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[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]FIGHTING
WITH
FOUR
FISTS
An artist friend of mine, whose statuary now adorns the Hotel de Ville of a large Western city,
was once studying in Paris. A question of etiquette arose between him and a French student. When the
discussion had reached such a point that words failed to deal with it, it was unanimously agreed that the
dispute should be referred for final settlement to a ring outside in the courtyard. Few Americans are expert
with their fists, but my friend possessed that comfortable English theory, which had doubtless descended to
him from his forefathers, relative to the number of Frenchmen that can be conveniently dealt with by one
Anglo-Saxon, so on reaching the courtyard, he struck the correct attitude for putting his theory into
practice. The poet remarks –
“
Thrice armed is he who hath his quarrel just,
”
and the flippant man has added -
“
But four times he who gets his blow in fast.
”
It proved so in this case, for before the American knew the battle had begun, he received a terrific kick
that simply doubled him up. He stretched himself across a bench and waited for his second wind, which
was a long time in coming. I regret to have to add that the American was not satisfied with what he had
received; that he again faced his foe, and this time caught the foot, and then the Frenchman, whom he flung
over his head, bringing him down on the pavement with a crash that ended the fight for some days. Now,
each of these students thought that the other had not fought fairly. It is hard to make an Englishman believe
that a kick, however delivered, is legitimate fighting.
The Frenchman’s point of view is different. He thinks that if a man is set upon by two or three
ruffians, the person so attacked should be able to defend himself with all the limbs he has. The use of the
foot, therefore, has been brought down to a system in France, and I was astonished to find, on investigating
this subject, that many English boxers have a great admiration for the French “
savate
,” and in each of the
boxing-schools I visited in Paris I saw several Englishmen being trained to wield the light fantastic toe in a
way that would make Miss Lottie Collins shudder.
It is strange thing that the French nation, which is perhaps the only civilized nation using the foot in
legitimate fighting, should have no one word that corresponds with our energetic monosyllable “
kick.
” The
nearest term they possess is the three- worded phrase
coup de pied bas.
Thus they are driven in
characterizing the play of the foot to words that relate to the foot, but which do not at all correspond with
our terse work “
kick
”. The
chausson
; meaning a sock or a light shoe, just as you choose, has practically the
same significance in French boxing as ‘
savate
’; in fact, it is considered less vulgar than the latter term.
In 1830, the most celebrated master of the kick was Michell. Michell went in for a sharp, nervous, but
plain kick that was eminently practical for out-door use, though lacking the airy grace which has since been
added, and which makes the savate a thing of delight for a nice, quiet drawing room entertainment.
Afterwards, the three L’s did much to put various ornaments on the old shoes. These professors were
Lozes of Toulouse, Lecour of Paris, and Leboucher of Rouen. Staid old London itself had something to do
with the formation of the present brilliant French kick. Charles Lecour came over to England to learn what
he could of English boxing, and took lessons from Swift and Adams. In London, Lecour probably pranced
around his room and invented new kicks, to the astonishment of the person who brought in his tea. Thus
did the French professors build up the science of savate, adding a loving touch here and modern
improvement there, until it has become a glittering and bewildering art that carries confusion into the ranks
of the enemy? We have now the low kick on the shin, the heel kick on the body, the toe kick on the side to
misquote Shakespeare, is ever so much more blessed to give than to receive, blessing him who gives, but
decidedly doing the other thing for the man who takes, landing him right into the very centre of next week.
I went over to Paris for the purpose of bearding the savate in its den, and placed myself under the
chaperonage of Mr. Hurst, whose spirited sketches explain the antics of this art so much better than any
words of mine can do. Mr. Hurst is an enthusiastic admirer of the savate, which is the more remarkable as
he is an Englishman who has spent some years in America, and naturally had all the prejudice of the two
countries against the kick. He led me through a labyrinth of those passages which Paris has provided herself
with for the manifest purpose of bewildering a stranger; beginning with the Passage Jouffroy, threading its
turns and descending its steps, crossing a small street, and ending with the Passage Verdeau, where, on the
first floor of number something
his
, he ushered me into the Salle d’Armes where the boxing is taught.
The Salle was wainscoted with rapiers, as in the daytime it was fencing school. In the corner of the
room, a small but energetic man was kicking savagely at nothing. He was delivering a low kick, guarding
himself from an imaginary foe with determination and perspiration on his face, bringing to the whole
mythical encounter a seriousness that made it all seem immensely ridiculous to a stranger. But that is the
way perfection is attained. If anyone believes the kick is acquired without nearly as much teaching and
practice as piano-playing, he is mistaken. The Professor stood over six feet tall, a powerful,
well-proportioned man, who, notwithstanding his size, was as light and airy on his feet as a dancing-master.
At the request of the artist, he gave me some specimens of the accuracy of aim of the savate.
The Professor was William Tell, with his foot as the weapon instead of bow and arrow; I was the
unfortunate boy, with a cigarette in my mouth instead of an apple on my hand. The Professor impressed
upon me the necessity of standing rigidly still. I was to press the button-in other words, smoke the
cigarette-and he would do the rest. He asked me to keep the cigarette-holder loosely between my teeth, as it
was his intention to kick it from its place without ruffling the moustache, and if I held the holder too tightly
there might be a dental operation added as well. I may be doing the Professor an injustice, but I suspect he
had a faint hope that he would frighten the subject of the experiment by the general glitter of his foot-play,
but, knowing that I was in a measure a guest of the Salle d’Armes, I presumed it would not be etiquette to
knock me through the partition, or make me sing with the poet, “
But why did you kick me down stairs?
” I,
therefore, resolved to give a sample of Saxon stolidity which would be remotely a counterpart of his Latin
agility. I planted myself solidly on my two feet, while the Professor poised lightly on his one. After a few
preliminary passes, the foot began to dart hither and thither in apparently the most reckless manner, coming
sometimes with appalling energy full tilt toward my face, but just missing my cheek by the eight of an inch;
then over the head, under the chin, now on one side, now on the other, playing around my head like
summer lightning. All the time, there was running through my mind, with the persistence of “
Punch,
brothers, punch with care,
” the refrain of an old melody of my by gone days- “
There’ s not a foot can swing
a boot like this here foot of mine.
”
The melody refer’s to dancing, but any dancing that I have ever seen was not in it compared with this
exhibition of savate by the French Professor. All this time, the cigarette was accumulating a long piece of
ash on the end of it, which did not shake off because I stood so still. Once, part of the ash was blown away
by a whiff of wind from the flying foot. When this brilliant and ornamental foot-play was finished, the
Professor announced that he would now attend to the cigarette in three passes, each one different, and again
asked me to press loosely on the holder with my teeth. First, with a straight kick, he knocked the ashes off;
then, with a downward pass, he struck the cigarette from the holder to the floor, finally, with an upward
whisk of the foot, he sent the holder whirling to the ceiling, caught it deftly as it came down and presented it
to me with a flourish that would have done credit to Beau Nash. All this struck me as very wonderful, but I
ventured to suggest that if a man did this sky work with his foot, a real opponent could easily, with a quick
movement, push him over, standing, as he did, on one leg.
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