Barefoot fencing?

"You've lost it already," a fellow fencer said sternly.

She was right. I'd begun the bout - against a keen, 13-year-old left-hander - with an apology for being such a lousy opponent. I expect I'd have lost anyway but that is no way to start.

There were two new epéeists: the boy and an army pentathlete. I didn't get to fence the pentathlete. She reckoned epee was one of her lesser skills and found the boy, who's been fencing epée for three years, a difficult opponent. Most of the usual epéeists were absent. I left fairly early since I seemed to have the beginnings of a cold. "See you next week," I called.

I made resolutions. I would fence to win next week. And I would get my trainers repaired.

I like my current trainers. They're white with pale blue trimmings, which seems a decent colour scheme. More importantly, they're comfortable and I feel as though I move slightly faster down the piste when wearing them. But in the last couple of weeks I've noticed that they aren't exactly safe as the tips of the soles, by my toes, are coming adrift. I thought of using superglue but decided on a trip to the local cobbler instead.

But my week was taken over by illness - just a virus - and the impossibility of taking time off. Any time at home was spent slowly doing a few urgent household tasks (washing up, putting the bin out) and sleeping restlessly. I was even working on Saturday. I didn't get to the cobbler till the morning before fencing. ( "You can't fence," my Dad said on the phone. "You need to stay home." I croaked agreement but secretly thought I might be better.)

In the end, the cobbler decided it. He wasn't there. The young man who took my trainers explained politely that they couldn't be ready till the following morning.

I thought briefly of fencing in old trainers - or barefoot - and dismissed the idea. I needed to get better. I stayed home and cooked curry instead.



It hasn't been a week entirely without fencing. I found the Royal Shakespeare Company's 1985 production of Cyrano de Bergerac on youtube. I remember watching the production from my cheap seat and thinking nothing could be better. The verse translation by Anthony Burgess seems as light as the French original. Watching on youtube doesn't have the glamour and excitement of the Barbican Theatre but it's as close as I can get to this past pleasure.

fencing in Paris

I was walking by the Seine when I saw them - children in masks and tabards practising l'escrime. I think it was a first attempt for them. The instructors explained the rules, made sure the kits fitted, furnished the children with soft swords and set them off.

Worried that my interest would be misinterpreted, I explained that I fenced at home and added, wistfully, that I wished I could join in. The instructor sympathised and said that, if I found another adult, I too could fence.

It would have been good to fence in Paris by the Seine, even with a play-sword, but I was walking alone and wasn't sure of the etiquette for challenging a stranger to a duel. (I also feared I might do rather badly.) So after watching some more, I headed off, walking almost the full length of Paris Plage - the summer beach that closes a main road in Paris so that Parisiens can exercise or bask in the sun.

It was my second day in Paris. The night before I'd visited the Comedie Francaise to see their production of Cyrano de Bergerac. I'd been rereading the play in French since I boarded the Eurostar and was glad I'd done so - I can read French fairly easily but was out of practice at dealing with the speed of the spoken language.

I've seen Cyrano on stage before, notably with Derek Jacobi and Sinead Cusack, as well as seeing the film with Gerard Depardieu. But this production was different. The British productions I've seen have worked to establish the 17th century detail and have tried to create an entirely realistic setting, even though the play is - I hate to admit it - not entirely plausible and the characters speak in verse. I'd expected something similar at the Comedie Francaise, which used to have a reputation as a guardian of tradition - or, to put it another way, as a producer of staidly conventional productions. The photos outside warned me to expect something different. Some of the characters seemed to be wearing top hats and surely Roxane was flying ...

Of course, the French have a greater familiarity with Cyrano and other French classics than the British do and I imagine the play is performed much more frequently in France. Directors and companies are bound to discover new ways of presenting it, just as British (and other) directors explore Shakespeare in different ways. At first it was strange to see Cyrano at the theatre encountering 19th century gentlemen, but it connected the play to the time of its author, Edmond Rostand. The production explored layers in the play, showing stage pictures which presented the emotion of the characters, so that Roxane really did fly when listening to Cyrano's words on her balcony. The buildings retreated and she hovered ecstatically in mid-air. (Later she flew in a more familiar sense, arriving at the siege with Ragueneau in a primitive flying machine.)

There's one scene in Cyrano which I've never really enjoyed before - the scene in which Cyrano converses with de Guiche about the moon so as to delay him while Roxane marries Christian. But in this production, Michel Vuillermoz as Cyrano was enthralling in his comic techniques, which seemed to draw on traditions going back to commedia dell'arte. The production as a whole made more of the comic elements than I expected. It was moving too - and for the first time I really felt for Christian, in love with Roxane and frustrated by his lack of eloquence.

