The Diary of Gino Speranza Italy, 1915-1919: Volume I: 1915-1916 9780231893077

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The Όiary oj

GINO

SPERANZA

IN T W O

VOLUMES

The Ό iary of

GINO

SPERANZA

ITALY, 1915-1919 Edited by FLORENCE COLGATE SPERANZA

VOLUME

I:

1915-1916

A.VS PRESS. INC. NEW Y O R K 1966

Copyright 1941 By Columbia University Press, New York

Reprinted with t h e Permission of Columbia University Press AMS PRESS, INC. NEW YORK, N.Y. 10003 1966

Manufactured in the United S t a t e s of America

LEST

WE

FORGET

ILLUSTRATIONS VOLUME GINO THE

I

SPERANZA CHURCH

SNOW

Frontispiece

OF T H E

SCALZI, VENICE

90

OBSERVATORY

260

C H A P E L OF T H E M A D O N N A DELL' ARENA, PADUA

308

VOLUME COL

DI L A N A

THE

ITALIAN

II 72

BATTLE-GROUND

Modified from a map in A History of the Great War, by John Buchan (Houghton Mifflin Company, Boston, 1922)

98

GINO S P E R A N Z A T H E

EVOLUTION

OF

AN

AMERICAN

By Arthur Livingston G I N O SPERANZA was born at Bridgeport, Connecticut, in 1 8 7 2 . This was eighteen years before the beginning of the "great migration" in 1890 which, in less than two decades, was to throw two millions of Italians, along with millions of other aliens, upon the soil of the United States, so altering for future generations the whole structure of American society. In this matter of Americanization numerical proportions count. One is surprised in the light of present-day experiences, to observe the ease with which the earlier immigrants of the nineteenth century adapted themselves to the American environment. T h e basic fact was that they were few in numbers and did not gravitate readily towards those alien "colonies" which became so numerous and so characteristic after the close of the century. I knew the home of Gino Speranza's father, Carlo Leonardo, a professor at Yale, at the Sauveur Summer School at Amherst, and finally at Columbia. It was an American home where the society was preferably American and the interests all and many-sidedly American—Italy figuring as a cultural fairyland of art, literature, and music, and of great historical memories which reached back to classical antiquity but were also vibrant with the noble emotions of a still recent Risorgimento. Born an American and reared as an American, Gino Speranza at first found his Italian background a sort of automatic specification that implied definite cultural advantages and indicated certain profitable lines of professional activity. Only gradually with the passing of the years did he become aware of the many spiritual stresses and strains that are involved in the process of turning a Latin immigrant into an American, even when the immigrant is of the "second generation" and is situated in the most enviable

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circumstances. With that discovery the problem of Americanization became uppermost in his thought. He studied the problem sympathetically from the standpoint of an Italian and patriotically from the standpoint of an American. He found his solution and it was a thoroughly American solution, which he came to formulate as theory and which he always lived as fact. The theory was unpopular in Italy. It was unpopular with the Italian "colony" of a later day. It was unpopular even among certain Americans of international tendencies, who were ever on suspicious watch for any expression of an eager American patriotism. Gino Speranza died in 1927 a polemical figure, combated by the growing propaganda of an alien nationalism working upon Italian immigrants and by the religious propaganda that was corollary to it. But he died also a figure to whom historians, who are really interested in the future of the United States, should pay the attention which was paid to Race or Nation 011 its appearance, and which the book held for some years. It is a figure that will gain in significance as the social history of our now racially hybrid America unfolds. T h e Speranza family came from Verona, the Western metropolis of the Venetian "mainland." It was part of that sturdy and highly cultivated bourgeoisie of the north which figured mere prominently in the early Italian immigration to America thin was the case after 1890. T h e Speranza children used to chaff their mother, Adele Capetti, with her legendary descent from Shalespeare's Capulets. Her brother was Ugo Capetti, a dramatic cri.ic of the '8os who lived and wrote in Verona and to whom Giao Speranza bore a striking physical likeness.1 Through her, also, the family was connected with the Simonis, and Renato Simoni, the celebrated dramatic critic of the Corriera della Sera in Milan, was a cousin and a lifelong friend. Gino Speranza was educated partly at Verona and partly in the public schools of New Yoik. He graduated from City College (1892), but he never lost touch with these Italian connections which introduced him directly in.o the heart, so to say, of the bourgeoisie of Lombardy, one of tie most important of the elements governing in Italy in the three » See Angelo Menin (and others), "Ugo Capetli," La Ron da, Verona, Nov. ao, 18(7.

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decades preceding the World War. He was, therefore, exceptionally well placed to play a prominent role in cultural and public relations between his father's native land and the country of his own birth. Graduating from the New York University Law School in 1894, and admitted to practice before the State and Federal Bars and before the United States Supreme Court in 1895, he turned almost naturally to the international field, specializing in cases involving adjustments between Italian and American law, which were numerous in those years of an accelerating tide of immigration. In 1897 he became legal counselor to the Italian Consulate General in New York and was shortly afterwards further retained by the Emigration Commission of the Italian Government to organize bureaus of legal defense for Italian immigrants in those states of the American Union that had large numbers of Italian laborers. His eminence in this field attracted attention in Washington and our State Department retained him to keep an eye on such fortunes and misfortunes of Italian immigrants in various parts of the country as were likely to cause international complications. In those days Italian immigrants, arriving poor and inexperienced at Ellis Island, were regularly the victims of all sorts of swindling and sharp practices 011 the part of criminal elements. As is also well known, they were not popular among competing classes in the labor world and were not seldom abused and misused in the course of labor disturbances. Gino Speranza's most celebrated case in this connection was perhaps his investigation of riots in the West Virginia coal regions in 1906, where Italian miners were mobbed, with many fatalities, and where the State and Federal authorities had the greatest difficulty in enforcing justice. These successes drew him further into the field of penology and prison administration. He became a member of the New York Prison Association, and a director of the training school for probation officers maintained by the Order of St. Christopher. Acting for the Commission he seems to have assisted in drafting the New York Probation Law and to have written the text of the Chanler Bill, so-called, which prohibited arrests in civil suits arising under installment contracts.

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Meantime Gino Speranza moved naturally into a leading role in those many social activities in New York that revolved around the immigrant and attracted the cooperation of socially minded people, both American and Italian. He was one of the original organizers of the Society for the Protection of Italian Immigrants of which, for many years, he served as secretary. In 1910 he was named to the Commission on Immigration for the State of New York, having already served, during a trip to Italy with Mrs. Speranza in 1909, as the Commission's delegate to the Colonial Congress. 2 Endowed with a keen intelligence and blessed with the most genial personality, Gino Speranza had, nevertheless, one great handicap. He fought ill health all his life long, and it is a matter of painful recollection on the part of his family and friends that no single year of his life, after an operation in early youth, went by without its period of serious illness. T h e number and scope of his activities in the face of these difficulties were truly astounding to those who knew him, and the remark particularly applies to the bulk and quality of the literary production that went hand in hand with his professional work. During the period here in question he wrote preferably on legal and penological subjects and on the problems of immigration, in both fields concerning himself chiefly with matters of Italian reference. 3 Most of these articles were of a technical character, though they were far from being irrelevant to the movement of life among the Italian immigrants in the United States. In his conversations, I remember, Gino Speranza had most interesting things to say, for instance, about the difficulties of adapting the rigid Italian marriage contract to the helter-skelter freedom of marital and property relations in the United States. And I also remember that one of his most exciting cases involved litigation around a marriage contract which had been drawn in Italy but which set up control by an Italian noble house over a very handsome American fortune. One might add that the success of these 2 T h e paper he read before the Congress was published in its acts: L'assistenza legale degli operai italiani nell'America del Nord (Istituto coloniale italiano, Feb., 1911). 3 See, at the end of this Introduction, Bibliographical Notes, I.

Gino Speranza technical writings and the influence they exerted in legal and diplomatic circles (citations by Chief Justice O . W . Holmes, Justice Wayland, Justice Brockway, and others) tended to whet his interest in literary work, so that he came to look forward to a time when he could exchange the animated but somewhat garish activities of the courts and of public life, which were burdensome to his health, for the quieter career of the thinker and the man of letters. Gino Speranza decided to make this exchange in 1912 when he abandoned legal practice with the idea of preparing himself for a systematic interpretation of Italy to America and of America to Italy. Already in the period just described he had stepped aside from professional writing to record certain picturesque aspects of Italian life or immigration in one article or another—the Mafia, the outlook of the Italian immigrant, the Italian lawyers in New York, an occasional book review. 4 N o t even fiction was entirely stranger to his literary plans in 1912 and, as one may note for a passing indication of his potentialities in this field, his first stories made the Atlantic.5 T h i s period of literary preparation was brusquely ended by the outbreak of the war in Europe. In the fall of 1914, G i n o Speranza wrote two articles for The Nation on the state of public opinion in neutral Italy. 0 T h e n when Italy entered the war in May, 1915, he became a feature correspondent in Italy for the New York Evening Post and for the Outlook. H e arrived in Italy in August, 1915. Reread today across the perspective of a quarter century, the sixty articles, more or less, that resulted from these commissions 7 have, of course, been dated by the movement of history. T h e newspaper correspondent, as contrasted with the historian, sees the event and has to guess at its significance—and shortly the next event is there to test the validity of the guess. T h e great peril of the news writer is that he is always in danger of mistaking the ripple for the ground swell or indeed of failing to perceive the * See Bibliographical Notes, II. β Marco Baldi, Owner, Atlantic Monthly, June, 1914; Wander, ibid., July, 1914. β Italy's Neutrality and Italian Public Opinion, Sept. 10, 1914; Public Opinion in Italy: the Socialist Attitude; the Bogey of Pan-Slavism, Oct. 1, 1914. 7 See Bibliographical Notes, III.

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ground swell altogether. Few of us can read without shivers the things we wrote in those days, and it is only too apparent to us now to what extent we were writing under the pressure of overbearing emotions and how befogged, often, was our perception of the facts themselves. On this background Gino Speranza's articles surprise today for their balance and sanity, and for the not infrequent shrewdness of the guess. We are now living in the full tide of a second World War and certain contrasts with the situation that prevailed in the War of 1 9 1 4 - 1 8 strike the eye. Today we have virtually no information about the war save such as is contained in officially controlled despatches. The expert commentator and the correspondent on the ground know hardly more about what is going on than the person who reads only the newspaper headlines. In the years 1 9 1 4 18, in spite of all our grumbling at the censorships, a vast area of free observation and of free opinion still was left, in the Allied countries at least. Hundreds of sources of unofficial information were available to the correspondent where today there are three or four. Gino Speranza was indeed obliged to work under one great difficulty: no one was free, either in America or in Italy, to state the real attitude of the succeeding Italian governments towards the war. One could not, for instance, discuss the Sonnino policy, which was for fighting Austria but for fighting her with padded gloves, for ignoring the aspirations of Serbia and for viewing the war as a whole as an opportunity for Italian expansion up to the limits of the Pact of London or, if possible, beyond. One could not discuss the real significance of Premier Salandra's allusion to "sacred selfishness." Much less, in the period of President Wilson's meteoric rise to world influence, could one discuss the official antagonisms between America and Italy, that were quite as virulent in New York and Washington in 1 9 1 7 - 1 8 as they were to be at Versailles in 1919-20. The political writer, working on the Allied side of the battle lines, had to pretend that all was sweet and idyllic in the relations between Italy and her three great Allies. One had to pretend that Italy was wholeheartedly engaged in the war for democracy and for the reorganization of Europe and the world, along humanitarian and democratic lines. Gino Spe-

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ranza's articles naturally reflect these limitations (interestingly enough they are less apparent in the Diary). Gino Speranza also had certain emotional attitudes of his own which one may record out of reverence to his memory, since their glow of inner light has only been intensified by Italy's Crime of '22 and its tragic aftermath in her Crime of '40. In the decades before the war Gino Speranza had been known among Americans as an Italian. Italians, for their part, had instinctively felt that he was an American. Italy's entrance into the war on the Allied side, followed by that of America, was for Gino Speranza as for many other Italo-Americans and lovers of Italy, the reduction of a sentimental paradox. T h e was was an occasion on which two masses of sentiments could throb as one. T h e artistic motive, so to say, of the articles here in question, this sentimental simplification, will become one of the artistic motivations of the Diary. It was the Italo-American's satisfaction at thinking of Italy as an integral part of the Western World and as a co-worker and an ally fighting side by side with America in the cause of Western civilization. Gino Speranza's status as an American, on the other hand, contributed to his articles a certain sound sense of objectivity and detachment. It enabled him to view the vicissitudes of the Italian war from above down, from the outside in. A t a final moment of critical decision, the American element in his nature gained the upper hand. Gino Speranza was, and remained, a Wilsonian. 8 In April, 1917, Gino Speranza offered his services to Ambassador Thomas Nelson Page in Rome and became a volunteer worker in the office of our military attach£ at the Embassy. Before long he was given a regular diplomatic appointment by Secretary Lansing and became Attache on Political Intelligence with the specific task of keeping the American Embassy and the State Department informed as to Italian events and policies, and especially as to currents in Italian opinion. These writings are for the most part unpublished, 8 and are preserved in the archives of the State and 8 See Bibliographical Notes, IV. 9 T h e State Department published one report by Gino Speranza in Papers Relating to the Foreign Relations of the United States: 1918, Supplement I: The World War, AVashington, 1933, Vol. I, p. 832: T h e Italian Attitude towards the Jugo-Slavs.

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W a r Departments. 10 T h e y have a value as historical documents which historians have not been slow to perceive (quotations by Carrie, Salvemini, Thomas, and others) in prosecuting the task of unraveling the complicated events that led up to Premier Orlando's rupture with Versailles and then on to Fiume. T a k e n together with the articles and reports just mentioned, Gino Speranza's Diary 11 constitutes a third record of those exciting days. It is essential here to revert to a matter of which we have made earlier mention. W h e n one reads of the correspondent's ascent of Mt. Adamello, of his visit to the northeastern front, of his many goings and comings along the highways and byways of Italy in his Ford car—a Model Τ that certainly deserved a citation for war merit—one should remember that Gino Speranza's health was not good during these months, and that many of these journeys were feats of almost superhuman endurance and self-sacrifice.12 W e make the point in order to give some suggestion of the extraordinary buoyancy of spirit which enabled him, often in hours of pain, to have the keenest enjoyment of the scenes about him, of landscape, of historical environment, of events, of people. One is at a loss to decide under which aspect the Diary may be considered most interesting or most important. Gino Speranza was by no means a stranger to Italy. H e had spent nine years of his earlier childhood at Verona. He had visited the country during the winters of 1904 and 1905, and again in 1909, 1912, and 1914. 10 Copies of some of them have gone, along with the mass of ephemera which G i n o Speranza collected for the w a r period, to President Hoover's Library on War, Revolution and Peace at Palo A l t o . T h e Speranza collection contains, among other things, a series of the originals of D'Annunzio's manifestoes in Fiume, an anthology of Italian war songs and some fifty bundles of proclamations, war orders, war maps, newspaper clippings and the like. 1 1 T h o u g h the editor of G i n o Speranza's Diary has expressly forbidden any specific mention of her work, the writer of this essay cannot refrain from paying a word of tribute to the literary skill, the scholarly conscientiousness and the affectionate labor of years which have enabled her to organize the author's voluminous material in such a way as to preserve all the qualities of beauty, forcefulness, and historical interest that it possessed so abundantly. 1 2 T h e staff officers on the A d a m e l l o front thought that the ascent was far too difficult for a man in G i n o Speranza's condition and declined to. issue the permit. A pass was finally obtained by Captain Palazzoli.

