Foil in the bag
John Laughland
As someone who hates sport, even I have to admit that not all sports are the same. There are some which are elegant, like cricket, and some which are highly ritualised and stylised, like sumo wrestling. In some cases, such as the Palio horse race in Siena, which is preceded by a mediaeval pageant lasting hours, the ritual is but an accoutrement to an otherwise rather simple and brutal, if exciting, horse race. But in other cases the ritual is actually part of the sport, which is itself laden with symbolism. This is particularly true of one of the noblest sports of all: fencing.
The sword alone symbolises authority, power and sex. It appears on all sorts of emblems associated with excellence, from the regimental logo of the SAS to the statues given out at the Oscars. The figure of justice carries a sword, an allusion no doubt to the sword with which St Michael the Archangel separates the saved from the damned at the Last Judgment. The sword is also an obvious phallic symbol: not for nothing is vagina the Latin for sheath. In literature and mythology, the sword symbolises supreme potency as, for instance, when Wagner’s Siegmund pulls from the tree the sword Nothung with which his son, Siegfried, defeats the malefic power of Wotan’s spear. A sword is used to elevate men to the rank of knighthood, reflecting its ancient role as a trapping of honour, while its cruciform shape was inscribed on Crusaders’ shields to emphasise the righteousness of their battle against the infidel. Indeed, did not Christ Himself promise, ‘I come not to send peace, but a sword’?
If the link between sword-fighting and ancient values of chivalry is obvious, so too should be the specifically aesthetic attraction of fencing. From before the time of the gladiators, fighting with blades has always been a spectator sport. Not only is it very elegant when a swordsman lunges at his opponent, the lines of the body are as beautiful as in ballet — but also hand-to-hand fighting between two fit and dexterous opponents encapsulates the very essence of drama, namely conflict. This is surely why sword fights occupy such a prominent place in theatre and film: Shakespeare’s Hamlet meets his end in a duel; Mercutio in Romeo and Juliet ‘with one hand beats/Cold death aside’; and Falstaff invents phenomenal fencing prowess in Henry IV, Part I. Classic films with great sword fights include Scaramouche with Stewart Granger, The Prisoner of Zenda with Douglas Fairbanks Jr, The Count of Monte Cristo (of which there are at least 18 remakes), The Adventures of Robin Hood with Errol Flynn, and of course Spartacus and The Three Musketeers. Quentin Tarantino’s twopart orgy of death, Kill Bill, belongs to the same genre, although it is but the homage played by an obsessive to his perverted fascination with blood and injury, for which swordsmanship is just a vehicle. In literature, too, fencing has been prominent: Goethe wrote effusively about it in Wilhelm Meisters Lehrjahre, Maupassant sent it up in Bel Ami, and Boswell condemned it in his diary.
Fencing also embraces both sexes. Although great fencers were male heroes (like Napoleon and George Washington) and anti-heroes (like Sir Oswald Mosley and Reinhard Heydrich), women are at home in this sport in a way they are in few others. Perhaps it is because their beauty complements the sport’s intrinsic elegance; perhaps it is because the clothing of few other sports can complement a lithe female form as tantalisingly as white breeches and a simple white shirt. The actresses Grace Kelly, Catherine Zeta-Jones and Sophie Marceau have all fenced, in some cases off screen as well as on.
Precisely because of fencing’s unique aesthetic, theatrical and symbolic qualities, it is imperative that this sport distinguish itself from lesser ones by having superior kit. As is well known, most sports today come with hideous modern accoutrements: whole fortunes are made from confecting sports bags, T-shirts, shoes and other paraphernalia out of cheap synthetic material, usually of a particularly vile hue, and then adding various stripes, ribbings, dashes and the inevitable dreary logo. Having spent most of my schooldays obstinately being the only child without an Adidas bag, it was with a special sense of pleasure that I was introduced to the range of highly tasteful fencing bags from Bibikov.
Made by the talented London fashion designer Emily Matthews, Bibikov bags are both elegant and practical. Their key, indeed, is the key to all beautiful goods quality of materials and simplicity of design. There are three basic varieties of bag: the blade bag, the kit bag and the foil bag. The blade bag, £50, which looks similar to a gun bag, and presumably could indeed be used to carry one, can take two or three foils, one épée or one or two sabres. (Indeed, Bibikov is planning to produce shooting and weekend bags soon.) Like the other bags, it is made of excellent quality, natural-colour stiff canvas. The straps are cotton, and the brass clips and sliders are the best England has to offer. The tip of the bag and the simple strap at the top come in three colours of leather: tan, russet and chocolate.
The Bibikov double blade bag, £160, is basically two foil bags clipped together, carrying one foil each. There is a discreet inside pocket at the top for bodywire. The solid base gives the foils the protection they need while being transported; they are carried with a shoulder-strap. Like the other bags, these foil bags are made in a beige showerproof cotton canvas, with leather fittings in three colours, and the foil bags have a substantial leather top. Finally, there is also a kit bag, £120, shaped rather like an elongated viola case, which can carry all weapons, a mask and fencing kit. Unlike the others, which have shoulder straps, this bag is carried by hand. It has a useful zip pocket on the outside, and comes in the same combination of natural-coloured canvas and vegetable-dyed leather.
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