From Benevento to Naples (Part 2)

In this second part of our tour through the fencing halls of Naples, we are given a peek inside the storied halls of the Grand National Academy of Fencing, a title which, while still mostly aspirational in this period, does nevertheless reflect its centrality in the Neapolitan scene. We are also introduced to a young Edoardo De Simone, a loyal adherent to Parise's method who would later spend several years as an instructor at the Military Fencing Master's School in Rome.

At the end of the article the enthusiastic sporting activity of the 10th Bersaglieri regiment is contrasted with the entirely deserted fencing hall of a locally garrisoned infantry regiment, whose fencing master had been seconded to other more menial day-to-day tasks. This was a common complaint among Italian military masters at the time, frequently cited as one of the main reasons why many left the army not long after their mandatory service period had expired. As our author Ferruccio points out, the vibrancy of a regimental fencing hall depended not only on the enthusiasm of its fencing master, as whether or not they were allowed time to carry out what was ostensibly their primary role in the regiment was up to the whims of their superiors.

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From Naples

II.

The National Academy

If I am not boring you, I will continue my Parthenopean fencing review.

The first fencing circle that Saverio Cerchione took me to visit was the National Academy. He is at home there, because he sits on its technical committee.¹

The National Academy, an institution which your newspaper has already spoken about extensively, is the most aristocratic and luxurious meeting of fencers I know of. The salon of the Maddaloni Palace, in which the members do their daily and nightly training, is decorated in an astonishing splendour. The ceiling and walls bear very famous 16th century paintings. Six pairs can comfortably bout at the same time, and for invitational exhibitions there is another room, equally as rich and artistic, but large enough to contain just under a thousand spectators.

When I set foot in the training hall, to which all the city's masters are in turn called to lend their services, Franco Vega was bouting at foil with Filippo Salvati, and Maestro De Cugni with Marquis Mastelloni.

There have been too many occasions for the Gazzetta dello Sport to talk about Franco Vega to repeat here the praises of this prince elect of the sword, one of the most faithful and pure followers of the noble traditions of the Sicilian school.

It would be better for me to instead talk to you about his opponent, the magnificent fencer whose name, owing both to his innate modesty and his loathing of public tournaments, is not well known—as it should be—in the Italian fencing world.

I introduce to you:

Source: Museo UNASCI

Filippo Salvati

Young, of pleasing appearance, dark-haired, an intelligent eye, shapely body, correctly proportioned, average height. He possesses a truly rare balance of physical and intellectual faculties.

His mastery of the blade, a marvellous fusion between the blade, arm, and legs make him—someone with a swift intuition of actions as well as the most obedient means of execution—one of the strongest amateurs I know, perhaps the strongest—and I've met a fair few.

His game is clear, indeed I would say pure: no abuse of the counter parry, no use of the disordinata; such knowledge of measure, firmness in the parry, and readiness in launching the riposte, whether simple or with feints, enough to marvel anyone who sees him—and baffle any opponent. Filippo Salvati's ripostes are bullets; bullets from a rifled barrel, of the latest model.

And what's very rare: the same applies for both sword as well as sabre.

I give this praise for Filippo Salvati all the more willingly inasmuch as I know he, like his valorous master Cerchione, is modest. Few know how to treat fencing, philosophically, like he does: for it alone, for the beauties within it, without any concern for the satisfaction it may give to one's self-esteem.

The other bout I mentioned was the one at foil between Maestro De Cugni, of the Royal Navy, and the amateur Marquis Mastelloni.

De Cugni—tall, elegant, courteous—is a fencer very worthy of note who, having been condemned to inaction for a couple of years at La Maddalena, where he was garrisoned, is now training here with all his energy—and this is enough to quickly bring honour to Neapolitan professionalism.

Marquis Mastelloni, aside from his bout with Maestro De Cugni, also fenced sabre with the amateur Bellucci.

Mastelloni, also educated by Cerchione, like Filippo Salvati, in rigorous artistic principles and full of good will and passion, and who was already a very good amateur, will soon take his place at the forefront of fencers, gifted as he is with excellent means.