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All the same, there was an intimate contact with the Italian soil, as a soil saturated with historic or artistic associations, which he had never had. Now to traverse it back and forth in all directions, with the advantages of a private conveyance, filled him with a curiosity and a delight that knew no bounds. T h e beauty that he saw out of the corner of an eye otherwise fixed on the drama of the moment, the memories of forgotten readings reevoked by this church or that palace in the piazza of some out-of-the-way town, this or that route over the as-yet-unpaved roads of Italy, leading past unfrequented shrines of history, religion or art—these all gave rise to a flood of impressions that make up fascinating interludes in the record of events. But the events themselves, as narrated in the Diary in their actual succession, untouched by any critical organization, have a quality of dramatic suspense that must be in part due to the skill and affectionate understanding with which the editor has assembled the author's papers. All that is history now. We now know in retrospect what led to what, we know just what success or just what disaster was in preparation at the given moment. T h e Diary revives the many-sided possibilities of those anxious days as we actually looked forward from them, while at the same time we have the understanding born of our knowing how things were to turn out. In following the development of any one of the major episodes of the Italian war, one is left with an impression of the keenness and detachment of Gino Speranza's observation of the fact before his eyes. Evidences of the disorganization of public and army morale in Italy appear in the pages of the Diary long before Caporetto becomes a fact. So the downfall of the Central Powers builds up from a thousand indications which our retrospect now enables us to appraise. With the same sense of comprehension, we follow the advent of President Wilson, his apotheosis and fall from grace. T h e importance of the Diary to the historian as a day-to-day record is obvious and need not be emphasized. We will, however, note an aspect of the work which those who turn to its pages for the unrelated fact may, perhaps, overlook. Gino Speranza gives the "feel" of the war period in Italy, and it is the "feel" precisely

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that is more often lacking in histories of Italy than in histories of other countries. T h e fact is due, I suppose, to the peculiar stresses of sentiment that pervade the different regions of the country, and the different social strata in the Italian people. For an exact description of any event in Italy, it is important to take account of just such nuances. Without them the physiognomy of the event is distorted and often unrecognizable. On such points Gino Speranza never fails. He catches the spirit of the front, of the various towns—Venice in particular—of the government offices, of the political parties, of the peasantry, even the spirit of the americani, those Italo-Americans who had gone across the sea, in some cases to a land they had never known, to fight a war of ideals with the dialect of Brooklyn on their lips. T h e intrinsic literary merits of certain episodes in the Diary must be considered high indeed. One thinks here, first of all, of the marvelous descriptions of Venice without lights (the word blackout had not as yet been invented). They must be accounted some of the most brilliant passages, not only in the Diary, but in all the literature of the war. Anyone who knows the Venetians, and the love they have for every moment of their city's history, can be sure that these pages by Gino Speranza will find their place in the Venetian anthology which begins with Montaigne and Howell and comes down through Goethe and Ruskin to Howells and Horatio Brown. T h e descriptions of life in the Italian trenches, and especially of the struggle for Mt. Adamello, are quite on the same plane. By this time several volumes of soldiers' memoirs of the Italian war have been written; but one may doubt whether any of them contains such a Giottoesque portrayal of the battle with altitude, cold, snow, and death as Gino Speranza penned, with the scene before Iiis eyes of those trudging lines of soldiers moving, one up one down the mountainside, like a procession of tormented sinners in a trench of Dante's Hell. T h e Diary ends a few months after the Armistice, but history has marched on. It is interesting to note that Gino Speranza's record contains the same portents of the future that events consummated within the scope of the Diary had had. Mussolini is

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already on the scene, and at a time when literally no one had even dreamed of his future role. T h e Fascist, as yet unbaptized, is also on the scene with his bitter hatred of the democratic world. T a l k i n g with an unnamed soldier one day in 1918, G i n o Speranza heard and recorded fully developed the theory that England was a decadent nation w h o owned the past, while Italy and Germany were y o u n g and virile nations w h o owned the future. Verily one must say the Italians took twenty years to consolidate that theory, waiting for a man named Wavell to refute it, between Sidi Barrani and Bardia, in twenty days. Especially after the intervention of the United States, G i n o Speranza had found himself exceedingly popular with all classes in Italy. H e had been a regular visitor at the ministries and the newspaper offices, welcomed everywhere with the greatest cordiality and trust. T h e n , as he records towards the end of the Diary, he woke u p one day shortly after President Wilson's visit, to find that a sort of void had been created around him while his name began to appear as a subject of unfavorable allusion in certain portions of the Italian press. W h a t had happened? I am not sure whether G i n o Speranza ever really knew. O n e had to live into the '30s truly to understand. Putting the thing in two words, one may say that some atomic creature in I t a l y — t h e microbe's name happened to be Giovanni Preziosi, an amoeba of the genus that was to evolve into the V i r g i n i o Gayda of the present d a y — h a d discovered that G i n o Speranza was an American. A t the moment it might have seemed that G i n o Speranza's differences with the Italians were principally intellectual, that they were differences of world outlook or of party. H e was a Wilsonian, as we saw, and always retained, along with the respect of all Italians, the affection of Wilsonian Italians, of Bissolati, for instance. B u t that was not the way the thing finally appeared to him. H e began from that moment on to suspect that the differences between an Italian and an American were fundamental matters of temperament, and therefore irreconcilable, requiring in the specific case of the Italo-American a spiritual catharsis of some sort or other. A n d so we pass to the G i n o Speranza of a t h i r d — a n d , alas, final—phase.

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O n his marriage in 1909, G i n o Speranza had taken u p residence in Bedford; but before long, in order to be closer to N e w Y o r k , he settled in the b i g house at the top of the eastern hill on the Peter Bont R o a d in Irvington. L o o k i n g d o w n from the cliff to the east of the house, one could see near by on the roadside a diminutive tenant house which, in the eyes of the Speranzas, seemed to preserve all the rural spirit of Colonial America. Returning from Italy in 1919, they sold the house on the hill and moved into the little tenant house, enlarging it as was to be foreseen and making it otherwise fit for modern habitation. Hawthorns of Jerrycroft, whose blossoms tint for an h o u r in springtime the verdure of that forest hillside, the brevity of your splendor is the brevity of those years of the '20s, but your fragrance is the fragrance of our memories of them. A n d that rustling of the breeze in the trees of the g a r d e n — m i g h t not the fancy be allowed to detect in it some lingering echo of the thoughts that stirred around G i n o Speranza, thoughts of Machiavelli, of Sarpi, of Joseph de Maistre, thoughts of Jefferson, of Lincoln and John Brown, of the Protestant tradition! T h e r e was a dash of the Italian spirit in the t a l k — o n e sought the point of difference, not of agreement, and one argued with rash courage, forcing the tenderest and most recondite prejudices into the open for analysis. Memories of people t o o — F a t h e r Gaspare would come for a week-end, pack his cassock into a box, turn cook and make spaghetti. H e insisted on blessing the new home of the sceptic with a Catholic rite and on exorcising witchcraft and the powers of evil from it. Lewis Freeman would come pedaling down the hill on his globe-trotting bicycle, arriving now from Vancouver, now from Bagdad, with tales of adventure in the great world. Norval Richardson, a close friend of the W a r days in R o m e at the Embassy, whose novels rippled merrily over the surfaces of life, would appear now and again to charge a molecule of theory with a tremendous voltage of wit and laughter. John Jay Chapman w o u l d read, perhaps, from his delicious Goldonian parody " T h e Sausage of B o l o g n a " — w h o of this generation has read that surprising w o r k ? — o r from an inevitable translation of the Inferno "into the original metre" . . . A n d below and around lay West-

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ehester with its hills leaping precipitous from the meadows till they looked like mountains waiting to be clad in autumn with the incredible colors of frostbitten leaves. T h e dramatic stretch of Pound Ridge, Sprain Valley, the courses of the Bronx and Sawmill, farther away the fantastic lake chain of Waccabuc and the tangled forests of South Salem—these were Gino Speranza's necessary haunts, for he was an incurable walker and picnicker. A t the dawn of his fifties Gino Speranza had projects for opera magna that he knew he would never live to write. One of them I will mention—an encyclopedia, or perhaps library of researches, on Italians in America. In Florence he had discovered the manuscript file of Filippo Mazzei and annotated it carefully. T h a t was to be the center of his study on the Italians in Colonial Virginia. Actually he completed a study on the Smyrna colony in South Carolina, on General Cambrai, Washington's Florentine expert on fortifications and munitions, and on our diplomatic relations with the Vatican. 13 T h e general scheme of the project came down through the Da Pontes, the Rapallos, the Gherardis of the middle period to the Italians of the last immigration. In the past twenty years dozens of scholars have applied themselves to one detail or another within this field, especially to the subject of Filippo Mazzei. It is only fair, therefore, to record Gino Speranza's priority in uncovering the basic sources of Mazzei's story and in stressing the interest of this Italo-American research as a whole. T h e momentum of Gino Speranza's career as an expert on immigration intervened in the early '20s to divert him from the placid detachments of historical scholarship to subjects more dangerous and of greater public moment. Not only had his war experience in Italy revealed to him how irrevocably he had become American, his studies in American history had led him to discover for himself the distinctiveness of American nationality and the basically original character of the American tradition. Americans of the '90s, reared, for example, in the schools of New England, used to take such things for granted. Americans i s T h i s latter has been published as edited by John Hearley: A Diplomatic Incident: W h e n Washington Closed O u r Vatican Ministry (Atlantic Monthly, Oct., 1929).

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of a century ago had a way of boastfully proclaiming the morally regenerative benefits of the American experiment in freedom and democracy. N o t so the Americans of the period of the "great migration." T h e y had been taught a "scientific" history. From our "scientific" historians and our social scientists, w h o were ever on watch lest some bourgeois prejudice beguile them into an aggressive or merely decent patriotism, they had heard that there is no A m e r i c a n tradition, that America is a confused hodgepodge of many European traditions, that American nationality at the best is a nationality in the making. T h e various internationalisms and pacifisms had, meantime, not a little discredited the concept of nationality itself, coddling our "five-meals-a-day" prosperity with illusions of a world solidarity within which nationalities w o u l d be absorbed and disappear, while the lions everywhere could be argued by lawyers, social workers, and professional peacemongers into feasting from b r i m m i n g troughs side by side with the lambs. G i n o Speranza reacted against these attitudes with all the energy of his intellectual integrity. T o prepare himself the better for his campaign he began to study the phenomena of "massalienage" in general. T h e s e sociological researches were undertaken at the instance of a magazine, World's Work, and the results first appeared as articles in that publication. 1 4 T h e y were later summarized in G i n o Speranza's most widely known work, a volume called Race or Nation (Indianapolis: Bobbs-Merrill Co., 1925)·"

G i n o Speranza's basic demonstrations were that the social organization of the United States is Anglo-Saxon and Protestant, and " T h e series began with two separate articles: Old Americans and the Younger Set (March, 1923); Playing Horse with American History (April, 1923). T h e n came a series of seven interrelated articles under the general title of T h e Immigration Peril, as follows: Americanization (Nov., 1923); New Mexico an Example (Dec., 1923); Effects of Mass-Alienage upon O u r Law (Jan., 1924); Effects of Mass-Alienage upon the Spiritual L i f e of the American Democracy (Feb., 1924); T h e National Issue of the American Public School (March, 1924); Europe in America (April, 1924); Reactions and Remedies (May, 1924). is Other articles, written in connection with the research, or with the polemics that followed are: Does Americanization Americanize? (Atlantic Monthly, Feb., 1920); T h e Newest Freedom (Hibbert Journal, April, 1921); Where Americanization Gets R u b b e d Off (Outlook, Sept. 6, 1922); Protestant Friends of a Catholic Country (ibid., Sept. 5, 1923); T h e Religion of American Democracy (Forum, Dec., 1926); T h e Citizenship of the Pope (ibid., Jan., 1928).

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that the characteristic American institutions of school, church, government, and economic enterprise, which may be summarized in the general concept of self-government, derive from the complexes of sentiment that are involved in being Anglo-Saxon and Protestant. He goes on to conclude that while the American people, which possessed those sentiments by inheritance and so created these institutions (altogether unique in world history), had been able successfully to absorb a certain amount of immigration from non-Anglo-Saxon and non-Protestant stocks, it has not been able to absorb the vast hordes, of alien race and background, that have come to inhabit our soil during the past fifty years. If, therefore, the American way of life is to be preserved in its historical uniqueness three things must be done: the tide of alien invasion must be halted, the alien "colonies" that have formed in the country must somehow be dispersed, and the alien citizenry that has already been naturalized by law must itself come to perceive the basic attitudes that underlie the American way of life, adopt them and love ihem, by an inner spiritual process which must involve not a little self-denial. What these self-denials must be Gino Speranza indicated in the specific cases, though to do so involved the risk of stirring resentments (which did not fail to become vocal). As for the American Protestants themselves, the Americans of the "old stock," he urged them to abandon their absorption in enjoying the good things of life, regain the combative enthusiasm for the integrity of their institutions which they had so gallantly manifested in the war on slavery, resist the diffusion of the theory of a hodgepodge or synthetic American nationality and fight the propagandas, overt or clandestine, which aimed to subvert American social organization. He urged them further to abandon a certain snobbish social aloofness from the new groups which, in cities like New York, Boston, Chicago, or St. Louis, tends to preserve the outlines of the alien colonies.16 Catholics he invited to abandon an insidious assault upon the American school, abolish their sectarian education ie T h e author of this introduction once asked a lady in Boston about the numbers of Italians in her city. "Italians?" she answered. "We have no Italians. T h e r e is the Consul. There is Dr. Rapetti."

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and particularly to combat those tendencies within their own group which have destroyed American Catholicism as just a sect among sects and forced it back into the alien European mold. They should, he thought, for a task more difficult, perceive the incompatibility between the authoritarian Catholic conception of creeds, dictated from above down, with a resulting hierarchical form of social organization, and the American conception of the priest as the representative of the creeds, ideals, and social aspirations of the parish or the congregation. Aliens in general he entreated to smother, with whatever wrenches of the heart might be required, loyalties to homelands which in any sense could make them receptive to disintegrating propagandas from abroad or incline them towards nonparticipation in the myriad social or institutional activities which are the cornerstone of American freedom of initiative, and which have enabled us to realize the historic miracle of governing a hundred and thirty million people democratically at an exceedingly high level of civilization. From his special studies of the effects of mass alienage in states such as Louisiana, New Mexico, Wisconsin, or in Canadian Quebec, Gino Speranza was well aware of the slight extent to which phenomena of race and religion are subject to rational control. He was probably at heart pessimistic as to the outlook for the remoter future of our country. But one thing was under his personal control and that was his own personal attitude, which he felt entirely free to express, since he was himself a member of the "new stock." There is, of course, the conception which the earliest founders of America undoubtedly still had, that America was a free country where one could go out into the wilderness and be free to cherish beliefs and practice principles or customs for which an overcrowded and intolerant Europe left no room. But the present-day problems of our now vast nation have inexorably limited this freedom. Now we can be free to hold only such beliefs and practice only such principles as are themselves consistent with the basic conditions of freedom and the democratic way of life. As for himself, therefore, Gino Speranza would sacrifice everything to the "nation spiritual." Foreign cultures? He himself possessed an exquisite foreign culture, but he would avail himself of

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it not merely to reiterate foreign doctrines, assert foreign conceptions of life, indulge in the enjoyments of inherited sentiments of foreign origin. Rather he would subject such doctrines, such conceptions of life, sentiments, feelings, attitudes, to a rigid re a p praisal in the light of the basic historic foundations of American democracy. So the "nation spiritual" came to be the center of Gino Speranza's, so to say, religious life. More and more as he grew older that concept gained in his mind in sacredness and in majesty— it came to sing in his soul with a music and a poetry all its own. 17 His final creed might perhaps best be stated in words which he set down, I believe, somewhere in Race or Nation: " I am not even remotely of Anglo-Saxon or Nordic stock. But this is my country. And the test of service and devotion for the new stock may be, after all, not how much we give of ourselves, but how much of ourselves we withhold. The task and the call for us all—old stock and new—as I vision it, is to strive to keep America as it was, and as I pray with all my mind and heart, it may ever be." " See an article that he wrote for the Bedford Recorder and The Mount Kisco Courier, June 3, 1921: Memorial Day at Bedford: There Is a Life Corporeal, and a Life Spiritual. Earlier: Relics of Old Bedford, Westchester Times, Sept. 12, 1913.

