The Remise
Item
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Title
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The Remise
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Date
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April 1941
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volume
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6
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issue
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2
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page start
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14
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page end
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15
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list of contributors
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Franz Ohlson
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content
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en
The Remise
Nothing pleases us more than to note the increase in publicity which fencers and fencing have been getting this year. It is a plain indication that the sport is annually attracting the interest of more Americans and that newspapers and magazines are beginning to appreciate the sport’s reader appeal.
To name a few of the cases that have come to our attention since our last issue there was the article in Look Magazine for January 28th entitled “Perfectionist in Color.” The article pertained to Nickolas Murray and dealt primarily with the color photography for which he is famous. Nevertheless, it also mentioned his fencing at frequent intervals. The author appreciated the fact that his subject’s swordsmanship was good “copy.”
Imagine our surprise to see James Murray’s picture in a recent copy of the Herald Tribune. There was Jimmy, big as life, gesturing with a table knife at the Columbia Club for the benefit of Al Laney who gave Jimmy a most interesting write-up. We consider Murray the dean of American Fencing Professionals and the man with probably the most interesting fencing background of anyone in the United States. We salute Laney for his ability to draw out the reticent Jimmy into print and now look forward to a chance to write him up ourselves. We have tried and tried without success. The spell is now broken and The Riposte promises, if Murray will only “give,” to present one of the most interesting biographical sketches of his career.
About mid-January a full page of fencing pictures of Helena Mroczkowska, Women’s National Foil Champion, was released through a large newspaper syndicate. We thought the page well prepared and of definite publicity value to the sport. So far as we know, it is the first full page publicity that has ever been given to fencing in the newspapers and we have received word that it was reproduced in many of the newspapers throughout the United States.
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In a recent foil competition in Cleveland one of the contestants made a cut-over and fleched completely past his opponent. “Coupe attack—good,” said the Judge. Phil Houser, Bout Committee Chairman and Director of that bout, said, “It looked more like a truck to me. Nothing done!”
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We have mentioned “fencing bugs” from time to time and someone has written and asked what we really mean by the term. Well a fencing bug is a person who is so bitten by the sport that he either must be fencing or talking about it most of the time. There is no question but that all of your leading fencers have the bug. Why should they work so hard, season after season, going over the same actions, if they were not infected with some soul-consuming virus that drove them ever onward? Fencing becomes part of their blood and they can never happily lay aside their swords for the mere satisfaction of reminiscing. Nor is the bug confined to the leaders in the sport. Boys and girls throughout the country contract the disease in many cases without any direct contact with other fencers. They are the real never-say-die followers of the sport for without any encouragement whatsoever they continue to strive to learn to fence regardless of their respective isolation.
I shall quote from a letter from one of these typical bugs. It presents them in a light which no amount of explanation could do. Their pure love for the sport, their refusal to be discouraged, their isolation from fencing centers always brings forth our sincerest sympathy. Nothing would do our heart more good than to provide such boys and girls throughout the United States with the instruction and fencing opportunities for which they have in some unexplainable way acquired such a distinct desire.
“Being tremendously interested in fencing both as a game and as a mental and physical exercise and being aware of the lessons of sportsmanship which it teaches, your correspondent decided to spread the Gospel of the King of Sports.
“He had learned to fence the ‘hard’ way with about every book he could lay his hands on, plus a full-length mirror (with the family wondering about the postures). However, when he ripped a pillow he was forced to ‘expand,’ that is, try outside somewhere else. The result of all this laboratory work was that this budding swordsman wanted to try his steel. One fine day when opportunity offered he visited New York City and walked into one of New York’s best Salles with the ‘Who wants to fence?’ idea. What a mistake! He found out right then and there that what he needed was a rebuilding. He watched as many fencing bouts as he could and returned home the wiser for the experience.
“A few years went by and then he obtained a better book on fencing than he had yet owned. He rounded up a few interested fellows in his Church and they went through the book lesson by lesson, never advancing to the next until they felt they had its predecessor by the ears. Twelve members belonged to the group at its peak, but they were of varying interest and the number gradually diminished until five steady members remained.
“We met every Tuesday night and Saturday afternoon and what fun we had. It was hard work too, especially at the beginning when the idea that it was a game and not a slaughter had to be impressed upon them.
