It is not in the army alone one finds that spirit. In the little
villages along the roads the very bright-eyed children cry, "_Aviva
Italia!_" and there is the soul of it. There is expressed a profound
love of country. Italy no more doubts that she will reconquer Trieste
and Trent than France doubts the recovery of Alsace and Lorraine.
The despoiled Latin is determined to have justice, to wring justice,
from the Teuton maurauder, and peace talk is a weariness to them in
their exalted mood. The spiritual and economic interests of Italy and
France have been held apart only by Teutonic perfidy, intrigue and
insinuation, but all misunderstandings are disappearing and absolute
confidence is taking the place of doubt. A captain of Alpini said to
me: "France and Italy are one--is it not so, sir?" How many times have
we heard discussed the reasons why Italy was so long in declaring war
against Germany! For my part I have never doubted that Italy's reasons
were perfectly legitimate. One does not quit one system of alliance
for another without damaging a whole series of interests. Italy, so to
speak, found herself in the position of an individual who must divorce
in order to remarry. But what must be remembered is the absolute
loyalty of the Italians. Never have they changed since the beginning of
hostilities. They are a people of heroes.
Let me speak of Milan and Venice as I saw them in intervals of visits
to the mountaintop fighting fronts. At Milan my first care was to study
the precautions taken against the destruction of art treasures. Always
the Latin, who creates, is forced to protect and defend his works from
the German, who destroys. The cathedral, all in stone, risks little
from fire, all the glass and precious objects having been taken to
places of safety, and it remains intact and marvellous under its mantle
of lace, intact in spite of the Austrians and marvellous in spite of
Ruskin. At Santa Marie del Grace the "Last Supper" of Leonardo is
protected by a wall of sandbags and by a fireproof curtain. Churches
and museums have been emptied of their riches. In the streets I watched
the crowds--a people astonishing in purity of line and proportion,
moving always with grace and harmony. Here lies for me the secret of
their artistic superiority, for it is well known that the artist, in
spite of himself, reproduces in his work his physical perfections and
faults.
In Venice the same precautions are taken as at Milan. The Scaliger
tombs are covered with sand and the more important ones are enclosed in
stone turrets. All statues are shrouded in a preparation of straw and
plaster sufficient to protect them from fragments of bombs, but what
a wonderful mark for some aerial bandit San Zeno and St. Anastasia,
with their wooden ceilings, would be. In the middle of the night I
disembarked in Venice, where two carabinieri conducted me to a hotel
hermetically sealed so that no ray of light escaped. And here I stayed
in the pitch dark with a prospect of being lodged under the Piombi of
the Ducal Palace if I betrayed the slightest evidence of having a light.
As always Venice presents an incomparable aspect. There is no better
moment to visit Italy than during a war, for it is only then that one
finds the Italians really at home. A war clears the scene of a whole
world of intruders. A great calm reigns over Venice. All classes
fraternize. Life is very normal, and no one regrets the absence of the
Germans, Austrians and Hungarians, who used to arrive from Trieste--no
more hobnailed shoes, no more Tyroleans, no more alpenstocks, no
more noisy vulgarity. The harbor is empty except for a few captured
Austrian vessels. Off in the distance to the south-west is the great
fleet, ready at a moment's notice to take position in the open sea.
The city presents no particularly wartime characteristics excepting at
night. I know of no pen or brush that has been able to render justice
to Venice--Turner perhaps; but Guardi and Canaletto were too much the
slaves of detail and of other conscience. At 8:45 P.M. all lights were
put out. It is absolute darkness with the exception that a little blue
light, very feeble, burns at the end of each street, just enough to
give guidance for direction. Even the little lamp of the fisherman
which hangs before the Virgin on St. Marc's has been extinguished.
Happily one is permitted to smoke, otherwise it would be difficult to
navigate about the narrow streets. One cannot imagine the intensity
that a lighted match takes, and the cafés, which are better patronized
than ever, resemble enormous nests of glow worms, everybody puffing at
a cigarette or a Virginia. An amusing detail is that one must pay in
advance for one's refreshments, because in case of an aerial attack the
general cry is "_Sauve qui peut?_" and heaven help the proprietor.