I must also give equal praise to Mr. Giurato, another amateur whom I also admired in a bout at the National Academy. Cunning as a wolf and endowed with a great fencing intuition, Giurato is already a fencer whose glides can entangle his opponents.

And now, if I may, I lead my readers on a visit to the Arabian phoenix of military regiments, in a fencing sense.

The 10th Bersaglieri Regiment

It's a safe bet to say that this is the regiment that does the most fencing.

Is the credit for this due to Maestro Edoardo De Simone or to its commissioned and non-commissioned officers? Probably both one and the other. The fact is they all work with a rare persistence and with progress relative to that persistence.

Listen to what a small team of fencers and, note, good fencers the 10th Bersaglieri has.

In order of rank: Cav. Major Miozzi, a very challenging foilist, capable of provoking thought and study even in skilled fencers; Captain Aroldo Pinelli, too well known in the amateur fencing scene to need an introduction: still young, still energetic, and still an exquisite sabreur, it is by his example that a small cohort of his regimental companions are enthralled and encouraged towards the seductions of the art of arms; the blond Lieutenant Carpentiero, with his pale blue eyes and inexhaustible joviality, who days ago won first prize in the regimental sabre competition; lieutenants Pasquale De Ferrante, Luigi Giuliani, Pavia, Marullo, and De Donato, a remarkable sword and sabre fencer, and then the non-commissioned officers Bardelli, very talented, Biasiello, whom I have seen in various tournaments, Chiaria, and also Antonio Pappano, who aspires to get into the Master's School.

What more could you want?

There has been no shortage of work for Maestro De Simone, who has become rejuvenated and slimmer in marriage, and it's a good thing for him that he has such a passion for his art and such intelligence.

Edoardo De Simone, c. 1921.

In conclusion, the 10th Bersaglieri regiment and its instructor De Simone deserve, with respect to fencing, to be pointed out and held up as an example for others.

And to say that in this very city there is an infantry regiment (at a time in which the practice of fencing should be taken up with enthusiasm) whose fencing hall has just been closed because it is cluttered with various objects, and the master was permanently assigned to the non-commissioned officer's mess hall!

Ferruccio.

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1 The Academy's technical committee is in charge of the curriculum and the assessment of fencing master candidates.^↩

From Benevento to Naples (Part 1)

Within the wealth of sporting magazines and newspaper articles which commented on fencing in late 19th century Italy, there are several journalists who stand out for their entertaining or unique writing styles, providing a refreshing break from simple tournament reports or the often dry, technical writing of fencing treatises. Journalists of this calibre such as Jacopo Gelli and Roderico Rizzotti have been recurring characters in this blog over the years, and even some fencing masters like Luigi Barbasetti could demonstrate a respectable command of language suitable for newspaper and magazine formats.

The three-part series of articles I will be sharing today and in the following weeks is an amusing and informative tour of the vibrant fencing scene in late-1890s Naples, in which the pseudonymous author provides intimate snap-shots of famous civilian fencing halls such as the National Academy of Fencing as well as the gymnasia of the local military garrison. We will meet figures such as Enrichettian-turned-Radaellian master Saverio Cerchione, the humble yet formidable amateur Filippo Salvati, the young scion of the Rome Master's School Edoardo De Simone, and many more.

The articles in question were published in Milan's Gazzetta dello Sport between 25 November and 5 December 1898, written by a correspondent with the pseudonym 'Ferruccio'. I have yet been unable to identify who this author was, although given the fact that they claim to have recently moved to Benevento from Milan, the pseudonym 'Ferruccio' may be hinting that they were a former member of the Circolo Tiratori Milanesi e Ferruccio, a popular fencing club in Milan that had closed a little over a year before these articles were published. Aside from Roderico Rizzotti, who was co-director of the Gazzetta della Sport and published under his own name, the two most prominent members of the club at the time of its closure were Primo Tiboldi and Andrea Weysi, but all were still living in Milan at the time, suggesting a less well-known figure.

