and easy unconcern; and Dempsey's dark cropped head, bent and
glowering over his chest. There was in Dempsey's inscrutable,
darkling mien a cold, simmering anger, as of a man unfairly hounded,
he hardly knew why. And probably, we think, unjustly. You will say
that we import a symbolism into a field where it scarcely thrives.
But Carpentier's engaging merriment in the eye of oncoming downfall
seemed to us almost a parable of those who have smiled too
confidingly upon the dark faces of the gods.
[Illustration]
A LETTER TO A SEA CAPTAIN
(To D.W.B.)