Last week, I looked at the Royal Code and (disdainfully, because I think it was made up as joke) at the Irish Code. This week, we move on to two other dueling codes, the French and the American, and then ask, at last: what has all this got to do with “The Ten Duel Commandments“?
The French Code
The French Code was published by Comte Louis Alfred Le Blanc de Chateauvillard (or Chatauvillard) in his Essai sur le duel, Paris 1836 (pp. 8-85 of nearly 500 pages). Chateauvillard (1800-1869), a wealthy and accomplished man, moved in the highest levels of society. He believed that even though dueling was illegal, there were rules that should be followed in affairs of honor. Those who did not abide by such rules were assassins, and should be punished as such.
Chateauvillard’s code has dozens of rules, neatly divided into chapters on the challenge, seconds, types of pistol and saber duels, etc. His code was sanctioned by more than eighty peers and prominent military men and by the French minister of War – a reminder that through the 19th century, dueling was common among members of the military as well as among aristocrats like Chateauvillard. (Hamilton, a former military man who had risen to the upper class, had a double whammy when it came to duels.)
Compared to Sir Jonah Barrington’s Irish code, the French code is less bloodthirsty (apologies are allowed) and more ritualized (what happens if a group offends a group?). The French rules have the feel of a stately, deadly minuet – for example, in the elaborate procedures for various types of pistol duels.
Rule 66. On the word “March,” the combatants may advance in a zigzag step, not exceeding two paces. They may take aim without firing, and, while advancing, stop when they choose, and advance again; but once having fired, both parties must halt on the spot.
Rule 67. The combatant who has not fired may now fire, but without advancing, and the party who has fired must firmly stand the fire of his antagonist, who for that purpose is allowed half a minute; if he allows a longer time to elapse, he must be disarmed by the seconds. (From the translation of the French Code in Down the River, or Practical Lessons in the Code Duello, by an Amateur, 1874, p. 259)
A few rules in the French code overlap with the Ten Duel Commandments. Chateauvillard requires that one choose a second to negotiate and allows the seconds to attempt a reconciliation at the dueling ground, before shots are fired. In the translation of the French code published in Down the River, or Practical Lessons in the Code Duello, those are rules 13, 14, and 18 (see Commandments 2, 3, and 8).
The American Code
John Lyde Wilson published The Code of Honor, or, Rules for the Government of Principals and Seconds in Duelling in 1838, barely a decade after serving as governor of South Carolina (1822-1824). Kudos to Wilson for great organization: his rules move in eight chapters from how the gentleman should behave at the moment he’s insulted, on to the choice of a second, then the duties of the man challenged, the duties of principals and seconds once they arrive at the dueling ground, and how seconds should load and present weapons to the principals. The final chapter discusses degrees of insult. For example:
- The prevailing rule is that words used in retort, although more violent and disrespectful than those first used, will not satisfy, words being no satisfaction for words.
2. When words are used, and a blow given in return, the insult is avenged, and if redress is sought, it must be from the person receiving the blow.
Several of Wilson’s rules coincide with the Ten Duel Commandments. One rule gives advice on choosing a second (Chapter I, first part, #3; see Commandment 2). The seconds are advised to meet and negotiate, and if that fails, to set a time and place (Chapter II, second part; see Commandment 3). Each principal should have a surgeon and an assistant surgeon, although “the assistant surgeon may be dispensed with” (Chapter VI, #1; Commandment 4).
Why there are no early printed dueling codes?
There’s no question that duels were common from the Renaissance on among aristocrats and military men, although for much of that time they were illegal, even if tolerated. You might assume that’s why dueling handbooks so rare. I don’t think that explains it. Almost from the time Gutenberg invented the printing press, authors published works with false names and fake imprints. A book that would annoy the Grand Inquisitor of Spain might be printed anonymously in Barcelona, with a title page stating that it was printed in Amsterdam. That sort of misdirection was no more difficult than creating a fake Facebook profile. If a book was on a topic that was in demand, someone found a way to publish and distribute it.
I think dueling codes were not printed until the 1820s precisely because until the early 19th century, dueling was still widespread. For centuries, you learned the rules of dueling at your father’s knee, or (if you were a “bastard, orphan, son of a whore and a Scotsman”) from aristocratic friends or military colleagues. Any man who cared enough about his honor to fight for it knew the proper way to conduct a duel.
By the 1820s, however, dueling was on the wane. Joseph Hamilton was a member of a crescendoing chorus of opposition. Courts were more consistently judging the survivor of a fatal duel to be a murderer. As dueling became less common, fewer men knew the proper procedures. I think that’s when a small market for printed books on dueling developed. Those books (the American, French, and Royal codes) made an attempt to present a duel not as two men shooting at each other, but as a ritual with a proper procedure – justifiable if done according to the rules.
