The aeroplane--that is the great question; not that they are feared.
It is that every one asks with feverish anxiety what possible further
ravages will be accomplished among the marvellous art treasures. At
the time of Titian, when fashion decreed that every woman must have
that wonderful blonde hair for which Venice was famous, many of the
houses had constructed upon their roofs an open loggia, which was
called "Paltana." It was there that the beautiful Venetians after
having bathed their hair in some mysterious fluid remained for hours
allowing it to dry. Well, it is from these "Paltana" that the guard
watches over the city, armed with mitrailleuse and furnished with
megaphones, and every half hour one hears the sentinels calling as
they repeat the cry ringing from the Campanile of St. Marc: "_Per
l'aria, buona guardia_." And throughout the entire night the silence
is broken by a chain of cries which reunites these invisible belfries.
Nothing lacks. Searchlights, special cannon, aerial squadrons and
aquatic squadrons--all are ready for defence. But Venice is so filled
with treasures that it is only by the greatest luck that a bomb does
not destroy some unique object. It is my firm conviction that some
day St. Marc's or the Ducal Palace will be smashed by the Teutons.
Although everything possible in the way of protection has been done,
one trembles at the thought of what may happen. Already the Church of
the Scalzi has been pierced, and of the wonderful fresco of Tiepolo not
a piece as big as one's hand remains. Bombs have fallen within a few
feet of St. Marc's. These are the attacks of savages, purely barbarous,
with the sole intent of destroying something.
From the third story of the Hotel Danielli I witnessed raids by
Austrian hydravians. At 11:30 P.M. the signal of danger came. A gun
roared from the Moline. Sirens shrieked in many parts of Venice. Then
there was temporary silence, disturbed only by the rustle and shuffle
of feet as people scurried to shelter. Presently all the batteries
surrounding Venice opened fire. In intervals of this din one heard
the whine of the Austrian air motors, a noise like the buzzing of a
gigantic fly. It advanced over rooftops. Many batteries spat fire
into the air. But the only sign of the air machines that I observed
was what might be called a faint, very vague sort of electric fluid
which seemed to appear momentarily in different parts of the heavens.
From time to time all firing ceased. Silence came. One again heard
the hum of the invading motors. Then the air was assailed by the
explosion of a dropped bomb, followed by the crash of breaking roofs,
the splintering of glass, the shrieks of injured persons. The whole
effect was stupefying to me, not terrifying; but there is, too, a
feeling of quite utter helplessness. Shortly after the last bomb was
dropped the signal came that it was all over. The people fairly flung
themselves into the streets searching for souvenirs, scratching about
amusingly with candles and matches as they recounted laughable or
tragic experiences. Such raids are made preferably during the moon. It
is known that the defence is imperfect, that the only perfect defence
is one of reprisals, but as an English General said to me, "That is
a dirty game, dirty ball, as you Americans say. It is pretty hard to
descend to their methods."
Sem, the caricaturist, has a picturesque method of noting the odious
uselessness of bombarding Venice. "To fire on Venice," he says, "is as
if one amused oneself by firing at the chandelier."
I spent twenty-five days among these Italians, upon the plain and among
the mountains, days of wonderment. One must see the difficulties in
the midst of which they are fighting, the thousand obstacles, to do
them justice even feebly. The King is the soul of the army and of the
Government. He directs the struggle upon the field of battle--and he
is "always on the job." He is always in the place of danger and honor
and yet no one hears him spoken about. He disdains the theatrical
attitude. Beside the King is the Duke of Aosta, a fine presence and
a fine character, and Gen. Cadorna, an energetic chief. Cadorna is
a great friend of France. In an hour's talk with him he supplied me
with a vivid sense of the unfaltering spirit of Italy. I saw much of
D'Annunzio and I cannot resist the temptation to add my humble praise
to all that has already been addressed to him. He made every effort
in lifting Italy to arms against the Teutonic Powers and he well
personifies in his ardor and simplicity the people who followed his
exhortations. He spoke with good humor of the sufferings he endured,
saying that in their attempt to save his sight the doctors forgot that
he was possessed of a body and a soul. I read a letter of his, written
when he was 14, in which he predicted that his mission on earth would
be to chastise the hereditary enemy of his country. It is a beautiful
letter. I thought of that first chapter of Macchiavelli in which he
writes:
"The people who habit the countries on the north, situated on the
other side of the Rhine and the Danube, are born in these prolific
regions in such multitudes that a portion are forced to abandon the
native soil and to look about for a new country where they may advance
themselves." The Germans of to-day proceed differently, but in the same
spirit--but they are finding their match and more than their match in
the indomitable Italy of to-day.