That was the great and awful hour when Italy stood on the threshold
of her fate; but though Great Britain’s heart was bleeding from the
sacrifices she had already made, and had still to make, and though
Italy’s intervention meant so much to us, we did not feel that we had a
right to ask for it. And neither was it necessary that we should do so.
The treaty that bound Italy to England was not written on a scrap
of paper. It was in our blood, born of our devotion to humanity, to
justice, to liberty, and to the memory of our great men. Therefore,
with the world in arms about her, let Italy do what she thought best for
herself, and the bond between us would not be broken!
How the sequel has justified our faith! And when the great hour struck
at last, after ten months of suspense, and Italy--ready, fully equipped,
united--found the voice with which she proclaimed war, what a voice it
was! Eloquent voices she had had throughout, in her Press as well as in
her legislative chambers--Morelli’s, Barzini’s, Albertini’s, Malagodi’s,
not to speak of Sartorio’s, Ferrero’s, Annie Vivantes, and many
more--but it quickens my pulse to remember that it was the voice of a
poet which at the final moment was to speak for the Italian soul.
Friends newly arrived from Italy tell me that not even in Rome (where
one always feels as if one were living on the borderland of the old
world and the new, with thousands of years behind and thousands of years
in front) can anybody remember anything so moving as the substance and
the reception of Gabriele d’Annunzio’s speech from the balcony of the
Hotel Regina. We can well imagine it. The spirit of Time itself could
have found no greater scene, no more thrilling moment. The broad highway
on the breast of the hill going up to the Porta Pinciana, faced by the
palace of the Queen Mother and flanked by the gardens of the Capuchin
monastery, with the Colosseum, the Capitol and the Forum almost visible
to the right--what a theatre to speak in!
There were 5000 persons below, all “Romans of Rome,” and the Queen
Mother was on her balcony. But the orator was worthy of his audience,
and his theme. He had the past for his prologue, and the future for his
epilogue. Cæsar, Brutus, Cicero, the story of the old oppression from
which the world had freed itself after agelong tribulation, and then a
picture of the new tyranny that was sweeping down from across the Rhine.
What wonder if the warm-hearted Roman populace, to whom patriotism is
a religion, were carried away by an appeal which seemed to come to them
with the voice of Dante, Mazzini, Carducci, and Garibaldi from the very
earth beneath their feet!
So on May 20,1915, knowing well what the terrors of war were, and how
remote the prospects of early victory, Italy took her place in arms
by the side of the Allies. And now the heart of old Rome, so long
perturbed, is tranquil. With heroic confidence she relies on her brave
sons, led by her dauntless King, to justify her. And when she hears the
truculent boast of our enemy that after he has disposed of Russia, he
will destroy Italy as a power in Europe, she answers calmly, “Yes, when
the last Roman capable of bearing arms lies dead in Roman soil--perhaps
then, but not sooner.”