This explanation popped into my head as I read a short story that Google tossed up while I was searching for Chateauvillard’s dueling code. In Guy de Maupassant’s “The Coward,” written in 1888, the hero is the Viscount Signoles, a handsome, stylish, graceful, and clever orphan. He practices fencing and shooting as he would any fashionable activity. “If I ever fight a duel,” he thinks complacently, “I shall choose the pistol. With that weapon I am sure of killing my man.” When Signoles issues a challenge – to a stranger in a cafe who had the temerity to stare at one of the Viscount’s companions – Signoles is satisfied that he has fulfilled a social requirement. “He had done what he should have done; he had shown himself to be what he ought to be. His conduct would be discussed and approved; people would congratulate him.” He tells his seconds that he insists on a “very serious” duel, “shots to be exchanged until some one is badly wounded.” But when he’s alone, he loses his nerve, obsessing about the possibility of being killed.
From time to time, his teeth chattered with a little dry noise. He tried to read, and took up Chateauvillard’s duelling-code. Then he asked himself:
“Has my opponent frequented the shooting-galleries? Is he well-known? What’s his class? How can I find out?”
He remembered Baron de Vaux’s book on pistol-shooters, and he looked it through from end to end. [His opponent] Georges Lamil’s name was not mentioned. But if the fellow were not a good shot, he would not have assented so readily to that dangerous weapon and those fatal conditions! …
For all his outward show of being a duelist, Signoles has clearly never thought about the reality of it. It’s all theoretical: book learning. (I won’t tell you the outcome of Maupassant’s story. Go read it.)
Why these Ten Duel Commandments?
I’ve been fascinated for a long time with what artists – sculptors, painters, composers – decide to include in their works. A work of art is created from scratch, and every detail is there by choice. In a good work of art, every detail adds something to the effect, to the message. So what I’ve been mulling over for the past two weeks is this: It’s clear that the Ten Duel Commandments are not merely a restatement of a standard list of dueling rules. Why these ten, then, and what’s their point within the musical?
Twofold, I think.
The Ten Duel Commandments are set out for the Lee-Laurens duel in Act I, but in the musical, neither Lee nor Laurens writes a letter to a loved one (Commandment 6) or looks over his life and admits errors (Commandment 7). In the Philip-Eacker duel in Act II, only Commandment 2 (“Did your friends attempt to negotiate a peace?”) and Commandments 9 and 10 are mentioned (look ’em in the eye, summon your courage, count to ten).
But the commandments that are ignored in the early duels are an essential part of the set-up for the Hamilton-Burr duel. For the musical’s plot, it would be lame not to have Alexander bid goodbye to Eliza – even if she doesn’t know that he thinks it may be his final farewell (Commandment 6). It would be equally lame not to allow Alexander one last speech (Commandment 7) – words have always been his tools and his weapons. The set of lines beginning “I imagine death so much it feels more like a memory” are the last words he utters in the show. They sum up what he’s been striving for all his life, what he has valued most, whom he has loved most. (Bloody brilliant, they are.) Commandments 6 and 7 in the musical are essential to make Alexander’s last live appearance a satisfying one.
The commandments as a group have an even more important function, as a pacing technique. With the Lee-Laurens and Philip-Eacker duels, we were shown that fighting face to face with a murderous weapon was an accepted, even required way at that time to handle insults to one’s honor. By saying there are ten rules and then listing them, the Ten Duel Commandments make us feel a relentless speed and inevitability. Once you start the process, its momentum carries you forward, with a force that doesn’t give you much time to question whether the action is appropriate and just. At the end, when Burr fires and Hamilton falls, we don’t say, “What an idiot he was to fight,” but “What a tragedy that he died.” That’s what we need to feel, in order to regard Hamilton as a hero while the finale is sung, and after we leave the theater.
More
- One of the details of Hamilton’s life that most moderns just can’t grasp is why he would fight a duel. He had a thriving career, a wife, seven living children, and a lovely house that was just barely finished and hadn’t been paid off. Why did he risk his life in a duel? In the Hamiltome (p. 99, n. 1), Lin-Manuel writes, “This song owes a huge debt to Affairs of Honor, the book on duelling by Joanne Freeman.” I’ve read Freeman; she’s very persuasive about the role of duels in the early American republic. I did promise to talk about that this week, but I’ve decided it makes more sense to wait until the end of Act II. So sue me. If you’re impatient, toddle off and read Freeman on the rules for duels (locations 2010-2166 or so in my Kindle version).
- A couple histories of dueling: Milligen’s History of Duelling, 1841. Steinmetz, The Romance of Duelling in All Times and Countries, 1868. Down the River, or Practical Lessons in the Code Duello, by an Amateur, 1874. Early in my research for the Ten Duel Commandments posts, I skimmed Barbara Howard, Gentlemen’s Blood: A Thousand Years of Sword and Pistol, 2003. It’s relentlessly flippant, snide, collectivist (women are smart, men are slaves to testosterone), and has no footnotes whatsoever. Don’t bother.
- I’ve started adding comments based on these blog posts to the Genius.com pages on the Hamilton Musical: a fantastic resource. Follow me @DianneDurante.
- The usual disclaimer: This is the twenty-eighth in a series of posts on Hamilton: An American Musical. Other posts are available via the tag cloud at lower right. The ongoing “index” to these posts is my Kindle book, Alexander Hamilton: A Brief Biography. Bottom line: these are unofficial musings, and you do not need them to enjoy the musical or the soundtrack. I’ve occasionally added comments based on these blog posts to the Genius.com pages on the Hamilton Musical. Follow me @DianneDurante.
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