To complement the articles, where possible I have provided some photos of the various characters encountered throughout our tour of Naples, starting off here with Saverio Cerchione.

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From Benevento to Naples

I.

When, three months ago, I moved my curtains from Milan to Benevento and I was given the honour of becoming a correspondent for your newspaper, more than in any other sporting movement that I have found in this ancient city, I felt confident in how much my energy could do in favour of sport in general and fencing in particular.

A vain illusion of mine!

Here all the energy of my muscles and my will is subdued or is such a deep sleep that it cannot be shaken even by the bestial and vulgar cry with which the donkey drivers urge their long-eared quadrupeds to hasten their sluggish pace.

For centuries and centuries, Benevento's only energy has been of the tectonic variety. Ten times it was shaken from its foundations, being struck by ten earthquakes in little more than a millennium, sometimes leaving it almost half destroyed.

Here is the sad and unenviable record of such beautiful, picturesque, and brilliant land!

While few cities present, like Benevento, such a richness of environs and picturesque outings, favoured by smooth and clean roads, cycling, which had a vertiginous development across the globe, is the same here as it was as it was ten years ago, and the best means of locomotion for the fellow citizens of Niccolò Franco¹ is still a one-horse carriage, no matter how narrow and ramshackle, or the bare back of a docile donkey.

I knew that Benevento used to have a fencing master—a very good one, even. It was Pisanelli, whom I had met at Palermo in 1892, and with whose help I was hoping to achieve something. But I had counted my chickens before they hatched, or rather, counted on Pisanelli, who, after having spent several years doing all he could to encourage the otherwise intelligent youth of Benevento to attend his fencing hall, he was forced to close up shop and move to Lucera in search of better luck.

Another young volunteer, Mr. Peluso, previously a non-commissioned officer of the cavalry and now a gymnastics master and fencing teacher at the local boarding school, hoped to do what Pisanelli could not; but the fencing hall, which is also a venue for target shooting, remained empty and silent.

It is therefore natural that, given these surroundings, I too shut myself away.

However, when days ago I received your letter reminding me of my duty as a correspondent, I sprang up like an animal lashed by the tamer's whip, as it dawned on me that I had been stealing my stipends for too long. With no other way to go digging for material to prove my good will to you, I immediately set out for Naples.

I had a feeling that I would straight away be in my element, and my feeling did not deceive me. Indeed, while I was idling around for a short time in Via Toledo, I was approached by a man, short in stature, slightly lame, and leaning on a cane due to the arthritis he suffers from.

It was Saverio Cerchione, the talented master and a correspondent of yours who, as soon as he sees me, bursts into an exclamation of joy and greets me with a truly fraternal warmth.

'Oh it's you! Well, how are you?' he asks.²

'Still standing!,' I respond with that wit which so distinguishes me, and I embrace him.

'Yes,' he replies, 'I can see that, you f-' and here, in place of the f he gives an energetic exclamation which I cannot recall, even though it did not seem new to me, and which I think rhymes with pucker.

Straight away I take the small, kind Cerchione arm-in-arm, as if he were a treasure given to me by chance, and I immediately think, without a double meaning, that I am finally 'on the right track'.³

Saverio Cerchione

For those who don't know him, he is the most highly regarded of Neapolitan masters.

Having come here 11 years ago from the Rome Master's School with well-established fame as a talented teacher and fencer, he, who was one of the purest Radaellians, had to endure a great struggle to carve a path through professionalism and prevail over amateurism, which in Southern Italy has a lot more weight than in Northern Italy.

Yet his adamantine character, heart of gold, tirelessness, and above all his artistic talent, being made abundantly clear in a hundred public and private exhibitions, soon helped him move onwards and upwards.

Saverio Cerchione, unlike many other masters, never renounced the principles of the school he came from, and the merits of this can be felt with sword in hand, with sabre in hand.

So it was that in Naples the word 'Radaellism'—which in the field of fencing once sounded almost like artistic blasphemy, certainly like barbarism—could be pronounced and carve out a space.