While in most production Cyrano has been handsome apart from his long nose, at the Comedie Francaise, the contrast between Cyrano and Francoise Gillard's Roxane was so clear that his love for her really did seem hopeless from the start. The miracle was her final realisation that she had loved Cyrano for his language.

But even so, as he dies, Cyrano sees himself only as what he lacks - the genius of Molière and the beauty of Christian: "Molière a du génie et Christian était beau!" In his final line, Cyrano links himself only to the white plume of the Gascony cadets - his panache.

I'd have liked more on-stage fencing, of course, but that's almost always the case. It was a wonderful evening and I'll try to write more about it elsewhere, when I have time.

stabbing - 1, poetry - 0

I had to make a decision last Wednesday: fencing or poetry.

I'd been commended in a poetry competition. That meant I didn't get any money but I was invited to the awards ceremony. There was a possibility of free drinks and nibbles and a certainty of conversation about poetry. On any other night of the week, I'd have been happy to hang out with the poets. But fencing night is different.

There are, of course, fencers who are poets. I'd like to model myself on Cyrano de Bergerac as far as that's concerned. But I've yet to fence while improvising a ballade. (I'm not very good at ballades.)



I'd have enjoyed the conversation of the poets. The winning poems were excellent and deservedly placed above mine. On 23rd October I was poet of the day on the website associated with the competition, but my sestina has now been consigned to the archive.. I'm in very distinguished company.**

For a few minutes I wondered whether I should opt for an evening of poetry. But I was too tired and the award ceremony was in Derby - a bus or train journey away. I was so exhausted I wasn't sure how I would get to fencing, let alone lift an epee. Luckily a taxi was parked at the beginning of my route. I'm not sure I'd have made it on foot. I staggered out of the taxi and into the hall, glad to have missed most of the warm-up. But as usual, once I'd picked up a sword the tiredness fell away.

Once again I started with foil. I'm not a natural foilist but I'm beginning to think that a knock-about with foil helps my epee skills. Although the rules are different, fencing with foil helps me to focus and the constraints seem to prepare me for the greater freedom of epee-fencing. Perhaps the swimming heped too.

It wasn't a great night of fencing but some of my hits landed well. I may be the weakest epeeist in the club but I seem to be making progress again. And there was good conversation too.

On the walk home, I was exhilarated. An evening of poetry or an evening of epee? There was no contest.



** Anyone who works out which poem is mine may be interested to know that it was written as an exercise a couple of years ago, following a set form and set end-words. The repeated words and the form came before the subject.

wishful thinking

Wouldn't it be wonderful to sing grand opera while fencing?

(I have to concentrate ever so hard just to hold a tune.)

This is Placido Domingo in Alfano's opera of Cyrano de Bergerac. The swordplay isn't exactly Olympic standard - and he takes a while to draw his sword - but being able to sing like that should stun opponents into submission.



I expect KateJ to respond by posting an example of operatic archery - perhaps a snatch of Rossini's William Tell ... And I expect Elizabeth McClung to inspire one or more operas about female wheelchair boxing ... though manga and anime are probably more to her taste.

But perhaps you don't share my passion for opera.

fencer poet?

As part of my job, I was required to attend a poetry workshop run by Peter and Ann Sansom. (I was wearing that hoodie again.) One of the many treats was sitting next to veteran peace protestor and Quaker Alice Beer, who brought an excellent poem about making frogs. We had a morning doing quick exercises and amazing ourselves with the results, and an afternoon looking at poems in process by all participants.

This isn't going to turn into a poetry blog. However, one of the exercises, once we were all warmed up, was to write a poem, in just a few minutes, about any group of people we chose. I chose fencers so feel duty bound to incude the result on this blog, even though it could do with more polishing.

Regular readers of this blog will have no problems in picking up the final references but I'll include a link at the end for anyone who's puzzled.

Preparation for Attack

You’re in an office, see the corridor.
You’re on the train. You see an aisle.
You can’t resist. You say it.
“It’s a piste.”
Terrific

and you see yourself
in white, with an opponent.
You’re moving up and down
(clatter of blades).
You catch the lunge-attack, parry, riposte … and it’s all over.
Point for you.

For Christmas you want blades,
a glove, a bag,
a new French grip.
You search the internet, look for “escrime”
(fed up with garden fences)
and you take the test
that tells you epee is the sword for you.
You go to talks on “how to mend a foil”
and keep spare buttons in your purse.

All night you dream of new attacks.
You’re Cyrano
and interrupt ballades
to strike with each refrain.
Fighting battalions, you whisper love
and when the brick falls and you stagger, late
to Roxane’s convent,
you’ll say farewell, accept her tears
but stand alone for death
and meet him, sword in hand.

If you don't know about Cyrano de Bergerac (in the play by Edmond Rostand), you can find an outline here.

There's an English version here.

And here is the French text.