BIBLIOGRAPHICAL

NOTES

I Legal articles: Punishments under the Italian Penal Code, Albany Law Journal, Feb. so, 1897; Criminal Responsibility under the Italian Law, ibid., June 19, 1897; T h e Right to Die, ibid., Feb. 11, 1899; Decline of Criminal Jurisprudence in America, Appleton's Popular Science Monthly, Feb., 1900; Society's Defense against the Criminal, Albany Law. Journal, Jan., 1901; The Medico-Legal Conflict on Mental Responsibility, The Green Bag, March, 1901; What Are We Doing for the Criminal? The American Law Register, April, 1901; Lombroso in Science and Fiction, The Green Bag, Oct., 1901; Criminality in Children, ibid., Nov., 1903; Relation of the Alien to the Administration of the Civil and Criminal Law, Journal of Criminal Law and Criminology, Nov., 1910; New Horizons in Penal Law, Case and Comment, May, 1912; Crime and Immigration: Report of Committee G. of the Institute, Journal of the American Institute of Criminal Law and Criminology, Nov., 1913; The Alien in Relation to Our Laws, The Annals of the American Academy of Political and Social Science, March, 1914; Some Impressions of Italian Prisons, Journal of the American Institute of Criminal Law and Criminology, May, 1914. Immigration: L'emigrazione italiana a New York, La vita internationale, Sept. 20, Oct. 5, 1902;

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Societies in the Italian Colony: T h e i r Uses and T h e i r Abuses Discussed by an Italian Citizen, N.Y. Times, March 8, 1903; How It Feels to be a Problem: a Consideration of Certain Causes W h i c h Prevent or Retard Assimilation. Charities, May 7» T h e Italian Foreman as a Social Agent, ibid., July 4, 1903; Solving the Immigration Problem, Outlook, Sept. 16, 1904; Italian Farmers in the South: an Interview with A d o l f o Rossi, Charities, Dec. 2, 1905; T h e Italians in Congested Districts, ibid., A p r i l 4, 1908; Problemi coloniali. La vita internationale, June 14, 1908; Racial Hygiene in the United States, Survey, A u g . 30, 1913; America Arraigned, ibid., Oct. 24, 1914, a book review. Unidentified clipping: T h e Problem of Immigration Is Only O n e of Distribution. See also: Deported Americans, N.Y. Times, April 12, 1903. Unidentified: R a c e Hygiene Problems, Sept. 5, 1913. II T h e Mafia, The Green Bag, June, 1900; Lawyers of the Bend: Demands of Little Italy U p o n Its Avvocati, N.Y. Evening Post, Oct. 13, 1900; T h e Aspirations of T o n y , ibid., A p r i l so, 1901; Review of Mosso, N.Y. Times, Sept. 14, 1901; Italy's Decadence and Italy's Mission, Nation, A p r i l 10, 1902; Dreams of European Federation, ibid., A u g . s i , 1902; A Mission of Peace, Outlook, Sept. 10, 1904: T h e C o u n t di Campobasso, Criterion, Feb., 1905; Salvage of Art Works at Messina, N.Y. Evening Post, Feb. 28, 1908· III N.Y. Evening Post: 1 9 1 5 — G e r m a n Propaganda in Italy Is Subtle (May 1): How Italy M a d e Ready for W a r (June 5); Issues in Italy's W a r (June 14); Wool, Wool, Wool! (Sept. 17); R o m e Celebrates Entry of Italian T r o o p s (Sept. 20); Helping to R e m o v e Distrust of America (Oct. 13); Italy, as Affected by Months of W a r (Nov. 5); Bombs Fell in Venice from a Moonlit Sky (Nov. 19); Italian People T u r n away from Germany (Nov. 21); Venice in W a r Dress and Her Defenders (Dec. 2); Italy's W a r Expenses, and How T h e y A r e Met (Dec. 20); Sonnino Announces Intentions of Italy (Dec. 30). 1916—Italy's Regard for Art Survives during W a r (Jan. 25); Italy's Failure to A i d Montenegro in Crisis (Jan. 30); R o m e as It Appears amid Realities of W a r (Feb. 10); Italy in Second Phase of the W a r Struggle (Mar. 15); Lenten Days in Rome: an Impressive Service (April 1); Venice Has Lost O n e More of Its "Stones" (Sept. 12); W a r T i m e in the City of R o m e o and Juliet (Sept. 16); Italy Wages O p e n Fight against T e u t o n Spies (Oct. 12); Irredenti Martyrs on the Austrian Gallows (Nov. 4); Florence G u a r d i n g H e r Art Treasures (Dec. 2); Italy Seen at Its Best: October in Umbria (Dec. 16); Italian Civil R u l e in Conquered Territory (Dec. 27). 1917—How Italians Meet Conditions D u e to W a r (March 10).—1918: Bread Is the Staff of Life in Italy (May 6); A n Irredentist's Escape from the Austrian Army (May 29). N.Y. Evening Post Magazine: 1917—Echoes of W a r on Backroads of Italy (Aug. 18); R i g h t i n g the Wrongs to Art (Sept. 29); A Corner of Italy (Oct. 27). Dates unidentified: Italy's Drama Lags Behind Italian Life; U n Americano (Francesco Tirelli) in the War. Outlook: 1915—Four Months of the Italian Campaign (Nov. 15); Italy and the Balkan Crisis (Dec. 8); T h e Face of Italy (Dec. 22). 1916—Italia Redenta (Feb. 23): Italy and Servian A i d (Mar. 1); T h e "Americani" in Italy at W a r (Apr. 12): America's A t t i t u d e towards the European W a r — A Message from General Garibaldi (April 19); T h e Destroyers of Early Christian A r t (Aug. 23); A T o w n "Shot D e a d " on the AustroItalian Front (Sept. 6). 1917—Soldiers' Prayers (Feb. 14); T h e Pope, the War, and the R o m a n Question (Aug. 29); Venice and the Invaders (Nov. 7). 1918—Heart's Allegiance (May 15); Venice Endangered—a Poem (Aug. 14); " V i v a il R e ! " (Nov. 27). 1 9 1 9 — O n Seeing Some American Red Cross Nurses Arrive in Rome and Depart for an U n k n o w n Destination—a Poem (April s). T o this list may l>e added a number of articles published in other journals and magazines:

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N.Y. Times: 1 9 1 5 — W h y Venice Is Fortified ( J u n e 4); W h a t W a r Is to Italy (July 4); Freakish H u m a n T i d e s P r o d u c e d by W a r (July 29). Atlantic Monthly: T h e T a l e of T o t i (Oct., 1918; W i t t e n in c o l l a b o r a t i o n w i t h Lewis F r e e m a n ) . Nation: Some Aspects of t h e S t r u g g l e — T h e "Business in H a n d " in Italy (Feb. 10, 1916). Nuova Antologia (Rome): II p o p o l o a m e r i c a n o e la g u e r r a (April 16, i g i 7 ) . Evening Mail (New York): Denies B r i t i s h G o l d L e d Italy to W a r (date u n identified). T h i s list, constructed largely f r o m G i n o Speranza's file, is i n c o m p l e t e . H i s corr e s p o n d e n c e shows t h a t he c o n t r i b u t e d articles to t h e L o n d o n Times a n d o t h e r English p u b l i c a t i o n s . U n i d e n t i f i e d c l i p p i n g : F i u m e a n d New York. IV A f t e r his r e t u r n to t h e U n i t e d States, G i n o Speranza c o n t i n u e d his c o m m e n t o n I t a l i a n affairs as follows (he s p e n t t h e w i n t e r of 1 9 1 9 - 2 0 in F l o r i d a ) : N.Y. Evening Post: 1919—Lowly I t a l i a n s Insist o n W a r R61e, May 24; Electoral R e f o r m s in Italy to B r i n g a Decisive T e s t of N i t t i , A u g . 7; Italy's Finances, A u g . 25; T h e I t a l i a n Claims, Sept. 17; I t a l i a n Politics, O c t o b e r ; Varieties of Socialists, Nov. 19: T a k i n g Stock of t h e W a r D a m a g e in Italy, Dec. 6; F i u m e A g a i n , Dec. 15. 1920— I t a l i a n Socialism M i s r e p r e s e n t e d by Vocal M a x i m a l i s t D e p u t i e s , M a r c h 15; A n O p p o n e n t of t h e G o v e r n m e n t , G a e t a n o S a l v e m i n i , J u l y 15. 1921—Story of t h e F a s c i s t i — T h e i r O r i g i n a n d Aims, May 3. D a t e u n i d e n t i f i e d : A Musical C o n v e r s i o n to M o n a r c h i s m . N.Y. Evening Post Magazine: A G l a n c e a t t h e Book M a r t in Italy, M a y 1, 1920. Outlook: T h e Book T a b l e — F r o m t h e Piazza San B e r n a r d o , M a y 18, 1 9 2 1 ; H a b e m u s P o n t i f i c e n ! M a r c h 1, 1922; A New I t a l i a n R e n a i s s a n c e , F e b . 2 1 , 1923; T h o m a s N e l s o n Page's Last Book, M a r c h 7, 1923. M i a m i Herald: 1920—Adriatic Q u e s t i o n , Feb. 27; Italy across t h e A d r i a t i c , ibid.; T h e Case for Italy, Feb. 29. Magazine Articles: Italy's Crisis S u b s i d i n g , Current History, M a r c h , 1921; I t a l i a n Statistics of t h e W a r , ibid., A p r i l , 1 9 2 1 ; I t a l i a n C o n t r a s t s , Yale Review, A p r i l , 1921; An I t a l i a n L e t t e r , The Literary Review, Sept. 17, 1 9 2 1 ; D e e p e r Misgivings, Atlantic, J u n e , 1922; An I t a l i a n A m b a s s a d o r ' s Diary of t h e Peace C o n f e r e n c e , Political Science Quarterly, J u n e , 1922; Fascismo, The Independent, N o v . 11, 1922; Bissolati a n d t h e Revolt of Italy's Y o u t h , O u r World, Feb., 1923. U n i d e n t i f i e d : W h y I t a l i a n s L i k e P o o r R i c h a r d (An Essay o n I t a l i a n Proverbs).

AUGUST 12

We sailed yesterday—Florence and I—on the S.S. Taormina of the Lloyd Italiano, Captain Mombello commanding. There are nineteen hundred in the steerage, mostly Italian reservists who come from every part of the United States, eighty-five in the second cabin, and fourteen in the first cabin. The Third Secretary of the American Embassy in Rome is on board. As he represents the United States officially, three or four of us have agreed, if we are torpedoed, to concentrate our efforts while drowning on keeping his head under water. We want to make a clear case for Mr. Wilson. We had a great and inspiring start which we shall never forget. As we backed out into the Hudson, a nondescript, improvised orchestra at the bow of the Taormina poured forth a steady stream of patriotic music, "My Country 'tis of Thee" and the "Marcia Reale" alternating with "Dixie," "Tipperary," and the "Inno di Garibaldi." The men were as one in enthusiasm, even the most Americanized, from the man who wears a well-worn baseball suit to the man sitting at table with us, who looks like an athlete from Yale. Everything we passed on river and bay evoked wild cheers, especially the ferry boats, to which the men waved a frantic good-bye. No doubt to them the ferry boats symbolized the shipping of our restless, strenuous, democratic life and its vast undertakings, in which they had, in some small measure, shared. Yesterday, these young men were solving the problems of industrial America; today they are going to fight the battle of freedom in Europe; tomorrow, perhaps, they will police the peace of the world. Like good Italians, they have thoroughly relaxed for the trip; today they play though tomorrow they will fight. They certainly enjoy themselves, dancing, playing musical instruments, tombola, and cards. Superbly unconcerned about the future, strong and sinewy, fancy-free, they will make good fighting stuff, for they are used to the hard work of dangerous industries. It is fine to see the

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spirit in them all. In their boyish fervor one grasps, as it were, the elements of that mighty force we call "the ideals of men," which makes death easy and danger sweet. If these partial strangers to Italy are so ready and willing to die for her, how beautifully accoutred in her spiritual strength must Italy, there beyond these seas, be! T h e waters are placid, stretching to the horizon, a calm and inscrutable curtain, behind which great tragedies are taking place. There is a new mysteriousness in the sea today, suggestive not so much of new, lurking dangers as of great events shrouded behind its water line. AUGUST

13

A hot, close day. At dinner the Captain, after being prodded, mumbled something about the German march on Petrograd. This news came as a shock, but we did not dare pursue the subject, for he evidently had no intention of passing it on. It makes the horizon more than ever unfathomable and mysteriously portentous. Here we are free because, on the great ocean, the power of the Germans has been broken. Let us not forget that—and bless England. But on land? Will any man or race of men be safe against their pitiless might? AUGUST

14

This afternoon I visited the steerage with two boys from the second cabin, Santo of Hartford and Marinelli of Hibbing, Minnesota. It was a stirring experience, for life has one purpose and only one for all these men and boys: to fight for Italy. Mothers and sweethearts count but in second place, and dying is but an incident of the Great Plan, the Great Plan that is to make Italy secure and powerful. Santo, full of fire and go, one of forty men from Hartford, Connecticut, is a contractor, and a member of the State Militia. He comes from the province of Siracusa in Sicily. "All the men there are like sons of Victor Emmanuel," he says, meaning that they are of the stuff of which great fighters are made. Marinelli, a chauffeur, a big, burly boy of twenty-one, comes from Hibbing, "the richest

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town in the world." One of his chums, an aviator and a poet, who could not get passage on the Taormina and is coming on the next boatload of Italian reservists, has written a song, " T h e Farewell of an Italo-American Aviator to his Sweetheart," in which he apostrophizes their beloved town: Hibbing, beloved Hibbing, Town of my thoughts, adieu! Farewell to joy and pleasure And friends most kind and true; Remember in some measure One ever true to you! A t one end of the steerage, an enterprising passenger has hung up a mirror and sign, "Barberia Gorizia, shave 5f!." If it weren't for Τ , it would be a very gay boatload. Τ is a short, frail boy with rather wild eyes, whose architectural course at Columbia ended in a quarrel with one of his professors. Lately he has been with the Remington Company from whom he has good technical testimonials. H e writes poetry of a quaint, distinctly English lyrical flow and structure—early Elizabethan almost. He is worried for fear he may lose his American accent in Italy! H e has brought his "tuxedo" with him, hoping to have the opportunity of accepting some dinner invitations before he is sent to be killed. " I don't know why I am going to Italy," he said to me, "for I don't know Italy and do not speak its language, and my parents and friends are in America, where I have an excellent position. My mother used to tell me, when I was a little boy, of her father and uncle who were placed against a wall and shot down mercilessly because they refused to fight against Garibaldi. I see that picture every day now. That's why I'm going, I suppose, though, when I think of the fighting line," he continued more intimately, turning his boyish face toward me almost pleadingly, "I am really afraid to die." Poor chap! He looks like a lost soul. T o pass the time, he recites the poems of Noyes and Stephen Phillips. AUGUST 1 5

Last night I was invited by Santo to attend a "musicale" in the second cabin. He had asked a Neapolitan professor, who seldom

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consents to favor the crowd, to play, and play he did, sweating copiously through Traviata, Trovatore, and what not in all sorts of keys and arrangements. Then, after Santo had treated us all to vino moscato, the professor struck up the "Marcia Reale," the national hymn of Italy, and the crowd rose to a man, cheering for "Savoia," while hundreds on the steerage deck below sent up a mighty shout which came roaring through the portholes like the challenge of regiments charging for Italy and for glory. It was more than thrilling because some of these beggars will never see their American homes again.

AUGUST 16 I spent an hour today with Mr. Hills, Third Secretary of the American Embassy in Rome, a serious, reserved, gentlemanly young man who speaks little Italian, though he reads it. I like him because he is a great believer in Our Country and its power to tackle and solve all problems. T h e dearest person on board is Mrs. Santini. She is going to join her husband, Lieutenant Randolph Santini of the Italian cavalry, who has been wounded. She is a very charming girl, an example of how finely spun and delicately balanced American womanhood can be.

august 18 Captain Mombello gave us some news: the fall of the Greek Cabinet, progress in Italy, stationary conditions in France, and hard fighting in Russia, at the River Bug. T h e Taormina is carrying antityphoid serum for the Italian soldiers, the freight on which is $40.00, and one hundred thousand pairs of American shoes for the Italian army, packed in cases of fifty pairs, each of which costs $5.00 for carriage from New York to Genoa, an enormous rate of transportation it seems to me. Passage for horses to Spezia costs that of a second-cabin passenger, $75.00. Third-class passengers are "disarmed" as a precautionary measure. Eight sacks of "weapons," mostly razors, were taken from the reservists on board.