For several years Cerchione, afflicted by painful arthritis, no longer performs in public, but his work as a teacher is still the same as ever, and his fencing hall in Via Santa Lucia still produces students who give great credit to their master, as well as themselves.

It is enough to mention Filippo Salvati, whom I will tell you about later, and Vittorio Argento, the highly competent fencing editor of Napoli-Sport and a challenging amateur for any opponent, able to take on even the best fencers.

I also note Marquis Mastelloni, whom I have had the pleasure to bout with in sabre, and finally Mr. Giurato, still a young sapling, but who will not take long to bear good fruit.

Of the Grand National Academy, the fencing hall of Maestro Vega, the 10th Bersaglieri regiment, and still other halls which, thanks to the courtesy of my mentor Cerchione, I have been able to visit, I will talk about in another issue, because I think today I have taken up enough of your space.

Ferruccio.

22 November

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1 A 16th century poet and writer from Benevento. See https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Niccol%C3%B2_Franco_(pamphleteer).^↩
2 In contrast to the author’s use of standard Italian, Cerchione’s replies here are written in Neapolitan dialect.^↩
3 The potential for a double meaning is, unfortunately, lost in translation.^↩

Radaellian reflections on fencing weapons

One of the most distinguishing aspects of Italian sabre fencing, at least in the opinion of foreign commentators in the 1890s, was the fact that Italian sabres tended to be very light and flexible in comparison to their European neighbours. It is difficult to establish why and when exactly this trend began in Italy, but it is clear that by the late 1880s the light fencing sabre had firmly established itself as the typical Italian tool of choice. There was the occasional protest or counter-movement from Italians against this aspect of their fencing culture, most notably around the end of the 1890s from advocates of 'fencing on the ground' (a topic for a later time), but it was the light sabre that remained dominant and quickly spread throughout the western world, often accompanied by the Radaellian method.

Today we will be looking at two articles published by two different Radaellian masters, Luigi Barbasetti and Saverio Cerchione, in which they briefly comment on this established culture of light fencing weapons, one with resigned acceptance and the other with positive justification. Both were published in Gazzetta dello Sport in the late 1890s a little over year apart, and both had written and would go on to write several other articles for this magazine. Barbasetti's writing often concerned itself with duelling culture or suggestions for remedying what he and many others perceived as the 'decline' of fencing in Italy, particularly with regard to sabre. The article of his provided here is more in relation to his issues with the light foil as opposed to the sabre, but it also touches on his distaste for the general cultural trend of Italian fencing at the time as opposed to the 'old Italian fencing' of his youth. Cerchione shared similar views with Barbasetti on the trends in Italian fencing, but as we will soon see, he did not necessarily attribute this to the diminished weight of fencing equipment.

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The best parry is the blow

This aphorism, although modern, could very well serve as a concise definition of old Italian fencing.

When the study of fencing had the sole aim of knowing how to use the weapon in a duel in the most practical and real way, fencing—by necessity having shed itself of all useless conventionalism—had to appear supremely simple and be carried out with few and elementary principles; but in reality that was really the great art, not only since it was based on what is true and certain, but because in it the necessary attributes for success could not be masked nor substituted by the false baroquism of the modern game. It is evident that with the heavy weapon and the longer and somewhat rigid blade, just like the weapon of the [duelling] ground, certain virtuosities are not permitted and, by necessity, they abolished all that junk, that embellishment and twirling of counters which we moderns think excellent things for entangling the opponent, while they are often nothing more than confirmation of our intrinsic impotence.

The fencers of old, given the structure of their sword and its true use, based their principles particularly on offence, using criteria without doubt exact in theory. For them the parry could only be a passive remedy through which they prepared their preferred blow in tempo on the opponent's attack. This is precisely where the inquartata, the interzata, the covered blows, the voids, the cartoccio etc. came from, and if this eminently Italian way of fencing was, as I said, adapted to suit the conditions that the weapon offered practically, it was also admirably suitable to our temperament's nature, its national character, which is shrewd and ingenious in its expedients. They would reason: 'having considered the blow that my opponent uses against me, it is a pleonasm, not to say absurd, to oppose it with a parry, since this does not exist in theory except through the deficiency of offence; but since this deficiency can always be counted on, more appropriate than the parry is the blow in tempo, through which the double aim of offence and defence is achieved in one tempo.'

