Our souls have emerged fortified from the sorrow of the lost war.
One day, surely, Italy will re-echo from end to end with the great cry,
"Come!"--and we shall spring to our feet, pale and proud, with the
answering shout, "We are ready!"
Then, in the streets of our cities, thronged with people, with
soldiers, horses, and wagons, amidst the clashing of arms and the blare
of trumpets, we classmates shall meet again. I shall see them once
more, many of them, perhaps, only for that short hour, some only for a
moment. At night, in the torchlit glare of a railway-station, we shall
meet again, and greet each other in silence, hand in hand and eye to
eye. No shouting, no songs, no joyous clamor, no vision of triumphal
marches, no veiling of death's image in the light hopefulness of
reunion; we shall say but one word to each other--good-bye--and that
good-bye will be a promise, a vow; that good-bye will mean, "This time,
there will be no descending from the mountains; you and I, lad, will be
left lying on the summit."
And often, traversing a long expanse of time, I evoke the vision of
distant battle-fields on which the lot of Italy is decided. My fancy
hastens from valley to valley, from hill to hill; and at all the most
difficult passages, at all the posts of danger, I see one of my old
classmates, a gray-haired colonel or general, at the head of his
regiment or of his brigade; and I love to picture him at the moment
when, attacked by a heavy force of the enemy, he directs the defence.
The two sides have joined battle, and from a neighboring height, he
observes the fighting below. Poor friend! At that moment, perhaps, life
and honor hang in the balance; thirty years of study, of hopes, of
sacrifices, are about to be crowned with glory or scattered like a
handful of dust down that green slope at his feet--it all hangs on a
thread. Pale and motionless he stands there watching, the sabre
trembling in his convulsive grasp. I am near him, my eye is upon his
face, I feel and see and tremble with him, I live his life.
Courage, friend! Your spirit has passed into your men, the fight is
theirs, never fear! That uncertain movement over there towards the
right wing is but the momentary confusion caused by some inequality of
the ground; they are not falling back, man. Listen, the shouts are
louder, the firing grows heavier, the last battalion has been thrown
into action, all your men are fighting. Ah! how his gaze hurries from
one end of the line to the other, how pale he has grown; life seems
suspended. What are those distant voices? What flame rushes to his
face? What is this smile, this upward glance? Victory!--but, by God,
man, rein in your horse, look at me--here I am, your old classmate who
holds out his arms to you--and now off, down to the battlefield among
your soldiers--and God be with you!
He has put his charger to the gallop and disappeared.
And who knows how many of my friends may find themselves some day, at
some hour of their lives, face to face with such an ordeal? Who knows
how many an act of patriotism will make their names illustrious, how
dear to the people some of these names may become? What if some day I
were to see the youth who sat next to me in the class-room or at table,
or slept beside me in the dormitory, riding through the streets on a
white horse, in a general's uniform, covered with flowers and
surrounded by rejoicing crowds? And who knows--may I not knock at the
door of some other, and throw my arms about the pale, sad figure, grown
ten years older in a few months; telling him that the popular verdict
is unjust, that there are many who know that he is not to blame for the
disaster, that sooner or later the excitement will subside, and the
victims of the first rash judgment be restored to honor; that his name
is still dear and respected, that he must not despond, that he must
take heart and keep on hoping?
Ah, when I think of the fierce trials that life has in store for many
of my classmates, of all that they may do to benefit their country, of
all that their glory will cost them; when I, who have left the army,
think of all this, I feel that, not to be outdone by my old
school-fellows in paying the debt of gratitude that I owe my country, I
ought to toil without ceasing, to spend my nights in study, to treasure
my youth and strength as a means of sustaining my intellectual effort;
that, in order to preach the beauty of goodness, I ought to lead a
blameless life; that I ought to keep alive that glowing affection, a
spark of which I may sometimes communicate to others; to study
children, the people, and the poor, and to write for their benefit; to
let no ignoble word fall from my pen, to sacrifice all my inclinations
to the common welfare, never to lose heart, never to strive for
approval, to hope for nothing and long for nothing but the day on which
I may at last say to myself: I have done what I could, my life has not
been useless, I am satisfied.