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7

AUGUST i g

Yesterday one of our officers told us that the British officers at Gibraltar have been picking suspicious passengers off Italian ships coming from America. A first-class passenger, who claims to be Swiss with an Austrian mother, can't quite be placed. He seems a trifle worried since our wily, careful Captain asked for his passport. We are sailing directly east. As I looked forward early this morning, we seemed to be treading in a patli of soft light. T h e bow of the ship was dipping and rising slowly and majestically, cutting the light softly into a silver spray, while crowds of reservists, sitting or lying comfortably on the deck, were basking in the friendly sun— certainly the Italians long ago found their place in the sun. It was a picture of quiet splendor, for the men were bound toward a goal of brave deeds. T h e sun seemed justly theirs, and the glorious lane of light, a fitting welcome to their feet. This shipload has made me sense the stuff of which great enthusiasms are made, for every man bound for the war, no matter how lowly he may be, is visibly somewhat transfigured. T h e steerage resembles an encampment, not in externals, but in the spirit pervading it. It seems as if a little flame were leading every man in it toward something intangible but real and most appealing. T h e sum of thousands of such little flames as these make up the great fire of a nation's enthusiasm, by the light of which the sacrifices and sufferings of its men and women pale into insignificance. As the day darkens and night comes on, Florence loves to watch the men massed on the deck below as in some historic picture of old. But I know what stirs her are those hundreds of tiny flames shining brightly in the darkness and rising like a great light toward the heavens. We are nearing Gibraltar. Our gray ship has been hurriedly painted white to keep it from looking like an auxiliary cruiser. Gradually and methodically the boats have been cleared, the diningroom portholes covered, the corridor lights dimmed, and the lights in each cabin replaced by a single blue bulb for the run from Gibraltar to Italy, which we shall make without lights.

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AUGUST 2 0

Today at sundown we sighted Gibraltar, and, in the mellow twilight slowly turning into moonlight, we reached it. T h e jagged peaks and whitish outcroppings of the Spanish mountains were tinged with beautiful shades of amethyst, purple, and verdigris. Along the water were undulating, drab green fields dotted with a white house here and there, restful, peaceful, and sweet. Upon the land and the quiet sea, over the dolphins ceaselessly playing and the watchful vessels flying the British war flag, the early risen moon turned its silver light. A torpedo-boat destroyer passed us, and boat after boat steamed by, patrolling the coast. An old lumbering side-wheeler, the Energetic, paddled up to us. "Where are you from? Where are you bound for?" shouted a British officer through a megaphone. "New York; Gibraltar," we called back, and he motioned us to proceed while the Energetic, whose sweet, better days of old had been spent Heaven knows in what quiet waters, let out great puffs of black smoke and pulled laboriously away like an old man, short of breath, trying to give a young man's service to his country in her hour of need. After a hurried dinner we stepped out on deck. Never did Gibraltar rise up like the might of Great Britain as on this night. There, not more than a mile away, rose that stately rock, still but calm in its invincible strength. Its base was dark, but its habitable parts were aglow with lights, and its whitish head jutted upward toward the pale stars. Wide-range reflectors were watchfully playing on every stretch of land or sea that the moon's rays failed to reach. As we drifted slowly, taking soundings, small and huge forms glided by us, dark and low in the water, formidable and ready. A small steam craft drew close, and two naval officers and a barefooted, collarless, unshaved sailor, carrying a naval postbag, came up our ladder. In response to a shout, "Hurrah for England," from the men in the steerage, the British officers bowed and went up to the bridge. T h e older man remained with our Captain, but the younger followed the ship's purser and other of our officers into the sitting room, outside which the barefooted sailor took his stand, his arms crossed. He looked like a pirate, this fellow, his trousers rolled up high on his naked legs, his bull-like neck sticking out of

1915 9 his collarless shirt, and his big head covered with rough, uncombed hair. His eyes, however, were gentle, and his voice when he spoke was almost sweet. In reply to our request for news he told us in his Spanish-English that he had none. Inside, meanwhile, the young British officer examined the ship's manifest, catechized, and released the suspected Swiss. I shall always remember that young officer's face under the electric light, framed by a group of Italian officers—English from its curly blond hair to its big responsible chin. When he came out on deck, I stepped in front of him, hungry for news, "Officer, did the Arabic reach port?" He faced us like a boy, a strong, gentle, wholesome boy—he who at that moment and in that place had the safety of England in his hands—as he replied simply and seriously: "They got her one hundred miles from where the Lusitania went down. All saved except forty-eight of the crew. We have just heard of it . . . and a troop-ship also." Our spirits grew heavy, heavier than his in the midst of the struggle, and he went away with our good wishes and a prayer for him in our hearts. T h e engines started, the lights were dimmed, and off we were, leaving British aid, trusting to our Captain's care. Florence and I walked the decks for some time in the sweet moonlight, the fate of the Arabic on our lips and in our hearts—this new act of a cruel and merciless war, and the sufferings and the questions it raises. While others are fighting for principles as necessary and sacred to us as to them, will our country, our great country, look on and deal no brave, stout blow? Shall we stand on legalistic points, declining to help put out the fire because it is across our fence line, and let this bloodshed go on forever? AUGUST 2 1

Our course to Naples, up the coast of Spain to Point Palos, then north of the Balearic Islands and east to the Straits of Bonifacio, between Sardinia and Corsica, will be in neutral waters, for the most part. AUGUST 2 2

We have left the north coast of the Balearic Islands, rocky, inhospitable shores, with very occasional groups of dwellings,

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but many coves and sheltered landing places, which seem ideally adapted for submarine bases. We are out of neutral waters and heading for the north of Sardinia. I notice we have put on full speed, and it is evident from what the Captain says that he "believes in submarines." He takes no stock in the fact that this part of the Mediterranean has not been declared a war zone or blockaded and holds that an enemy submarine would sink us on sight. News has reached us by wireless of the fight in the Gulf of Riga, the bare outline of which sounds like part of a continued, terrific German drive, and of the ultimatum sent to Turkey by Italy. We are mainly interested, of course, in the information coming through of the torpedoing of the Arabic: "Two Americans are among the drowned. Washington has been advised that no warning was given, but is uncertain whether the Arabic tried to ram her attacker." What difference does that make? T h e very fact that no warning was given fixes the character of the attack, and any subsequent act by the Arabic, even that of attempting to ram, might have been an effort on her part to save her passengers. T h e ship's doctor tells us that, on the last stroke of midnight ushering in the day on which the Italian declaration of war against Austria was to go into effect, Italian marines boarded all Austrian vessels in Italian ports and took possession of them and their crews; also that a French cruiser is stationed at Genoa to frustrate any attempt of German boats anchored in that port to escape, since Italy is not at war with Germany and has no power to prevent their sailing. AUGUST 2 4 . ROME ITALIA! Florence and I saw Italian soil at five o'clock this morning; at nine we were treading it; at ten we were heading for Rome —and here we are at the Hotel Bristol. AUGUST 2 5

After registering today at the Questura Centrale, in compliance with the law governing the residence of foreigners in Italy, we were given police tickets entitling us to stay in Rome at our present hotel or three days in any other Italian city.

11 1 9 1 5 Italy declared war on Turkey on August 21. The Italian Ambassador, Garroni, is already at Rhodes on his way home, and the Ottoman envoy has left Italy. As far as I can gather, after having been without newspapers for a fortnight, no new cause brought on the ultimatum—just the old ones: failure to allow Italians to leave Turkey, unfriendly acts in Smyrna and elsewhere, and active incitement to rebellion in Libya. The declaration of war, which seems to be taken as a matter of course in Rome, was timed, I suppose, to impress the Balkans and the new Venizelos Cabinet. The hatred of Austria is expressed both vocally and pictorially in Italy. The newspaper vendors in Rome shout "destruction of Austria"; the postcards, pictures, even the bric-a-brac and jewelry proclaim hatred of Francis Joseph. Italians seem to regard service in the army as almost a pleasure because it gives them the opportunity of settling accounts with those who have humiliated Italy and martyred and hanged Italians. The fierceness of an Italian bayonet charge, about which there seems to be a consensus of opinion even among the enemy, is inspired not by lust but by hatred, I feel certain; for every Italian feels toward Austria and everything Austrian a deep-seated, long-suppressed sense of personal injury. This feeling has been engendered in millions, not by written history, but by the living words of their mothers. Even I, born and brought up in America, feel the impress of stories told me in boyhood days. They have left a mark on my spirit, despite a life of forty years passed far away from the environment and incidents to which they alluded.

AUGUST 2 6

I went to the American Embassy this morning to present iny credentials from the New York Evening Post and my letters of introduction from Mr. Seth Low and Mr. Robert W. De Forest to Mr. Thomas Nelson Page, our Ambassador. The latter received me most courteously, spoke quite freely, and gave me a very handsome letter to Baron Sonnino, Minister of Foreign Affairs. Mr. Page made a very definite impression on me both as a man and as an official in the half hour or so I was with him, but this is not the moment to record it.

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Now is a most acceptable time for an outsider to see Italy, for this is the great hour when he may see her face, her lovely, unforgettable face, free of conventional smiles, unadorned, and indifferent to the opinions of strangers. T h e r e are no forestieri to whom she has to minister, no tourists for whom she has to assume a welcoming smile. She can devote herself entirely to her sons, in all her naturalness, in all her ardor, in all her strength. It is a privilege to see her thus, to have the opportunity of grasping the subtle, intimate spirit of united Italy, and of ascertaining to what extent the genius of her race still lives in her people, in all her people, and in what form, new perhaps, but deeply and definitely related to the great past, it will manifest itself. Although she has lost many men in the flower of youth, there is neither the gloom of despair nor the dejection of hopelessness. T h e newspapers are full of obituary notices of young lives wiped out on the battlefields, but even these have a thrill of life in their brave diction of "fallen for the greatness of our Patria," or "gloriously killed while facing the enemy." N o t only the face of Italy has no shadow of tragedy, but her heart is clearly undismayed. One need not be long in her midst to feel that her fine blood is coursing throbbingly through her veins, with the spirit of a great determination. T h e common sense of the Italian race, that profound, indeed, instinctive gift of the Italian people to grasp, often under a surface of bubbling excitement, the essentials of a situation and utilize them to the utmost, and their ability to find a way of accomplishing their purpose—ingegnarsi, as the Italians descriptively say—these fundamental qualities are today having a great play. T h e world, the world of Italy, is being reorganized for the utmost of efficiency and production, but the result is very different from that which is "made in Germany." With everyone working, not for the defense of the fatherland, but for "la Grande Italia," the heart of Italy cannot be sad. Men 111 uniform prevail, but tricolor bands on the sleeves of numberless men attest the activity of volunteers in the civil administration. T h e Giovani Ragazzi Esploratori (the Boy Scouts) in their businesslike Italian uniform and American cowboy accoutrements, whisk by you on their bicycles, or greet you on the trains, courteously asking for money for the nation's relief work. Often you see their first-aid

ι 915 squads carrying wounded soldiers into Red Cross stations and hospitals. No less active are the women—and no women work harder than those of Italy. Everything relating to the care and comfort of the soldiers is in their hands, and, not infrequently, in addition to their own tasks, they perform those of their husbands and sons at the front. I hear of the coming of hard times, of the pinch of economic strain; but, for the present at least, Italy is asking for only one thing, a small enough thing measured by the tremendous task she is facing so gallantly. "Lana! Lana!" is the universal cry—wool for her Alpini, wool for those fearless troops who must guard, through the long winter rigors, the peaks and passes already captured, wool for these specially picked men from the mountain provinces, who cannot be indefinitely supplied, and whose places no other troops, however enduring and brave, can take. Indeed, we may soon expect to have a new cabinet portfolio, the Minister of Woolen Supplies! Everywhere on posters are crude sketches of Alpini shivering on the snow-capped mountains or photographs of the glorious heights they have won. AUGUST

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T o d a y I met Galantara, the clever cartoonist of the Asino of Rome, an anarchist, whose field of work has been cut short by the censor. Mrs. De Bosis and her daughter called on Florence this afternoon. T w o of her sons are at the front. In her casa colonica she is taking care of four orphans and a woman with three children, whose husband is at the front. During the prewar agitation, the King was unpopular, she says, because of his strict adherence to the provisions of the Constitution. His people are not yet trained to understand the restrictions it imposes upon the monarch. Now he is their idol again. T h e soldiers in the hospital where Miss De Bosis works are enthusiastic about the war. T h e y complain of nothing at the hospital except the substitution of broths for minestrone and pasta—this they think awful. Mrs. Page and the Ambassador left cards.

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AUGUST 3 0

Professor Μ , in an interview today, gave me some of his views on the Roman Question, of which he is a student. Leo X I I I really followed the policy of Pius IX, though in an utterly different form. He was absolutely certain of the restitution of temporal power and bent all his energies to that end, counting on Germany to aid. H e did not allow even orthodox or dogmatic considerations to stand in his way. Indeed, he gave to the Iron Chancellor—to a Lutheran!—the highest papal order, which confers upon the recipient plenary absolution from all and every sin — a n order bestowed for centuries only upon the faithful as a token of the strictest orthodoxy. T h e visit of William II to Rome was to be the occasion of bringing to fruition Leo's plans, and, to promote them, he made use of the press, the Curia, the priesthood, and every available influence. He, himself, said that he expected to do a great stroke of business, "Faro il gran colpo." His plans, however, failed, and he lived to see all his policies, hopes, and plans go to pieces, just as William of Germany will live to see all of his. Probably Leo did not hope for the restoration of the Papal States, perhaps not even that of Rome, but he had expected to prevail upon the Italian Government to move the capital elsewhere. T h i s is a bare outline of what Μ told me, without the wealth of details that portray very clearly the man in the Pontiff. T h e reputation of Leo as a Latinist and a poet, for instance, is based on a myth. T h e real scholar and poet was Volpini, the Pope's private secretary, who had to redouble his efforts, overburdened as he already was, when the Pontiff decided to try the Horatian muse, for Leo was an artist if not a poet, and he was wont to criticize mercilessly Volpini's poetic attempts. With the advent of Pius X , a kindly but resolute man, dreams of territorial and temporal power came to an end. H e was too good a Venetian not to be a good Italian; besides, he was a sensible man. His reply to the queries of the reactionary Cardinals about the Roman Question was to point to a very thick pile of documents and say, "After I get through with these important matters, there will be time enough to think of that." O n the dogmatic side, however, he was strict, apparently reactionary, and, indeed, merciless.