The parries and ripostes which many consider to be a rare virtuosity are nothing more than theoretical absurdity; but having allowed, for the aforementioned reasons, the parry, it will always be a passive means of defence, since with a heavy duelling weapon one must be satisfied with deviating the blow also with the help of a retreat and leaving the riposte to the empiricism of theory which does not take into account the weapon with a sharpened point.

Attempting to return to the old would be an illusion, since fencing today does not have the duel as its purpose, but health, and we moderns have appropriately reduced it to a conventional game which in part—in its moral intent especially—nevertheless achieves useful results. But just do not persist in calling it traditional Italian fencing, since it has preserved as little of the tradition as it has the resemblance of the weapon to the old form.

The last and almost dismantled bulwark of our old fencing was, fifteen years ago, Palermo—in which the last captain, the valorous and poor Inguaggiato whom we so often forget, tried to fight even to the last bullet. Well, myself having just graduated from the Radaelli school at that time, and being completely pumped up with my modern theories and looking for trouble, I shouted against that tenacious persistence of the Palermitan fencers in preserving those large swords which bruised a rib with each direct thrust, and with the full presumptuous ignorance of those who are fresh out of a school, I haughtily insisted on demonstrating that with a good lash one could get through to the opponent's target even if the opponent parried. I was then foolish as I was young to have many personal followers; but the overwhelming wave which moved from Northern Italy was too impetuous for even Palermo to not yield—and unfortunately it yielded too much! And complete ruin came later, when the Master's School wanted to repaint its so-called Italian fencing by retouching it with that acumen, that depth of views and that competence which everyone knows. And today we no longer have the Radaelli School or the Italian School, but purely and simply a Frenchified mess.

That this is of serious harm, in any case I think not, and it would be vain to expect to stop the trend in its inexorable path when also it pleases the majority, even if in the artistic line it represents a disaster. On the contrary, let us wait—with a smile, since there is no use in moaning—for other novelties. Soon we will have aluminium weapons and leather guards and perhaps we masters will equip ourselves with a breastplate made of shortcrust pastry sprinkled with sugar in order to entice the children of elementary schools to study fencing.

LUIGI BARBASETTI¹

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Weapon weight in fencing

Many fencers lament the fact that today fencing is done with overly light weapons, which, according to them, would be contrary to the progress of the art. The question then suddenly arises: is it more advantageous to fence with light or heavy weapons?

With regard to offence, it is evident that the lighter the weapon is, the easier it is to wield and the more obedient it is to the will of the wielder, and since the main aim of a fighter is always that of being able to hit the opponent, there should be no doubt as to the advantage of having a weapon whose lightness enables it to match—I would say—the speed of one's thoughts.

Regarding defence, does anything change? To me it seems not, since if the main aim of the fighter is that of hitting the opponent, it is an absolute necessity to be able to defend from their attacks—and everyone knows that a quick and secure parry is equivalent to near-certainty of hitting with the riposte.

Now, is it not evident that with a light weapon, guided by a quick arm and a sure eye, it is much easier to rush to the parry when threatened either by feints or attacks? A heavy weapon, even one slightly disproportionate to the muscular strength of the wielder, results in such mistakes as to be beaten even when the right actions are adapted to the opponent's game, even when guessing their intentions.

When there is no possibility of giving the arm full speed in the execution of the necessary movements, when blade control is lacking even just partly, you are in a position of inferiority compared to the opponent. Many and various mechanical and dynamic reasons could be given in this regard, but I think it is more effective to take teaching from practice, which the theories derive from.

We see that the Africans, to cite a single example, remnants of hand-to-hand fighters, fight with light weapons. Their spears, their knives, and their shields are such that they can be wielded even by young people at an early age. The long practice of those peoples who live by war and for war has evidently induced them to use light weapons rather than heavy ones.