“These happy times kept up for about two and a half years until the start of this season and I feel badly about it. This season we have met twice, each time for these being only one man besides myself, and now for six sessions in a row I’ve been left alone, playing the piano and watching the clock at the church.
“I guess it isn’t a total loss though. They may never be fencers, but they’ve learned something and they’re swell fellows.”
That letter amused and saddened me alternately. That boy glosses over at least three and a half years of constant discouragement with no trace of bitterness. He states that his pals were swell fellows even though they did not have his stick-to-it-iveness. He is still at it. He has now managed to get to New York more frequently. He has even joined a fencing club here. Can’t you visualize him out on the fencing strip having the time of his life at the thing he likes to do more than anything else, whenever those rare opportunities are offered him.
That, my friend, is a true fencing bug. You will find them in all stations of life and of all ages. No sport can die which has such devoted disciples springing up spontaneously in every generation.
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What is this we hear from Salt Lake City? Bill Pecora made a special stop there on his way East from the Coast. Incidentally he made this stop as a result of the Editor’s article concerning his visit to Salt Lake City and used the names mentioned in that article for his contacts. It worked. He was welcomed by the fencers of that city in the same manner as we had been. That takes fine and Bill came on to New York the week-end before Christmas to run bang into the fencing activities of that season. We ought to know, for one of these parties in which he took no inconsiderable part broke up at our apartment at 5 A.M. But we have digressed. What Salt Lake City wants to know is when we are going to send it more visiting fencers like Bill Pecora. Armitage, Huffman and Every have all stopped off, but Bill Pecora kissed all of the girls good-bye before departing. Did I read an implication in that letter that Norman, Johnny and I were old sticks? Did our cold Eastern manners foil us or has Bill got something we haven’t got anyhow? I fear me the latter is the case, but let us all mend our ways in the future. Traveling ambassadors of fencing must take a leaf from Doctor of Geology William T. Pecora’s book and dig into things a bit more.
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We have generally shied clear of printing poetry. We learned early that the average fencer when approached for an article of some sort about the sport would almost invariably say, “I can’t write, but I have a few poems you might be able to use.” We have avoided printing poetry to prevent every fencer from bursting into rhyme to the utter submergence of our magazine.
Occasionally we receive poems which make us reconsider our policy. We are printing one this issue, one which got past us despite our fears of being swamped in the future with iambic pentameters.
Franz Ohlson of the Saltus Fencing Club submitted the following with the remark that it might be sung to the tune of “Rambling Wreck from Georgia Tech” or “It Ain’t Gonna Rain No More”. Rush out the harpsichord and zither and give it a try.
THE EPEEMAN
The Epeeman, the Epeeman, in frayed and tattered gear
Can lick his weight in wildcats and can drink his weight in beer
And for the foil and sabremen he hasn’t any fear
For he’s a late edition of a dashing musketeer.
His jacket’s a wreck from many a peck of a sharpened pointe d’arret
His pants are torn, his nerves are worn and ears been ripped away
But should you care to question him, you’ll surely hear him say:
“I’m an Epeeman and I guess by damn I’ll always be that way.”
He’ll drop his elbow out a bit and wait for your attack
But then he’ll swiftly parry and he’ll nail you going back
But when he’s got his point in line and thinks he’s guarded well,
He never seems to see the touch that creeps around his bell.
At times he’ll answer any feint, at other times he won’t.
The time that he should answer is the one time that he don’t.
He’ll parry almost anything between his head and toes
But still a simple stop-thrust is the best defense he knows.
You’ll always find an Epeeman where the lovely ladies are,
Boasting of the fights he’s had and showing off his scar.
And see the lovely ladies as they hang on every word
For he can tell the tallest tales that you have ever heard.
Then woe befell the Epeeman, he met the March of Time.
They wired him to sound effect, to flashing light and chime,
For now it’s just a batt’ry that determines right from wrong
And every touch is heralded by the chiming of the gong.
THE FOILSMAN
The foilsman likes to dance around on swiftly moving feet,
He spends long hours practicing to beat a quick retreat.
He lunges fifty times a day and sweats his youth away
Until at last he wises up and learns to fence Epee.
THE SABREMAN
The sabreman, the sabreman, is a thrilling sight to see.
He twirls his weapon ’round his head and hacks away with glee.
His savage heart is filled with joy to hear the steel at play,
But someday he’ll be civilized and learn to fence Epee.