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On being advised that his condemnation of Antonio Fogazzaro was an impolitic act, he turned to the figure of Christ on a crucifix and said, " I am responsible to Him; that is my only concern." His successor, Benedict X V , a believer and a man of moral sense whose word can be trusted, has gone even further in parting with the past. Clever but not anti-Italian, he knows his own mind and is endowed with some diplomatic ability. He waited patiently for "the day" that he seemed to have known was coming; for, when the Conclave acclaimed him Pope, he not only had his pontifical name ready, but immediately appointed his secretary of state, while the Curia wondered and stood amazed. In an endeavor to make the Papacy a recognized influence in the world, he has relinquished the idea of temporal dreams and fallen back on an earlier position of the Popes, that of quasi-spiritual adviser to kings and nations. Professor Μ says that no European state could have doubted, since the accession of Victor Emmanuel in 1900 to the throne, that the direttive politiche of Italian diplomacy were aimed against the Triple Alliance. After the Italian defeat in Africa in 1896, the present King, who was then Crown Prince, quitted his military post without leave to go to his father and urge him to dismiss Crispi. T h e Prince was punished for insubordination by his military superior, but the story leaked out and awakened the interest of the people in him. Although Crispi was undoubtedly a patriot, his dream of an empire built on an empty exchequer and an unprepared army was bound to fail. Di Rudini, his successor, did his best, but the country was greatly dispirited at the time of the Prince's accession to the throne. Great was the surprise, therefore, when, despite the gloomy state of affairs, the new King made a ringing speecli at the opening of Parliament, which cheered the nation. Next he surprised the country by a visit to Berlin, where he used the Kaiser's own words in responding to the toast, "Our Allies," except that for "Our Allies," he substituted "the Central Empires"! Afterwards he visited St. Petersburg, Paris, and London. Tonight we were the guests of Commendatore Santini at his farm, T o r Sapienza, a couple of miles outside of Rome. What a quaint, quiet, old-time Roman experience it was! Our host, who is a gentiluomo campagnolo of the old regime, has a vast tenure in

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the Campagna, over which range a large herd of cattle and the few mules and horses not commandeered by the Italian Government. By a winding road we reached the Torre, a lovely structure, whence we looked out on the enchanted spread of the Campagna and the distant Castelli hills melting away in the dim twilight. N o t far away a bonfire gave off a vivid dash of flame. On the green fields scorched by the August heats were scattered fine-looking peasants spurred for horseback riding, young somari, faithful dogs, busy women, and dirty children. In a large room of the casa colonica, from which we could see R o m e and its brightening lights, Beppino, Lieutenant Santini's foster brother, served us a simple but endless dinner: ham and fresh figs, fettuccine with a rich sauce, cold veal and beans, junket and cinnamon, grapes, peaches, and watermelon—enough to last long and well. AUGUST 31

A l l Rome turned out today to hear a chorus of five thousand children sing the patriotic songs of Italy in Villa Borghese for the benefit of the Italian Red Cross. Beyond the ilex trees and towering stone-pines that form the solemn background of the Piazza di Siena were glimpses of classic columns, and in the foreground stood motionless, tall cypresses, guarding, as it were, the memories of other days. Throngs of Romans of all classes and conditions filled the great, green enclosure with an undulating mass of bright colors: soldiers garbed in forestry green, Carabinieri in gorgeous parade uniforms, women bedecked with tricolored ribbons and fans, and little boys in Garibaldian "red shirts." W h e n the solemn music of the "Chorus of the Hebrew Slaves" spread over the amphitheatre, a great silence fell, for everyone present knew that, in this hymn from "Nabucco," Verdi had expressed the wail of the enslaved Italy of his younger days. W h i l e the twilight of the Roman Campagna settled on the ancient city, fading the strong, dark greens of the trees and paling the bright colors of the flags, thousands of Roman fathers and mothers looked up proudly at the setting sun, which tomorrow, through their courage and that of their children, will rise on a greater, freer Italy.

ι 91 5 SEPTEMBER 4 .

17

FLORENCE

We have been here some days, but I've been too occupied, seeing old friends and settling down, to write. At our hotel, shorn of the grandeur of tourist days, we find it very natural to discuss the war news with the maid and the porter. We can work up no righteous anger with the only waiter if he is dilatory in answering our summons, knowing perfectly well that he is absorbed in the latest edition of the Giornale, as any man with two brothers in the trenches has a right to be. I would rather walk up ten thousand steps than disturb the frail, pale boy whose duty it is to run the lift, especially now when he is engrossed in drawing up on parchment a memorial to a fallen hotel comrade, which he is embellishing with the lily of Florence and sprays of immortelles. "In remembrance of Nazzareno T . , " it reads, "who was wounded by Austrian shrapnel on the 3rd of August and died the same day." Our maid showed us her last letter from Nazzareno, written three days before he died, thanking her for the gift of a saint's picture. " W e have all kissed it," he wrote, " I and my entire company. It will save us from harm, for we are now on the firing line and feel like birds on a branch with sharp-eyed hunters all about us." Other letters to her from employees of the hotel at the front are interesting evidence of homely patriotism, of labor-comradeship actively present even in the face of danger, and flashes of humble souls in crises. Day before yesterday Mr. and Mrs. Dumont—Mr. Dumont is the United States Consul here—kindly invited us to dinner to meet Mr. B. Harvey Carroll, Jr., American Consul at Venice, a delightful, bright, inquisitive Texan, who wears on his waistcoat an American badge surmounted by our friend the eagle. Wide-awake, happy at his job, and "native," with a patriotism for his own land that is not at all parochial but intensely American, he is deeply in sympathy with the people and nation to which he is accredited. He has a general pass for the Italian military zone. Venice is, of course, depressed, he says, for the fishing boats are not allowed to go out, and the forestieri are all gone—only three or four Americans are left in his district. T h e people, however, are not suffering because the Government has wisely distributed army work among them.

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Air raids arouse in him, Carroll says, the same strange intense excitement that a closely contested baseball game does. During the first raid, a young boy ran up to him with a pair of field glasses, urging him to hire them "to look at the machine"! T h e noise of the airplanes, something like that one imagines would be made by a mowing machine scraping the roof of a house, is most disturbing. Although Carroll is positive that Venice is absolutely safe from attack by sea, amply defended as it is, he realizes there is a possibility that the Austrian* might cut off all of Venetia by a land attack. He doubts the success of such an enterprise as that, for he is convinced of the excellence of the Italian army and the careful defensive measures taken by Cadorna. SEPTEMBER 5

I learned today from official sources that German spies and the circulation of false passports are troublesome phases of the war in Florence. T h e authorities have asked some of the "literary" and "artistic" residents, whose treacherous attitude has been revealed beyond a doubt, to leave the country. An order has been issued prohibiting foreigners from staying in the Pistoiesi mountains, where there are a number of ammunition factories. Florence and I paid a visit today to the American Hospital for Italian soldiers in Villa Modigliani at San Gervasio. Within five weeks this villa had been converted by an American committee into a modern hospital of fifty beds with springs and comfortable mattresses. It has ample plumbing arrangements, but none of the depressing hyper-sanitary features of many up-to-date institutions. From the windows of the large and airy wards, the soldiers look down upon the old gardens of the villa, described in a letter by one of them as "a palace on top of a hill, owned by some American counts"! and by another as comparable to Paradise—perhaps even a little better, "E" come il Paradiso; forse un po meglio"! Miss Baxter from Johns Hopkins, aided by a young patentata from Santa Maria Nuova, superintends the nursing. Everyone on the staff is a volunteer except the cook and a couple of orderlies. Miss Sheldon is the director and organizing spirit.

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T h e similarity of the hospital garb of the patients, a coat and trousers, fastened around the ankle, of blue-striped gabardine does not hide the strong individuality of the men who come from every part of Italy. A very fine lot they seem, but, as I talked to some and watched others, I felt I could discern traces of shock. Although they were very courteous and talked intelligently, they seemed more than restless, not quite "all there," as it were. T h e general opinion of the men seems to be that the terror of battle lies entirely in its anticipation. T h e sensation it evokes, none of them are able to describe, though they insist it is neither courage nor indifference. T h e tenseness of the nervous strain at the front, however, is shown by the fact that they occasionally passed two or even three days without feeling the least need of food. " W e should have had no appetite, anyway," they said, " f o r the stench of the dead took it away; we didn't even want to smoke, but there was no limit to our thirst for water." This was furnished copiously to them in little troughs, carried like knapsacks on the backs of bearers. T h e Austrian trenches, they say, are marvels of construction and comfort, well protected by entanglements of wire stretched on iron supports anchored to rocks. One of the patients told me that two months' leave of absence was offered by his captain for the capture of a hostile "cover," from which death issued every time an Italian went along the narrow pass it commanded. It was finally captured by one man who succeeded in climbing above it and taking it by surprise. H e found in it only one Austrian but three thousand rounds of ammunition and rations for a month. Among the patients in the hospital are two "Americani." One of them returned from Pittsburgh some years ago to join his w i f e and children in Southern Italy. " H a d I known that all this was coming, I would have stayed in America," he said quite positively. T h e other, a bright boy of native intelligence from Avellino, a laborer for eight years on the railroads in "Boston, Mass.," is suffering from a wound in his arm, but is not at all dismayed by the prospect of returning to the front. H e had fought also in the Libyan war, as had the wild-eyed, red-bearded Southerner sitting next to him at mess, of which all the men were partaking with enviable appetite.

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SEPTEMBER η

Today we accepted Alessandro Franchetti's invitation to visit the military hospital in Villa Pisa at San Domenico, for which he acts as volunteer accountant. I doubt if there is a diviner view on the Continent than from this villa, which commands Fiesole and its adjacent hills on one hand and Florence against its background of hills on the other. T h e r e were, perhaps, a hundred soldiers in this surgical hospital, very attractive-looking young men, most of whom had been wounded at Plava. They all agreed that a strange feeling of indifference, or rather of the inevitableness of fate, takes the place of fear in the face of actual combat. T o stand, however, for an indefinite time in several feet of water in the trenches, with rain pouring down, often made them wish that a shell would put an end to their misery. A Lombard artilleryman, hit in the thigh by a piece of shrapnel from a shell that burst above his battery and killed a great many of his comrades, told me that his horse fell on him and he lay pinioned under its dead body for three mortal hours until firing ceased and he was carried away. A Bersagliere from Alessandria, with one leg gone and the other wounded, a serious, pale-faced boy, straightforward and modest, who had evidently been through a great battle not only with the enemy but with himself, said very simply, " T h e worst thing about it is that I can't do anything more for Italy." Another Bersagliere, with nine wounds in the right foot and five in the left, was feverish but game; but the gamest of all was a bright-looking Southerner, who showed us all his wounds from the waist up, a half dozen, healed, on his chest, and a bad, open one on his right arm. This afternoon Miss Sheldon presented me to her cousin, Miss Porter, who remained eight months in Germany after the commencement of hostilities to finish a course in crystallography. She had scurvy twice from eating salt pork, though the Germans, apparently, stood this diet perfectly well. One Englishman and three Russians were summarily shot on the street where she lived, for a slight infraction of the law. Germany is very sad and depressed on account of her great losses, but absolutely certain of victory. T h e

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sense of aggression, devotion to the Kaiser, and hatred of England are universal. Soldiers who have lost their sight are obsessed by the idea of atrocities; they swear their eyes were removed by the Belgians with instruments invented for the purpose of taking out eyeballs. SEPTEMBER 9

Even in war time, Italy gives heed to the glories of the past. T h e municipality of Florence is restoring Piazza San Lorenzo with a legacy recently left to the city by an angry father in public protest against his only son's tendency to a gay life. T h e square is torn up, and the pushcarts usually standing on it are crowded together in front of the nearby market and in the piazzetta back of the New Sacristy of San Lorenzo which contains the tombs of the Medici. It is most interesting to watch the excavators at work and listen to the eager remarks of the Florentines about every new find. W h e n some slabs that looked like tombstones and some bases of columns, which stood in a line about thirty feet in front of the church, were exposed today, the onlookers, young and old, discussed amicably but earnestly the probable period of the slabs and the possibility of the existence in former times of a columned front or a loggia to the church, while a foreman chipped off a piece here and there to put aside for further scrutiny. Very interesting is this ever-new Italy living so close to the old. SEPTEMBER 10

This morning I marched with the 206th Regiment of Territorials returning from morning drill. T h e r e is something stirring in these humble soldiery, the somewhat slightingly spoken-of Territorials, who have been recalled from a normal life to which they thought they had settled down forever. I felt a lump in my throat as I watched their motley accoutred ranks, tall men and short, not a few of whom are beginning to turn gray and most of whom, no doubt, have wives and children at home. Yet the Territorials are the backbone of the nation at war. T h e y will stand for the last hope if all goes wrong with the youth and flower of Italy at the front, and, in that event, they will give a good account of themselves; for they are

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trained and ready to fight, not as gallantly, not with as much dasli as the younger men, but more desperately and tenaciously, for the freedom of Italy, which to them means the freedom of their homes. At present they are the great labor-soldiers of the army, holding the rear lines, providing means of comfort for the fighters, keeping the peace of the land, and performing the unheroic tasks that go unsung. SEPTEMBER 11

Yesterday evening we attended a benefit performance at the Politeama Fiorentino for the purpose of providing lana for the soldiers. Maestro Tullio Serafin of the Scala led a large and excellent orchestra and a chorus from Prato. T h e first and third parts of the program were artistic and excellently rendered. T h e second part was patriotic, Carducci's "Hymn to Italy," Ricordi's "Improwiso Patriottico," and Verdi's "Hymn of the Nations." T h e scene at the theatre was typically Italian. Italians do not look well "dressed up," and their manners at the theatre, smoking, lounging, ogling, are certainly shocking to those from across the seas, but I was interested in noting the native democracy among all classes, high and low elbowing one another as they have been accustomed to do for centuries. I confess I felt a great nostalgia for America when I heard the "Hymn of the Nations"; so, while the music played, I thought out "A Little Love Letter to America." It is written in my heart, but I hope to publish it some day. I seemed to see her, great and generous, poorly requited, hurt and even wounded by countless numbers of those whom she has mothered, bullied and harassed by those who have used her democracy and freedom to enjoy both the material and spiritual pleasures of life, forgetting that theirs is a double debt. I saw the other day in one of the shops in which war relics are collected and exhibited an Austrian's cap to which were attached a medal of the Virgin and another of a saint. Poor fellow, buried somewhere, a hero or a coward for a momentl He was precious to someone beyond anything in life, and here, among pieces of shrapnel, shells, and guns, were his cap and the signs of his faith and fear exposed to public gaze. I know that most of the Florentines

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who see it will feel sad, for it is not in the Italian to gloat over individual misery. How the sight of it visualized the whole terrible business! SEPTEMBER 12

At the American Hospital this afternoon a visitor, a professional tenor, gave some good renditions of Italian operatic favorites, and one of the American nurses sang Tuscan stornelli. T h e convalescent soldiers are evidently getting back to the elasticity of Italian life, for, with a little urging, they sang en masse. They had been practicing, but they would have sung well anyhow, after warming u p with "Fuori i Barbari." They certainly put zest into that chorus, which came thundering from forty men who had actually seen and killed the enemy: "Fuori i Barbaril Fuori i Barbari!" No less enjoyable was "Tipperary," translated by some unknown poet into Italian with a chorus running acceptably thus: E' lontan, lontano Tipperari Ed έ lunga assai la via. E' lontan, lontano Tipperari Dove sta la bella mia! Addio Piccadilli Addio Lester Squer E' lontano Tipperari Ma ci va il mio pensier. One of the patients, an esploratore who has never been wounded, though most of his comrades have gone to their sleep, is suffering from malaria. He was able to accustom himself, he said, to the unreality of war, but not to its weariness—that was the terrible, sentient thing. With a hot, baking sun over the trenches during the day, and water often knee-deep in them at night, he was frequently so tired that he would fall asleep standing, only to be awakened by his head striking the side of the trench. In the evening, after dining with the Ryersons, I was allowed to visit their kitchen to meet a Carabiniere, a bright chap in gala uniform, the boast of an admiring female kitchen staff. He comes from a village which seems to breed "Carabiniere stock," for nearly all of its men are assigned to this picked service. During the critical

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week last spring when Giolitti tried to keep Italy out of the war, this young Carabiniere and some of his comrades were assigned to the unpleasant duty of arresting distinguished young members of Florentine society who were attesting their adherence to the cause of the Allies by creating a disturbance in the streets. T h e Carabinieri pleaded with their officers, "Sono signori, sono la nobiltä," but to no avail. They were obliged to take into custody the young rioters, whom the populace meanwhile loudly cheered. Although the Carabinieri have fought at the front with distinction, they are mostly used for policing, to accompany trains, and take charge of prisoners. T h e i r uniforms and hats, of the usual Napoleonic shape, are gray-green, the new war color. SEPTEMBER