If we then take an example from our fencers, we see that the best among them, the most famous, almost always tend to use the lightest weapons. It is therefore my conviction that those who claim using light weapons in our fencing halls is contrary to the progress of the art are wrong.

SAVERIO CERCHIONE²

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1 Luigi Barbasetti, "La miglior parata è la botta," La Gazzetta dello Sport, 20 August 1897, 3.^↩
2 Saverio Cerchione, "Il peso dell'arma nello schermire," La Gazzetta dello Sport, 24 October 1898, 2.^↩

Vittorio Argento on Neapolitan sabre fencing

Throughout the 19th century, sabre fencing in southern Italy was always considered a secondary discipline to sword (foil) fencing, a preference which its proponents justified by looking to the centuries-long tradition their region boasted in this regard. In this article from Gazzetta dello Sport, published 18 & 21 August 1899 under the title 'La scherma di sciabola a Napoli', journalist and amateur fencer Vittorio Argento takes stock of the last century and highlights the individual Neapolitans who went against the traditional neglect for sabre and instead elevated it to new heights, citing such names as Augusto Parise, Vincenzo Bellini, Gaetano Barraco, and Saverio Cerchione.

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Sabre fencing in Naples

By now the custom of giving little consideration to the handling of the sabre, widespread amongst the majority of our fencers, has almost completely stopped; but once, not too long ago, if this weapon was not held completely in contempt, it was not appreciated according to its true value.

And to think that even then most duels were done with sabres!

What a contradiction! Fencing enthusiasts who can never believe they have trained enough with the sword, who sacrifice most of their time to the handling of this weapon and give it the utmost importance—in the only case in which it should be of use to them, they set it aside and choose the sabre as their preferred combat weapon, perhaps due to the preconception of thinking it less capable of producing mortal wounds; as if it were not possible to thrust with a sabre, or as if, even excluding murderous intentions in duels, cuts were not often fatal too. But let us not get off-track.

So there were very few who sometimes deigned to take the sabre in hand, and those rough wooden scimitars stayed hanging in fencing halls, full of cobwebs and almost never being disturbed.

If a master was asked by some students for a sabre lesson, he immediately tried to dissuade them.

Why waste time with the sabre? The art, the true art of fencing consists in sword fencing. Those who wield this weapon well can also wield the sabre as a consequence. With this conviction they pushed on.

Nor was there reason to be disillusioned, because in the event—and this was a rare event—that two fencers, recalcitrant to their master’s advice, wished to indulge themselves by having a sabre bout, being at the same level, they certainly could not have realised their own deficiency.

This is the rate at which it progressed for so many years, with the known offensive actions confined in the limits of backhands and double backhands, forehands and double forehands, vertical strikes, horizontal strikes, etc., more or less like in the old spadancia fencing system. Defence consisted of attacking with the aim of saving oneself with body parries; parries were rarely done by opposing one’s own blade to the opponent’s.

This was the state of things when Maestro Augusto Parise returned from Modena, where he had been a fencing teacher for some time at the military school, and where he had had the opportunity to train in handling the sabre with his other colleagues, especially with Enrichetti, Simonetti, Lupi, Pavia, and Pinto. He opened a fencing hall in our city, dedicating himself primarily to the teaching of sabre fencing and introducing us to steel blades for the first time.

With the first boost from this master, sabre fencing gradually began to be cultivated with greater care even in other halls, and the masters Annibale, Raffaele, and Eduardo Parise, Giuseppe Lopez, Vincenzo La Marca, Giuseppe Zugiani, and many distinguished amateurs such as Morbillo, Miceli, Rizzo, and Anzani were also strong sabreurs at that time. But soon these fencers preferred the sword again, which, through its limited target to be defended and the numerous means of defence which it offers, is less exposed to surprises and better lends itself to a serious and rational game.

