"I remember a story told by my friend, M. Desbarolles, an artist who
is endowed more liberally than most of my acquaintance with the warm
artistic temperament. It is to be found in one of his neatly written
essays. He had, it seems, studied fencing for two years under a French
master, in Germany I think, when he paid a visit to M. Charlemagne,
one of the most famous instructors of the day, to whom he had an
introduction.
"He fenced before the professor, and when the bout was over expected to
be complimented, under the impression that he had done rather well.
'Will you allow me, Sir, to give you a word of advice?' asked the great
man.
'By all means,' replied my friend.
'Then, let me recommend you to give up loose play altogether for at
least a year, and confine your attention entirely to the lesson.'
"Good heavens, what amazing perversity, what pompous humbug! M.
Desbarolles remarks that he was utterly taken aback, and I can well
believe him, but he goes on to say that he accepted the master's
verdict, and never had reason to repent it.
"If he had not given his word for the fact, I should certainly have
ventured to hope, most sincerely, that his sense of humour was
sufficient to save him from following such a piece of advice to the
letter, and in any case I am sure that it was quite unnecessary for him
to do so, in order to become the charming fencer that he is and one for
whom I have the warmest admiration.
"Do not tell me that the quickness of hand and rapidity of movement,
the alertness of body and mind required in loose play, can be
imparted by the lessons of a skilful instructor, if only he is careful
to graduate his instruction in proportion to his pupil's progress.
The result is mere clock-work with the professor for mainspring,
counterfeit vitality set in motion by the word of command; a most
mechanical use of the intelligence. The pupil cannot go wrong because
he is tied to his master's apron-strings. The master's sword shows him
exactly where to go with the precision of a finger-post. He is like a
man swimming in a cork jacket, practising the motions of swimming at
his leisure, and not caring in the least whether these motions would
really support him on the surface or let him sink to the bottom.
"That the formal lesson is useful I do not doubt, that it has a
monopoly of usefulness I emphatically deny. Why allow it to meddle with
and domineer over things which do not concern it? Let it keep its place
and refrain from trespassing outside its own dominions.
"The lesson can explain the logic and theory of fencing, it can assign
reasons and exhibit the mechanical process, but it cannot deal with the
great Unknown, the tricksy spirit, which suddenly starts out on the
fencer under every shape and form, always assuming some new disguise
and upsetting in a moment the most perfect theories and the most
scientific combinations.
"The young fencer who undertakes his first assault is like the heroic
youth of the fairy tales, who leaves his humble cottage and goes out
into the wide world to seek his fortune. Like him he will meet with
many strange adventures, which will try his mettle, put his character
to the touch, and call into play all the resources of his intelligence.