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As the insistent call of bugles drew me to the Via del Proconsolo this morning, I recalled that this was the day appointed for the Quartiere di San Giovanni, the oldest and busiest section of the city, to make its contribution of winter supplies to the Alpini. Traffic had been stopped in this busy thoroughfare to allow the right of way to two field transports drawn by powerful horses, whose troopers seemed almost part of their mounts, so easily did they sit in their saddles while they guided their steeds on this errand of mercy. Over the sides of the wagons hung large posters inscribed, "Raccolta della Lana per i Soldati," and, on each of them, two buglers took turns in appealing for gifts. As they rumbled through the narrow, tortuous streets of the Quarter, they were escorted by gray-haired fathers of families, university students wearing the medals of their intellectual successes on the brims of their colored velvet caps—young men who will live to carry on the cultural traditions of Italy—boys of the poorer classes in the loose tunics of apprentices, and well-dressed boys, whose finely chiseled faces spoke of long family histories, all eager, earnest, bright-eyed. In response to the vibrant notes of the bugles, windows and doors were thrown open, and faces no less eager, no less earnest than those in the street below peeped out and then quickly withdrew only to reappear promptly, as men and women came out with their offerings. Shopkeepers ran out of their stores with suits of clothes, great rolls

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of cloth, and bundles of underclothing, and women tossed blankets, shawls, and overcoats out of ancient and storied windows as impulsively and joyously as their predecessors, no doubt, had scattered flowers on some hero passing through this street in ancient times. T h e quick ardor behind the scene was a reassuring sign that not even the awful tragedy taking place in Europe can break the wings of the Spirit hovering over these streets through which we were passing. Here, along the Corso degli Albizzi, in the narrow stretches of the Piazza de' Donati and the Piazza de' Cerchi, and under the Torre della Castagna, had passed Dante, the Master, he who loved freedom and was exiled from all this beauty and glory, he who built the enduring foundation of the Italian nation by giving its people a national tongue and an imperishable literature which has always been a perennial source of patriotic inspiration—an intellectual flag, as it were. Here and today no man could refuse to make an offering to those brave youths who, in humility and patience, are realizing the last page of the Master's dream, the completion of an Italia that will comprise all her sons who speak the language he gave them. Slowly we went from house to house — f o r I had joined the cortege—until the ponderous wagons were full. T h e n we turned into the Piazza del Duomo and drew up beside the Great Cathedral, close to the spot where Brunelleschi looks up at the glorious cupola and Arnolfo turns his gaze upon the magnificent lines of Santa Maria del Fiore. As I turned my eyes away from that eager, earnest crowd to look at Giotto's jeweled tower, the bells began to ring, high, high, and strong, as if they were calling upon Heaven to bless not only the soldiers for whom we all are praying, but also the men and women working for the safety and greatness of Italy. SEPTEMBER 17. ROME

I went yesterday by an afternoon train to Rome. T h e trip itself at that hour, through the loveliest country on God's earth, was beautiful beyond description. Dining with some friends after my arrival, I heard an interesting account of the present business situation in Milan. T h e war, of course, has enriched industrial Milan, but the increased profits have been wisely and patriotically used to pay

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back commercial or financial obligations abroad, notably to Germany. Surplus profits are being used to increase plants, and Italian industries are taking on an impetus that aims at driving German competition out of Italy. As the present crisis offers an opportunity for turning out goods in sufficient quantities to lower prices, the price-cutting of industrial Germany will meet a new offensive and a new defensive here. I saw today the representative of one of our yellow journals, an Italo-American, interesting as exemplifying how quickly certain American tricks—I will not call them traits—can be acquired by a wide-awake, modern Italian. Contrasted with men like Μ of the Giornale d' Italia—intellectual, honorable, kindly, and an instinctive gentleman—he does not make one feel at all proud of America and American initiative. He told me some amusing anecdotes of American correspondents here, of G , for example, who has been terrorizing every man at the Sindacato della Stampa by insisting on explaining why America cannot join the Allies, terrorizing them by his insistence and by his Italian! T h e moon was up early, and I decided to visit the Colosseum. It would certainly seem infinitely older and wiser than when last I stood in its shadow, for since then a whole period of civilization has swept by. T h e streets leading up to it were illumined by blue war lamps, the tempered light of which lent some dignity to its miserable approach. On its steps, a group of soldiers were sitting and talking. T h e moon, striking slantingly, picked out the arches of the outer corridor with high lights which grew fainter and smaller, as the arches vanished in the distance. In the inner corridor, the light was more subdued, the shadows more mysterious, and the storm of blood and pain blowing outside seemed more remote. Entering the arena, I walked silently around it; the light of the moon was not sufficiently clear to show the ravages made by men and time, but was bright enough to delineate the great lines of massive airiness and to cast here and there deep shadows, in which I allowed my spirit to dwell for a time, so alive did they seem with men and desires, suffering and pride, passion and greatness. At length I retreated to the outer darkness and looked upward. Through one of the highest arches shone a great white star.

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l8

I walked along the Tiber today, crossing it near Castel Sant* Angelo and going on to St. Peter's. T h e Jews in holiday dress were out on the streets of the Pope's domains, celebrating Yom Kippur —but that didn't matter. Nothing mattered except what was good and sound and based on truth and the realities of life. St. Peter's and the Vatican didn't seem quite real. There was much of beauty in them, but they seemed as hollow as a beautiful sepulchre that has survived a spirit and a faith that have vanished. I walked back through the dirty street by which one usually approaches the Great Square. T h e antique shops on it were closed, but the other shops, with their usual array of sacred and profane trinkets, were open. Horrible things these always were, but now they seem more than ever cheap and trashy. It is no wonder; for values, large and small, are being readjusted. What efforts can measure up to those of men who have gone forth to be killed or mangled by the thousands and tens of thousands as a matter of duty and discipline? In the eyes of all, the insincere, the vainglorious, and the compromising have lost caste. A million families today are touching with their hands, as it were, the worth of words and promises, the sincerity of policies and theories. Neither the government nor their "betters" can fool them, for they know. Title and rank and position are naught. Worth, only, counts—virtue, sacrifice, true wisdom, basic truth, and profound sentiment. This universality of contact with the realities of today makes not only for coordination but for real fellow feeling. If the pain, sufferings, and anxieties that are a portion of every life were to afflict us all, irrespective of our age and condition, at identically the same time, we should understand the meaning of real sympathy and act accordingly. Instead of shutting ourselves up in suffering and lamenting our fate, which, after all, is really the fate of every one of us, we should take these troubles as part of life, an integral and inescapable part, and realize that the way to meet them is by fellow feeling and kindliness to those who are our brothers in suffering. War does just this thing: it distributes grief and sacrifice and anxiety among all of the population at one and the same time, automatically opening the springs of quick sympathy and desire to help.

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I saw a comical little example of this helpful spirit today on Via San Niccolö da Tolentino. A special officer of the Societä per la Protezione degli Animali was about to make a summary arrest of two women in charge of a donkey pulling a prodigiously heavy load up the frightfully steep grade. T h e donkey's task was too hard. So was that of the women, who were manfully aiding the donkey by pushing the tail end of his cart, but this was not the policeman's business. Several persons in the crowd, who had gathered to take part in the parley between the women and the police agent, stepped forward, placed their shoulders against the wagon and pushed— even the special policeman pushed—and the little incident ended happily for all concerned, including the donkey. Μ , a Roman friend, made some interesting remarks today about Italians and Americans. Italians do good only for fear of suffering remorse, he says. They are not as kind-hearted as Americans, who apparently possess an inexhaustible fund of native and spontaneous goodness of heart. Americans, however, lack culture and intellect, and, above all that flower of time and tradition, signorilita. An old Roman gentleman of ancient lineage, Μ says, tells him seriously that his own family will not produce a real signore for several generations. According to Μ , the Society of the Carbonari still exists among the Roman poor, especially in the quarter of the Trastevere, where its members, exclusively Masons of Republican political beliefs, are characterized by points of view and customs almost mediaeval. A group of them, for instance, after picking a quarrel with one of their associates, of whom they had become suspicious, and killing him, hired one of their own number to give himself up as the assassin and provided him with such good legal assistance that he was sent to prison for a relatively short term. XX SETTEMBRE

Forty-five years ago today the Bersaglieri of an uncompleted Italy fought their way into the city of the Caesars through a breach made by the Italian artillery in the ancient wall near Porta Pia. Rome, therefore, is entitled to celebrate this day—and it certainly has celebrated it! T h e succession of events, lasting from morn to night,

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has been accompanied by strains of music coming from every quarter of a city gayly decorated with bunting, to which the little Italian and Roman banderuole fluttering on the masts of the trams added vivid flashes of color. Among the numerous Belgian, French, and British flags was a sprinkling of the Stars and Stripes. One lonely Russian flag was finally hauled down because the populace constantly mistook it for the Austrian standard. The festivities began at eight in the morning in the Piazza of the Campidoglio with a gathering of five thousand school children, dressed in uniforms and patriotic costumes and singing a new battle hymn, the chorus of which calls upon the Bersaglieri to drive the enemy from every inch of unredeemed Italy. During the ceremonies held later at Porta Pia, the beribboned staffs of the municipal gonfalons and the trident of Trieste, raised aloft while the national hymn was sung, made a stirring ensemble. Municipal policemen and Carabinieri mingled easily and familiarly with the joyous good-natured crowd, and lines of Territorial troops rested comfortably on their muskets, taking good-humoredly the remarks of the populace about their uniforms, made, during a temporary shortage of military gray-green cloth, out of some material manufactured for the Turkish Army and confiscated by the Italians during the Turco-Italian War. On the way back from Porta Pia the crowd stopped in front of a modest hotel in Via Venti Settembre and sent up a great cheer, which brought to a window one of the popular "troubadours" who sing in the Roman vernacular to the delight of the citizens of all classes. He bowed and withdrew repeatedly, but was finally obliged to recite one of his recent ballads. The great applause evoked by it had hardly died down before the roll of drums announced the approach of the municipal fire brigade returning from the ceremonies. Escorted by the municipal guard, they were carrying, slowly and solemnly, the huge gonfalons of the Seven Hills of the Eternal City. The famous band of Rome struck up Mameli's hymn, "Brothers of Italy," and the crowd took up the chorus: Draw close for the strife I Our lives for Thy lifel 'Tis Italy calls!

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Tonight Rome was tempting enemy sky raiders by a blaze of light. The music stand in the centre of Piazza Colonna, which was lighted by huge candelabra, was surrounded by a great crowd wildly cheering the "Royal Hymn"; and the space around the fountain in Piazza dell' Esedra, which was illuminated by red, white, and green lights, was filled with an equally large and no less enthusiastic audience listening to a band rendering patriotic airs. But up at the Campidoglio, whither I wandered through devious, deserted streets, all was calm and silent. The subdued reddish light of the torches flaming at the palace windows lent a certain solemnity to the atmosphere of the signorile Piazza, from which the strings of subdued electric lights on the Torre di Roma in nowise detracted. A single blue-glazed lamp shed a soft light over the terrace at the back of the wondrous hill, upon which I stood for some time, looking down on the silent Forum bathed in the light of a silver moon. SEPTEMBER 22

Professor C of the mathematical faculty of the University of Rome called on me today to arrange for the distribution in the United States of some pamphlets published by the Italian Society for the Advancement of Science. As to what the faculties of the universities are doing to aid the national struggle, Professor C says that the feeling prevails among both French and Italian professors that the leaders of their governments have failed to take advantage of the scientific aid and advice they could have had for the asking. The Italian Government refuses to employ professors unless they enlist in the army, and, even then, offers them only lieutenantships, a rank not at all commensurate with their faculty standing. Often the results of this policy have been almost as ridiculous as in the case of Guglielmo Marconi who knows, of course, a great deal more than his superior officers. Last night Η of the Embassy took dinner with me. The Government of the United States is evidently anxious to bring about a citizenship convention with Italy that will regulate the military and civil status of naturalized Italo-American citizens, but the Italian Foreign Office wants to know what the quid pro quo will

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be, and there appears to be no quid. Nevertheless there ought to be such a convention. SEPTEMBER 2 3

Today I met Riccardo Assanti, grandson of General Domenico Assanti, a patriot, who in the days of the Risorgimento suffered imprisonment for his Italian sentiments. A sportsman and an Alpine climber for many years, Riccardo Assanti is now enrolled as a volunteer in the ranks of the Alpini. He is stationed on top of the Freikoffel, over six thousand feet in height. Everything at his post —cannon, ammunition, shelter, and food—has been carried up by soldiers, some of whom expended superhuman efforts in dragging the guns over narrow portions of the path where only one man could pass at a time. At night, groups of Austrians creep up to the camp and surrender. They are not famished or in poor shape. They expect Austria to win the war, but they are just too tired, they say, to keep up a struggle in which they have no interest, anyway, because the rich and powerful will reap all the benefits of a victory. Assanti vouches his personal word that a platoon of Alpini, reconnoitring some high peaks, threw themselves over a precipice rather than surrender to the enemy who had blocked their descent. T h e Alpini are mostly mountaineers, plain humble folk, indomitable, tireless, simple in their wants and clear in their ideas. They respect their foes, who are mountain troops like themselves. They have little if any hostile feeling for the Germans, but the Austrians are quite another matter. When they charge with the bayonet, they kill, obsessed by the idea, Assanti thinks, that they will not see home and loved ones again until they have disposed of the enemy. T h e coming winter will find them well supplied with the woolen articles now being prepared in every province of the Kingdom, and comfortably established in barracks heated by braziers and stoves. T h e ration of the Alpini is more abundant than that of the infantry: excellent meat at the midday meal, well cooked and tasty, pasta at night, good wine, and one cigar or five cigarettes a day. This afternoon I went by appointment to meet Molajoni at the

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Gallery of Modern Art, which has been turned over by the government to the Comitato per la Difesa Civile, an organization aiding families of men called to arms. Molajoni introduced me to the chairman of the committee, the Honorable Carlo Schanzer, a former cabinet minister, a blond Jew of the intellectual type, curly-haired and blue-eyed. T h e work is divided into four branches, Children's Aid, Sanitary Assistance, Economic Assistance, and Miscellaneous Aid. T o the first branch is entrusted the supervision of forty-six children's homes and nurseries; to the second, the distribution of medicines and convalescent food, the training of nurses, hospital helpers, and ambulance assistants; to the third, the maintenance of an employment bureau—which is placing successfully thousands of men and women—and the supervision of twenty-one economic kitchens furnishing simple meals at two and a half cents apiece; to the fourth, a great variety of work, such as letter writing for the illiterate, meeting trains, seeking information of soldiers and sailors for their families, and caring for the blind and crippled. The fact that two hundred women are employed to investigate applications for aid made by families of soldiers residing in Rome and the surrounding Campagna gives some idea of the magnitude of the work. Later I called on Count Gallina, Commissioner of Emigration, at the new quarters of the Commisariato in Via Boncompagni. We talked for an hour. A hundred thousand reservists are expected from the two Americas, of whom about fifty thousand have already arrived. Italian labor is in great demand in Europe. There are about twenty-five thousand Italians working today in the mines of Germany, protected by a special German-Italian treaty. None of them have sent a single complaint since the commencement of the war. Three thousand Italian laborers left for France only a few days ago, mostly men above thirty-nine years of age, not liable to be called upon for army service, though even men of military age are allowed to emigrate under special circumstances. At the time that the European War broke out, the question of unemployment was acute, but now there is more work than workmen. Many are engaged in military jobs in the north of Italy, and the number of those employed in factories has recently been doubled. I also went to the Societä Geografica and remained over an hour

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with Commander Roncagli, the General Secretary, who, with General Porro, Second in Supreme Command of the Italian Army, acts as scientific adviser to the King in the international geographic disputes His Majesty is sometimes called upon to arbitrate. I found Roncagli full of life, fire and enthusiasm, quite different from the man I knew some years ago. He has been "recalled" to serve on the consulting council of the Supreme Naval Command; he has also been recently at sea on some special technical service. T o Roncagli the result of the war is not and never was in doubt from the moment that the Central Empires lost access to the sea. Mahan's theory of the mastery of the sea will control this war, he believes. Though there may be fluctuations of fortune, a nation hemmed in from the sea, no matter how strong, is a dying nation. T h e Balkan States, which are worrying so many of us, especially today because of Bulgaria's ominous mobilization, leave Roncagli undismayed. With their inferior standards of conduct, he thinks they will bargain, threaten, bribe, bluff, and fight, some on the side of the Teutons and others on that of the Allies, and thus neutralize one another. A Slav peril never menaced any of the European states with the possible exception of Germany. T h e mistake of Italy was to take sides with Austria against the Slavs at the time they forced their way to the Adriatic. On a cliff at San Giovanni di Medua there is still the cross they set up, upon which there is this inscription, "We have finally reached the sea." Italy should have welcomed their emergence, not only because a strong, growing race like theirs must have an outlet to the sea, but because the division of the eastern coast of the Adriatic among a number of nations would tend to safeguard Italy and make her mistress of the Adriatic. SEPTEMBER 2 4