One who with rare perseverance, and more through his own intuition than through any training acquired, cultivated and kept sabre fencing alive in Naples was the young amateur Vincenzo Bellini, then a medical student. He set about it with such passion that he almost totally abandoned his studies in order to devote himself exclusively to the profession of this art. I do not think he had anything to regret. Working tirelessly, he was able to produce many strong fencers, first and foremost Locascio.

He also published a treatise about his system which may be criticised, discussed, perhaps found incomplete; but the conscientious critic cannot help but consider that it was edited when the teaching of sabre was in a rudimentary state, lacking in exact rules and a rational progression, and that any art in its first development is subject to continuous changes before being able to approach perfection.

Besides, if Maestro Bellini publishes a new edition of his treatise, it will immediately be seen if and in what manner he will have followed and appreciated the continuous progress made by sabre fencing in recent times.

Those who have given the greatest influence to sabre fencing were, without any doubt, the military masters who went on to the various regiments stationed in Naples and nearby cities or at the Nunziatella military college.

The masters Monti, Pessina, Cerchione, Pagliuca, Barraco, Nappi, Cafarelli, Macri, Marenco, and so on—strong young men, willing to work and eager to show their valour—presented themselves in all the exhibitions, participated in all the fencing gatherings, frequented the best halls, fencing with sword and sabre, but naturally giving preference to the latter, which is the soldier’s weapon.

To see these young masters fence sabre, our fencers were convinced—from the evidence of the facts—that as strong as they were with the sword, they were completely insufficient with regard to the sabre. They started to give up the prejudice that this weapon was something like a coachman’s whip or a goatherd’s stick, and instead became persuaded that in the hands of someone who knew how to use it well by cultivating its handling with accurate and conscientious study, the sabre lent itself to a more elegant and finer game, no more or no less than the foil, and they devoted themselves—some with their own master, others with some of the best military masters—to training in the handling of the sabre.

It was then that Maestro Barraco, either through kindness or by his own choice, took leave of the army and opened in Naples the hall which produced Giuseppe Del Pozzo, Giuseppe Morelli, Aspreno Brancaccio, Luca Caracciolo, Captain Roberto Galato, Gaetano Fernandez, Enrico Formento, and others.

By staying faithful to a single system, Barraco—a profound connoisseur of his art, a strong fencer and intelligent teacher—would have been able to create students who should have all been similar, both in handling the weapon as in the tactics of fencing; but his restless spirit, the passion of always wanting to find new things, induced him to bring continuous innovations into his system, such that his students often differed from each other to the point that they seemed to be trained in different schools; and if this did not diminish the merit of the individuals, it did cause the lack of a standard which should have distinguished his school from all the others.

Now sabre fencing in Naples has progressed in a truly admirable way, especially in the last ten years.

Having witnessed public and private bouts with Pessina, Greco, Cerchione, Pecoraro, Guasti, Drosi, Conte, Nappi, Caprioli, Marenco, Mormile, Campanella, Burba, and many many other famous masters and amateurs, who, in being strong fencers, became very likeable through the grace of their movements, the plasticity of their pose, and above all the precision and lightness of their blade carriage, which has been so useful that our sabre fencers have slowly begun to refine their game, to force themselves to dominate the blade, guiding it until it barely touches—I would almost say grazes—the opponent. Those huge deep sea diver helmets, those padded vests which made sabre fencing so clumsy have almost completely gone into disuse. In Cerchione’s hall, for example, where the cream of sabre fencers is found, such as Filippo Salvati, Marquis Mastellone, Giuseppe Giurato, masters Russomando, De Simone, Galimi, etc., they fence with light jackets and often even with foil masks and foil gloves; nor once the bout has ended does one ever see those bruises on the chest that were seen (despite the padded vests) when cuts were given by letting the blade fall on its own.

In short, if we do not have that great number of strong sabre fencers that we should have, taking into account the number of inhabitants in our city and how many of them, it is said, study fencing, on the other hand we have fencers who are greatly esteemed and appreciated by the strongest masters and amateurs of Italy and who can, without fear of being accused of presumption, aspire to making those people reconsider who once rightly asserted the Neapolitans to still be children with regard to sabre fencing.

Vittorio Argento