Well, never mind the heart. Let it jump. Not without a little effort, you succeed in pulling yourself together by taking a deep breath, actually whispering: "Just mind your own skin."
As a cue, the director speaks his last sentence:
"Gentlemen, on guard!"
These, and none other, are the words you were subconsciously waiting for. You hear and Understand them. Automatically, you execute the order. The birds no longer sing.
You have gone on guard thousands upon thousands of times before, but never was it like this. In competition, the good fencer leisurely watches his opponent for a few seconds before starting the slightest motion. Here you are by no means allowed to do so because your adversary immediately puts into execution a plan evidently well thought out in advance: surprise the youngster at the very beginning; take advantage of his lack of dueling and bear upon his nerves and morale. Get him at once. to succeed, and regardless of risks, the veteran attacks with all possible viciousness, letting forth guttural sounds. Although probably instinctive, these may have been intended to increase the daring and efficiency of the attack, and your own momentary confusion as well. But the plan hits a snag, for the vocal noises instead, work upon you as a wonderful reawakening to reality.
You have heard shouts under the mask before, and you have never paid the slightest attention to them. Why even without mask, this man is like any other. He is armed with a weapon quite familiar to you, and there is no reason why he should beat you--none whatever. When these few seconds of uncertainty and uncontrollable fear and doubt are over, you counterattack, and touch, precisely where you wanted to touch--at the wrist, well through the glove and white silk. But during the violent action of your adversary, his blade snaps into yours, and its point whips into your forearm. You hardly feel anything--no pain anyway; but you know that after having touched him, you have been touched too. "Halt!" shrieks the director.
Caring not for your own wound, you immediately look at your opponent's wrist, and then up at his face. Why on earth does he look so pleased? Haven't you touched him first? Yes, but this is no mere competition. He has indeed every reason to be satisfied for having wounded you--supposedly a champion--even if he nicked you after you touched him.
Young man, you must never be touched. Otherwise, the blood now coming out of your arm may instead be spurting from your chest...
The doctors take care of both wounds. What?... they bandage your own and not the other?...Preposterous! you feel perfectly furious with everything and everyone--above all with yourself. Silently, your lips move with a curse. You know best, however, and you keep as quiet as in competition; but, as in competition, you are eager to go at it again--the sooner the better--and in a spirit, now, vastly different from the original start.
The air vibrates with a great deal of low-toned, confusing talk. To many people speak at once. You care so little about it all that you cannot even grasp the meaning of a single sentence. The iodine stings. But what are they talking about anyway? This is no opera stage, and the tempo of the orchestra is certainly not one for sotto voce curses. What are they waiting for? Well, yes you let your point touch the ground, as in the Salle d'Armes--but it has already been cleaned, young man! And why does he, your surgeon, look and act so strangely? Why, you just told him, the blade has been sterilized--what does it matter anyway, pretty soon it's going to be soiled again--red, not earthy, muddy brown--red--yes, all right, oh, let's go, for God's sake.
You are on guard again.
Fine.
Successive engagements produce more wounds. While these are being disinfected, and the blade elaborately sterilized each time, my seconds repeatedly suggest tat I accept proposals emanating from my adversary's seconds. "Shall we stop?"
My representatives were elder friends of long standing, expert amateur fencers, and knew me well. It was therefore easy for them to see that, in the first engagement, my professionally pride had been wounded far more severely than my flesh; that I intended to avenge it with ominous determination, and that my impatience was steadily mounting.
They were only performing their duty, however. Seconds have the moral responsibility of all that happens "on the ground." All of them are liable to imprisonment in the case of death. yet, reading my mind clearly, my supporters were proffering their requests in an almost apologetic tone. I did not even bother to answer them.
After the fourth engagement, they again insisted. One can hardly say that I lost my temper then, for it was gone long before. Following the first double touch, I mean double wound, my adversary had not remained perfectly silent; evidently he had hoped--ad did everyone but me--that the whole thing would stop then and there. it was now my turn to breach the strict dueling etiquette. Quietly, but firmly, I replied: "Stop annoying me, I am going to stay here until tomorrow morning." I was young.
Afterward I was told that at this point one of the spectators had muttered: "Now he is going to kill him." he was a veteran duelist and friend. he had not heard my words, but had seen my left forefinger resolutely pointed at the ground. My own doctor, a young scientist bearing an illustrious name in medicine, was white as a sheet and looked about ready to collapse. That's why he had acted so peculiarly after the first engagement. Now he was far too dazed to be of much help in case of real trouble. Disliking the idea entirely, he had finally agreed to assist a friend in need. After the duel, he warned me never again to request his services in similar circumstances.
Fortunately, my adversary's surgeon seemed at home. He was an expert at such jobs, and it was somewhat heartening to see him, sleeves rolled up, going about his duties in the most efficient manner.
Doctors are forbidden by law to attend such meetings, and they too are liable to heavy punishment. They are, however, given almost dictatorial authority, and as a rule duels are stopped upon their advice. Eventually, after examination and medication of the latest wound, they enunciate and countersign that one of duelists "...was thus in a condition of physical inferiority. Declining all responsibility for any further fighting, the doctors declared him unable to continue"--the usual formula. They know, moreover, that a serious operation cannot be performed properly with the limited equipment they have "on the ground," and that even if it were successful, the cold morning air would, in all probability, kill the patient. On the other hand, the doctors have to be careful before stating their indisputable decision, lest they offend the susceptibilities of either duelist by declaring an "inability to continue" when, actually, it does not exist yet (For all of these reasons the stiffness of the surgeons' fees is quite understandable. My own doctor refused to accept a cent--what a friend! Duels are expensive affairs, what with fencing masters' heavy fees, surgeons' fees, gifts to the seconds, traveling expenses, banquets, champagne, etc.)
Nothing of the kinds happened in this duel, but when they give the word, it becomes law, regardless of what anyone involved may think or say. At such a point no second would even dream of letting the duel proceed, and the whole business is over.
Now, at each wound, the surgeons' silent looks were only too eloquent. Clearly enough, they wanted the whole affair ended as soon as possible. Even the veteran was beginning to look worried. They had heard my earlier reply to my seconds, however, and my continuously adamant attitude prevented them from stopping the combat. I had been brought up with the idea that duels should be avoided, but, were I to have one, it should be fought seriously. I had not come here for pin pricks. Everyone knew there were not serious wounds as yet, and it was my right to go on. we went on.
In such moments man can consciously lose all understanding of pity, generosity, and of the meaning of life itself. He knows that his seditious will may spell death for a fellow man whom he has no well-founded reasons, nor definite wish, to kill. Through somewhat silly codes of honor and more or less ridiculous regulations created by his kind alone, he arrogates to himself the right of murder. Where is that part of God he pretends, boasts, and almost scientifically asserts to exist within his own being? Uncheckable and unchecked, Mr. Hyde comes in.
Right now I'm focusing fairly heavily on the Epee. I'm sort of a strange person I guess as I choose to use a french grip when fighting epee instead of a pistol grip. I'm still not sure what I like best for foil.