T h e Vatican, I hear, expects to receive the usual amount of Peter's Pence this year, three million lire, the deficit caused by the war having been made up by America. As the fixed income from papal investments amounts to about the same sum, the Pope will be able to count on his usual income of six million lire. Investments are made for the Pope in whatever securities seem advisable, even

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in Italian Government bonds, if the following story about a foreign banker of Leo XIII be true. On being asked to make the customary affidavit that an undisclosed client of his holding rendite was not an Italian subject—an affidavit designed to prevent Italian citizens from cashing their coupons abroad in order to profit by the interest paid in gold to foreigners—he replied, "Surely the Pope is not an Italian subject." I went with Randolph Santini to visit the Istituto Tecnico de Merode, near Piazza di Spagna, a school he attended as a boy, which has been turned into a hospital for convalescent officers and soldiers in need of special treatment. It is well equipped with electrical and other appliances. One of the patients, a Calabrese soldier, told us the story of his escape from the Austrians. After being wounded in a fight, in which five of his companions were killed and seven wounded, he was made a prisoner and deprived of all his belongings, including "six lire and a half," his entire cash capital, a loss that evidently rankled greatly. As he was unable to walk, his Austrian captor dragged him along the ground until they came to some woods, where they rested awhile. Seeing a chance, as they were about to resume their march, of shooting the Austrian while he was buckling the strap of his knapsack, the Italian whipped out a very small revolver, which he had taken from a dead Austrian officer and skilfully concealed on his person, killed his captor and then dragged himself toward the Italian line, shouting, "Italiano ferito," to prevent his comrades from firing on him. T o this day, though, he regrets the loss of the revolver he left behind him, and the "sei lire e cinquanta" he had not the courage to take from his dead foe. All the men in the hospital praised the courage of their officers, who always preceded them in battle. T h e plebescite was sincere and moving, one man vying with another in telling of his captain or lieutenant who had been wounded or killed. A bright-looking, slim, short man, Captain Fabroni by name, promoted at twenty-four years of age to a captainship "per merito di guerra," was having his leg bandaged. He was full of life and talk, as supercharged with nervous excitement as a live wire. "Valor in battle?" he said very simply. "Not at all—just good luck."

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S E P T E M B E R 2 0 . NAPLES

I decided to come to Naples to see for myself the effect upon the southerners of the much heralded speech of Salvatore Barzilai, native of Trieste and Republican member of a cabinet that labors solely for the safety and greatness of Italy. Though he is a minister without portfolio, he is popularly called "Ministro degli Irredenti," Minister of the Unredeemed. T h e occasion was as important for its setting as for its pronouncement, for one must not lose sight of the fact that Italy is still in the making. Regional differences, though now happily ended as denationalizing elements, still continue to exist in local customs, in disparities of economic conditions, in traditions, and in habits of mind. T h e war, however, has helped to knit solidly together the north and the south; for, though the sense of hatred against Austrian oppression is strongest among the northerners, the southerners, who suffered oppression under the Bourbon government, look forward eagerly also to the redemption of lands under Austrian domination. A small army of Carbineers, municipal guards, and firemen kept the very large crowd awaiting the arrival of the speaker outside the Opera House of San Carlo in excellent order. T h e ceremonies began promptly at three o'clock with the appearance of Antonio Salandra, Prime Minister of Italy. After, a graceful greeting to the distinguished persons in the audience, "men of all faiths and every party," Barzilai examined at length the reasons or rather the necessity that led Italy into the T r i p l e Alliance, an alliance formed to prevent war after the Congress of Berlin, at a moment when conflict seemed ominously near, an alliance entered into and continued, not with the view of cooperating toward common ends, but to hold in check irreducible differences, to prevent the breaking forth of atavic antagonisms, to retard an unescapable conflict, and to keep a peace that has proved rather an anxious truce. Italy sought to make the compact at least tolerable, but Austria made it unbearable. In 1911 Austria even contemplated an invasion of Italy—her ally! A German-Italian phrase book prepared for the use of the Austrian army of invasion, which bore the seal of the military commander at Graz, actually came into the hands of

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members of the Italian Parliament. It has never been repudiated by Vienna! While making military preparations against Italy, Austria was also transgressing against the spirit and the letter of the alliance by high-handed measures in the Balkans. Hand in hand with the Austrian plans of offense went a Germanic economic invasion of Italy, which flooded the country with goods and men to such an extent as to constitute a pacific but effective alien colonization within Italian territory. As a new proof of the resolve of the Central Empires to bring on a European conflict, Barzilai cited an interview between the German and Italian ambassadors at Constantinople on J u l y 15, 1914, in which the German diplomat stated, eight days before the delivery of the Austrian ultimatum to Servia, that the document would be of such a nature as to make war inevi table 1 Barzilai stressed the necessity of acquiring the whole of the Trentino to safeguard the Venetian plains, the Julian Alps and Istria to protect the Isonzo, and some coastal islands to ensure the maritime safety of the Kingdom since the eastern shore of Italy has no harbor suitable for a naval base of the first order except at Taranto, in the far south. Toward the end of his speech Barzilai referred to the cooperation of Italy with the Allies: The war finds us with France, faithful in the hour of peril to the traditions of our common past, bound together in a staunch solidarity of intent and actions; with Russia, who was our friend when Austria was scheming against us; with England, for whom Italy has ever held a friendship more like a religious faith than a policy of statecraft; with Belgium, heroic and unfortunate, to whom we extend our admiration, our fellowship, and our wishes for an early reparation. On the whole the address was a lengthy, ponderous, historic retrospect of the causes leading up to the war, which added details rather than fundamental facts and gave new form to policies and arguments already enumerated rather than new substance for the nation to consider and gauge. It was disappointing, to an outsider at least, because of its indefinite program of action, particularly in respect to Italy's participation in the international field of the war and because of its studied avoidance of the name of the really

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dangerous and truly common enemy—very different from Salandra's bold attack on Germany in his speech at the Campidoglio. From the San Carlo, Barzilai proceeded to Piazza Cavour, where he stood beside the statue of Imbriani and delivered a short eulogy of this deceased Neapolitan patriot, whose fervid desire for the redemption of the provinces under Austrian dominion is, we hope, about to be realized. T h e slant of the irregular square made it possible to see lovely stretches of color and motion in the animated crowd assembled on it, among whom were Garibaldians, old and boyish, Carabinieri and Pompieri, university students, and representatives of all kinds of political associations carrying their emblems, including the deep red flags of the socialists. A l l were orderly, eager, and enthusiastic, though their enthusiasm seemed infinitely less emotional than that which I have witnessed in Rome. Contrary to my observation in other cities, the "Garibaldian H y m n " was the most popular of the patriotic songs. SEPTEMBER 2 7

I like Naples better than I have ever liked it before. T h e city seems thoroughly herself, not half as bad as when trying to show herself to foreigners. Walking around the alleys of the Island of the Castel dell' Ovo, opposite my hotel, I enjoyed the picture of this marinaresca part of Naples. It was dirty but fetching: the beach, the men carrying oyster baskets, the women busily occupied, the shrine of the Madonna, and the intimate friendship between the people and the waters. Beyond, in the bay, a steamer, turning a point as she went out to sea, was cutting through the waters gracefully and staunchly with the courage of a ship which takes no account of the risks and insidious perils of today. SEPTEMBER 2 8 . ROME

On the train coming back to Rome were many young Sicilian officers. One of them in my compartment offered his seat to an oldish, fine-looking colonel, who had given his to a lady. T h e colonel accepted it and talked to the young man sitting next to him for a while, then rose and peremptorily insisted upon the young officer resuming his seat. "Sit with your brother," he said

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to him, speaking very gently, b u t as man to man. " Y o u may not have another chance to talk with h i m until after the c a m p a i g n . " A y o u n g Bersagliere officer opposite me, a country boy of g o o d class, u n b u c k l e d his new leather leggings with a look of relief, covered his face w i t h the w i n d o w curtain, and tried to doze. H e had with him a cassette., one of the little military field trunks, inexpensively f r a m e d in metal, that are flooding Italy today. T o m e they are infinitely pathetic because they hold the evidences of love — t h e little bits of h o m e — t h a t the soldiers of Italy carry to the line of danger. T h e mounds of them I have seen on station platforms, all u n i f o r m and identical, make me think of coffins, field coffins, all, all identical, in which men of every rank and every grade of courage are placed for burial after the last call of duty has been answered. I spent the late afternoon with C o m m a n d e r Roncagli at the Societa Geografica. H e thinks Barzilai must have omitted m a k i n g any reference to Germany because of special circumstances that have arisen since Salandra's speech at the Capitol. T h e government, he insists, can be implicitly trusted with such men as Salandra and Sonnino at the helm. T h e Anglo-French armies have made a deep cut into the German lines; they have captured 20,000 Germans, and a large amount of artillery and ammunition. SEPTEMBER

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A n explosion in the powder magazine of the Italian battleship Brin is the sad note in the Italian news of today. T h e c o m m a n d i n g admiral and several sailors are dead. Salandra has telegraphed A b r u z z i to give his personal attention to the matter and see that the guilty are punished. Roncagli, w h o has been in the "Santa Barbara" of the Brin—every Italian powder magazine is called by the name of this patroness of g u n n e r s — i s positive no explosion could have occurred without careful preparation. G e r m a n agents have probably been at work here as elsewhere. R o m e has taken the loss quietly, regretting the sacrifice of good lives that could have been used more gloriously for the country. Even when the Amalfi and the Garibaldi went down, the people stood u p well

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under the blow, I understand. T h i s fact is pointed to as evidence of the growing sense of discipline in the country. I see in it and in a thousand other things today the native common sense of the Italian race asserting itself. Roncagli tells me men of all classes are arguing thus about the war: " W e must fight or go under; two opinions, therefore, about the war are not possible. Every man has to go. It isn't pleasant to die, but, at least, if we have to die, this isn't the worst kind of death by any means." During our conversation today Roncagli described his favorite conception of the configuration of Europe as that of a triangle, with its apex in Italy, its base formed by a line running from London to Petrograd and its sides by two lines, joining Rome respectively with London and Petrograd. Within this triangle, roughly speaking, are confined the Teutonic empires, a racial group untouched and unregenerated by the ideas of the French Revolution. T h e Balkan question, he believes, ought to be solved by the creation of a "Balcania," a federation of Balkan States. Peace will not be attained in Europe until the international adjustments accord with the fundamental ties of similarity or "like-mindedness" that bind people of the same ethnic and religious groups together. French Latinity has been perceptibly tainted by Celtic influence, he thinks. He has a good name for the German students—"scientific workmen"—excellent men, he says, totally unoriginal and uninspired, but probably unequaled in qualities suited to the purely mechanical civilization toward which our industrial development was apparently headed before the war. Yet was this war really needed, I ask, to bring home to us the realization that an indestructible law of life leads us to hitch our wagon to a star. Could we have ever really believed—did we ever really sink to such depths of material outlook as to think—it might be better or safer to hitch it to a high-powered motor! SEPTEMBER $ 0

W h i l e I was looking at a relief map of the area of "national aspirations" in a shop window today, a young errand boy, with

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his apron tucked in at his waist and an empty basket slung over his shoulder, returning evidently from delivering goods, stopped beside me and became engrossed in the map. Finally, he burst out, " I don't think the map's correct. Mestre is too far from Venice. I've been all over that part of the country on my bicycle." He began to tell me of his two brothers in the army, one of whom has been promoted for valor in battle, but suddenly a sense of terrible bashfulness swept over him and he blushed, as he shamefacedly said, "Scusi . . . del disturbo"—Excuse me for disturbing you. I shook his hand and told him not to run away to be a soldier too. I was unlucky in my calls. Senator Tommasini was out, and Apolloni, the Pro Sindaco, whom I called upon at the Capitol, was attending a meeting of the Board of Aldermen. How many, how desperately many things hang around the Campidoglio! I walked slowly up to it in a heavy downpour. At the very foot of the Capitoline Hill, near its almost sacred steps, is a shipping agency with a big sign, "Imbarchi per l'America"! No wonder the Wolf was walking restlessly and savagely about her cage, halfway up the hill I I stopped to look at the Forum and thought of all the patient and civilized work that has gone into the effort to bring back so much of it, visually. Yet today achievements nearly as fine as this have been destroyed by the very men who helped to disinter these great remains of the Roman world and to obliterate the evidences of the wrath of the barbarians. OCTOBER

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After four months of steadily developed offensive, almost the entire front line of the Italian armies has advanced into enemy territory. Not one inch of Italian soil is under Austrian control. On the map the line of advance looks very irregular, quite a distance beyond the old frontier here, only a little way there. At some points no progress at all has been made, a fact explained, apart from the question of military pressure, by strategic reasons. T o get possession of dominating positions on a long line of mountain crests that, properly fortified, could both hinder a hos-

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tile invasion of Italy and safeguard an Italian advance into Austria has been the objective of the Italian campaign, rather than to get possession of territory—in other words, to convert an undefendable frontier into a line of strategic importance, both defensive and offensive. Everything considered, the Italians, starting with great strategic handicaps, have succeeded, inside of four months, as Lord Kitchener says, "in neutralizing the geographic-strategic advantages held by the enemy" along the whole line of operations. In the Trentino theatre of the war, the Italians are steadily pressing in upon the vital positions of Rovereto and T r e n t from both sides of the Austrian salient that juts into Italy. On the east they are closing in on Levico and Pergine, both of which are almost on a direct line with Trent, and on the northeast, south, and west, they are hemming in the Austrians and forcing them back into the outer fortifications of Rovereto. They are barring the way to an Austrian invasion in the west by pushing forward into the valley of the Ledro. North of this point, Cadorna's troops have scaled and established themselves upon the snow-capped mountains of the Ortler group, over 11,000 feet in height, situated midway between the Stelvio and the Tonale passes, over both of which the Austrians could march directly into Italy. South of this position they have also planted an outpost, to which they transported their guns by blasting a road ahead of them as they advanced. In the Carnic section, where the boundary line lies on the Alpine ridge, the frontier remains very much the same as at the beginning of the war, though several prominent heights, the Freikoffel, Monte Croce, Pal Piccolo, and Pal Grande, have been captured and held by the Italians despite almost daily attempts on the part of the enemy to retake them. In the Isonzo section, the Italians have captured a vast territory of plains lying to the south of Udine and extending eastward to the Isonzo River, across which the Austrians retreated and took u p positions of great strength on the formidable heights above it. Although the river acts as a natural barrier, the Italians have crossed it at several points in its lower reaches and placed themselves in advantageous positions for tightening their hold on the

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great entrenched camp of Gorizia, which commands the way to Trieste. T h e capture of Gorizia will entail a long and arduous struggle, involving, probably, many a bloody battle like that of Sei Busi, since all the fortified heights surrounding it must be taken first. In the upper Isonzo section, the Alpini are in possession of almost the whole of the great massif of Monte Nero and are drawing closer to Tolmino. OCTOBER 8 . F L O R E N C E

Venizelos' resignation, coming just as the Allies are landing at Salonica to aid Servia, may be a colpo di scena or it may be due to German pressure. Certainly the situation in the Balkans is none too reassuring now that Bulgaria is on the point of joining the Central Empires. OCTOBER

9

Today Signor Olivieri, chief cashier of the Azienda dei Prestiti of Florence, a large and old institution of benevolent loans, confirmed a report I had heard that the government loan offices— the Monti di Pietä—are embarrassed by the amount of money turned in lately by the poor, who are paying off loans and withdrawing articles they had pawned. OCTOBER 1 2 . M I L A N

I bade farewell to the sweet villino, Villa Torricella, at San Domenico di Fiesole, close to the spot where Fra Angelico first heard the heavenly call, and yet in view of the little railroad to Faenza which has recently become an important transportation link in the chain of railroads forwarding supplies to the front. T h e trip to Milan was uneventful. On the stretch from Florence to Bologna the mountain views in between the tunnels were magnificent. As we drew near to Bologna, the pickets increased, and, here and there, a tent was set u p near the entrance to a tunnel or the approach to a bridge. T h e station at Bologna was full of life, with no particular sign of war, but, as we pulled slowly out of it, we passed a long Red Cross train lighted by dim, melancholy

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lights revealing soldiers stretched out in all stages of suffering. T h e thing that gripped me was their listlessness—they looked like a trainload of human beings who had lost interest in life. Sitting at a desk in a narrow compartment of the train was a field chaplain, a black-bearded monk, buried, absolutely buried in thought, who seemed as oblivious to everything, though for a different cause no doubt, as the soldiers in their beds. OCTOBER

13

1 spent the afternoon in the offices of the Corriere della Sera with my cousin Renato Simoni, a member of its staff, discussing among other matters how the foreign policy of Italy has been and still is largely shaped by the government. T h e Italians, generally speaking, are deeply interested in domestic politics and policies, but they prefer to leave the question of foreign relations almost entirely in the hands of their constitutionally appointed Cabinet. Nor could they do otherwise in a country whose scheme of government allows the enactment of secret treaties. But when, as now, large armies are needed to enforce a foreign policy, the State must necessarily take into intimate account the wishes and views of its citizens, devoid though these may be of breadth of vision. During these past months, therefore, Sidney Sonnino has had the great task of preparing Italians to make decisions of international import and consequence by linking national aspirations with the international situation of today. In the evening I took dinner at Simoni's house and spent the evening looking over his books on the drama and his collection of old Italian private plays. He is a student of Shakespeare and is enthusiastic about English. He gave me letters to D'Annunzio, Deputy Fradeletto, and Senator Molmenti, the historian of Venice. OCTOBER

14.

VENICE

After passing through a country reminiscent to me, I arrived here about eight o'clock. At Mestre all the lights on the train, with the exception of a few blue bulbs, were turned off before we sped over the narrow causeway connecting Venice with the mainland. A track of dim blue lights in the station shed at Venice

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led to a gate where all passports were e x a m i n e d by a g r o u p of Carabinieri, to whose commander d o u b t f u l cases like m i n e were referred. W h e n I told him I was an American journalist, he replied very lightly, " Y o u will have to go back," although he asked me whether " A m e r i c a n " meant that I came from England! A f t e r he had read my military permit, however, he said, " T h i s must be an exception; please come tomorrow m o r n i n g . " A Carabiniere assigned by h i m to escort me to the Hotel T e r m i n u s acquiesced in my desire to go to the Hotel Danieli u p o n my g i v i n g him my word that I w o u l d report early the next day. C o m i n g o u t on the quay, wet and slippery from a heavy rainstorm, I seemed to step backward hundreds of years as a porter struck a match to light my way and a gondolier said to me, " E l me daga el braso." T a k i n g his arm I stepped into the gondola and took a seat underneath the edge of the felze where I could be somewhat protected f r o m the storm and yet look out. W h e n the gondoliers, dim figures whose voices alone had the stamp of soft but definite reality, pushed off into the pitchdarkness, a sense of detachment from the rest of the w o r l d possessed me, a moment of fear, one might almost say, which slipped smoothly into a sense of throbbing yet calm delight w h e n my eyes became sufficiently accustomed to the different shades of darkness and dim outlines to see the unseeable, as it were. O n we glided, silently, except for the occasional call of the gondolier to the Invisible awaiting us around the corner of an impalpable fondamenta, through new darknesses and under new arches of delicate traceries, which, in the daytime, are called bridges. U n d e r the lower arches the darkness was at times so intense that the gondolier lost his bearings and drove apparently into it, but driving into it meant coming o u t into new w o n d e r s — n o , that is not the word, new lights, if darkness may be called light, new lights spiritualized and chastened into forms of softness and delicate beauty. N o t a l i g h t — n o t a l i g h t — e x c e p t an occasional flash f r o m the pocket lamp of some pedestrian, which diffused a huge light through the mist and then disappeared as quickly as it came, leaving a greater darkness than before, or a ray of light escaping from

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a hastily adjusted shutter, which fell across a wall or cut athwart a canal. I was aware that we were approaching the Bridge of Sighs before I saw it. W h e n it appeared, it seemed to stretch from cloud to cloud, indistinct, soft, perishable except to the mind's eye. Coming out from the rio it spans on to the Riva degli Schiavoni, one gondolier lost his oar, so wild was the storm, but we made land, and the other, an oldish man, helped me step—a high, high s t e p — to the enchanted shore. He carried my bags through the blinding storm to the hotel door while I marched behind him like one not wholly awake, now stumbling against him, now picking my steps, not knowing whether I was walking on wet pavement or treading on enchanted waves. Beyond the heavily curtained doorway and dimly lighted anteroom of the Hotel Danieli I stepped into everyday life and manners; for, behind its cover of darkness and silence, all Venice is awake. After eating some dinner, I went out. For the first few moments I felt lost in the wind and rain, which beat so heavily that I could not see at all. I tried walking a little at a time, gradually quickening my gait until I learned "what every Venetian knows," that no lights are needed in Venice even on such a dark night as this. Before long I became acquainted with a new world, a world somewhat like that in which we imagine we shall find ourselves after we die. It was not a solitude, for men and women, intangible but far from ghostly, passed me just as they would have on lighted streets; but it was a world in which life had been transmuted and rendered so delicate that though I could hardly see the passers-by I never jostled against them, for both they and I were nebulous and imponderable. I turned the corner, and Venice was mine! T h e misty darkness drew it very close. St. Mark's Square and the Piazzetta were neither grand nor beautiful—they were just a part of my spirit. I touched the Campanile, and it seemed to sag a little toward me. T h e cupolas of St. Mark's appeared near enough for my hands to caress. T h e Ducal Palace, the Lion of St. Mark upon the Column ceased to be monuments—they were dreams come true, made of the stuff of life, for I had drawn so

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near them in spirit that they seemed alive. Like all the best things in life, however, I could not grasp them, near though they were; the moment I held out my hand, I found they were not close, but far, and the misty airiness of which they were built eluded my touch. In the dim light under the porticoes the passers-by might well have been Brighella or Pantalon or any other Venetian characters in history or romance. T h i n k of Florian's—just a thin line of light on the threshold!—that was all, though behind the double-curtained doorway was the old cafe. Plunging through the darkness under the arch of the Clock T o w e r , I came out into the narrow street of the Merceria, upon the wet pavement of which infrequent blue street lamps cast wide, uncertain stripes of light. Back again in the Piazza, I walked all around it, in and out of its porticoes. T h e stillness and grayness of that empty square spoke of the soul of Venice more clearly than did any of its monuments. By this I mean that in the mist and general indefiniteness of outline I saw no particular period or historic moment or school of art, but each and every period, each and every historic moment, and all of the art of this city, of these Venetians. Those dim shapes were not so much the Campanile or St. Mark's or the Palace or the Columns as a manifestation of the spirit of all those who have made Venice, the dead being still alive and the living not apart from those who have died. I saw Venice as an evidence of that which is and remains in things, though they themselves be destroyed, of that which men cherish in their hearts and minds, in their hopes and ideals—what they leave when they die. Walking back to the hotel, it seemed to me as if nothing in the world was so safe from the attacks of ruthless barbarians as this Venice, which has become so my own that, though I die and it be destroyed, we shall live in each other. OCTOBER

15

How can I write of all I have seen in Venice today? whether I should be allowed to remain, I have been gold as hastily as any miser. I was awake at five. Dark was, there was a tramp of feet in the narrow calle

Uncertain gathering though it below my

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windows, which reached my ears like strangely exciting music. Whither were they going so wakefully, those hurried passers-by? I looked out of the window into a fog. After I had finished the most delicious bread-and-coffee breakfast I have ever eaten, I went out, having half an hour to spare before the hotel porter would carry me off to report to the Carabiniere at the station. Venice, in the early light of a gray morning, was all gray and all for itself like the rest of Italy, with no thought of strangers and little even of the enemy. T h e Venetians, walking a little faster and shouting less than their wont perhaps, seemed more than usually conscious of their city, as they paused to look at the bricked-in arches of the Ducal Palace and the balcony of St. Mark's, whence the horses have flown. I stepped into St. Mark's. Awed by the glory of its golden domes, I bowed down and almost stumbled on its pavement grooved by the sea drift of ages into furrows as rough as the waves of a restless sea—that pavement so in contrast with the peace of the golden domes above. Sacks and sacks of sand, massed in precision and order on pyramidal scaffoldings, cover fonts and pulpits, shrines and altars, and great rolls of padded canvas swathe the statues on the screen in front of the High Altar. T h e capitals of the columns are boxed, and the choir is protected by a shed. Despite all these coverings, beauty springs out in the curve of an arch, in the color of a mosaic, in the form of a statuette beyond reach of human aid perhaps, like so many of the airy and delicate figures in Venice. And over it all the great mosaics look down, uncovered and uncoverable, like the sky. Perhaps the Venetians always came here. I never observed before. Now they flock here, men and women, like members of a family watching a dear, sick child for whom they can find no physician quite good enough. T h e y look, they measure with the eye every provision of defense, not curiously but intently. Some look up and around as if they meant to see every line and detail of the Basilica in case it should be no more on the morrow. T h e n they pray. T h e r e is a constant guard of supplicants lighting candles and praying at the altar of " L a Nicopeja." T h i s is the Madonna that saved the Venetians and the Basilica from harm when

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the Campanile fell, as an official prayer states. What better intercession for Venice in danger? Outside, in the Piazzetta, there is little in the way of protection. T h e Loggetta of the Campanile is buried under a mountain of sandbags, the open arches of the porticoes of the Ducal Palace are partly bricked, and the beautiful Gothic arches and pierced quatrefoils of its upper loggia have been strengthened by perpendicular wooden supports and blocks. A t the southwest corner of the palace a heavy brick buttress juts out some four feet, and, at the corner near the Porta della Carta, a staunch, round brick erection lends a beautiful martial aspect to the whole graceful structure. For Venice I felt neither anxiety nor pity, but a feeling of cold disgust rose in me at the thought that monuments such as these could be in danger from man. A l l the measures taken to defend them are deeply appealing as an act of love on the part of the Venetians, an act of love which says, " Y o u are part of us and we want to stand by you"; but, contrasted with all there is of mind, and art, and spirit in the beauty of Venice, they seem as impotent as the attempt of a child to save a mountain or a sunset by stretching out his hand. T h e trip to the station on the vaporetto gave me a good view of the Grand Canal. Many of the palace blinds, closed for the night and not yet opened, were patched with paper or cardboard, and unshuttered openings were covered with heavy curtains to prevent any light from filtering through. T h e Carabiniere at the station asked me to accompany him to the Hotel Terminus, where some strangers he had to convey to the Comando were staying. A Frenchman, who had rung for hot water at 2 A. M. and fumed all night about the mosquitoes, and a Swiss, who was lazy, were not up yet; so another functionary was summoned to take charge of these unruly stranieri, and my Carabiniere and I dashed for a vaporetto to take us to the Arsenal. T h e r e the Caporale on duty said he would take my papers to be inspected, but he was sure that I should have to go away as I was a newspaper man. Happily, he came back with the report that His Excellency the Commander would consider my case, and that, meanwhile, I might remain for the day.

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49 At the hotel I found a notice asking me to report to the Questura at eleven or three o'clock. It was already after eleven; so off I went, walking in and out and all over. Somehow I always came out at the Rialto Bridge. On the quay adjoining the market, large black barges were discharging loads of cauliflowers and greens, and porters were carrying baskets of tomatoes on their heads—great splashes of red that caught the eye—to the vegetable stalls on which pyramids of apples were skilfully arranged with cords or thin slips of wood. In the fish market a group of dealers and customers were reading, with as much interest as if it were an announcement of the Senate, a newly posted military order restricting fishing. Their attitude was typically Venetian, grumbling, despairing, but really innocuous. The women seemed the most bitter. "Even the manzenette are now forbidden," said one, while a vendor of crabs, was shouting, "Manzenette, manzenette—el xe l'ultimo giorno"—it's the last day—and another replied to a man explaining that the fine for disobeying the law was 2,000 lire, "Well, if we have to die here in Venice, we may as well die of hunger as otherwise." I lunched at the Cappello Nero and afterwards went to Florian's for coffee and paste, though I wasn't hungry. About three o'clock I started out to look for the Questura. "Cross the next bridge," said an old man of whom I asked the way, "and then, son, if you inquire, everyone will help y o u " — "fiol, se te domandi, i te aiuterä tuti." The Capo Gabinetto at the Questura told me that I need not sign the police papers unless I got a military permit to stay in Venice. From there I went to St. Mark's. It fascinates me almost more than anything else in Venice. The fight is so uneven between its means of defense and the enemy's means of offense, and, yet, it is infinitely more uneven between the destructive power of Austrian raiders and the indestructible character of that wonderful pile and great cluster of memories. Its destruction would evoke, I think, though in a much greater degree of course, the same kind of emotion as the destruction of the delightful little stone lions that sit in so many cunning poses on the railings of Venetian balconies, looking out, or down, or up, or even into the houses they

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guard. They may all go at one fell blow, but the sunlight, the spark of pleasure evoked in my mind and the minds of millions of others by these charming little devices of art \vill live. At five o'clock I was summoned to the Arsenal and ushered upstairs. A very pleasant officer, the soul of kindness, explained carefully the present law affecting the stay of journalists in Venice and gave me leave to remain five days. He said that I might possibly obtain a general pass for Venice through the intervention of the American ambassador at the Foreign Office. After expressing the hope that I might get it, he shook hands and cautioned me not to use a camera and not to go too far out on the Lido. It began to grow dark as I left the Arsenal, out of which hundreds of workmen were pouring. On reaching the Merceria, I found blinds being drawn and lights put out in compliance with the regulation for darkening the city that goes into effect at six o'clock. Before long I lost my way and enquired of a passer-by how to reach St. Mark's. " T u r n this corner," said he, "and then the people will carry you along"—"la gente lo porta." T h e preparation for "darkness" instills no fear in the people; on the contrary the impression is that, with every blind that bangs down, Venice is chuckling, "Catch-me-if-you-can." With the disappearance of lights Venice becomes more intensely Venetian. T h e stage play is finished, and real home life begins. T h e children shout as youngsters invariably do when they enter a tunnel or cave. Gradually the crowds thin out, and night settles down with its gray mantle about it. Blue lamps at long and regular intervals faintly mark the way, and endless corners add to the mystery of many darknesses. In the light and environment of the narrower streets, the soldiers in army mantles and the sailors in leggings and pistol belts look like sbirri or martial figures of former days. On a night, like this, of faint new moonlight shrouded in clouds, you can see to walk in the Piazza without picking your steps. I overheard a soldier say to a comrade with whom he was crossing the Piazza, "Se se gavesse spesso sto ciareto."—If only there could be this half light once in a while.—This is just what the light was like, not dim and yet not strong. It rested beautifully on St. Mark's and the Campanile; and, on the Palace of the Doges, it

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gave me the feeling that, were I to pass my hands over its carvings and lines, I should experience the same sensation as if I were caressing the foreheads of those who had planned or dreamed their making. Shall I ever forget the thrill of "medieval" excitement at the Post Office where I went to mail an "espresso" to Florence? I felt instinctively that I needed Pantalon or Brighella with a lantern to help me search for the box I sought and finally found by the light of a match. OCTOBER

16

I have watched the sun set and a young moon rise in a clouded sky—a wondrous experience. It is not just Venice, great and appealing as are the grace and lack of material solidity of this masterpiece of God and man, but it is Venice-in-danger that makes an ineffaceable appeal. Just as nothing can save a girl of tender and appealing loveliness from the violent hands of anyone so foul as to attack her; so nothing, really nothing, can save Venice. This land of lace and fine spun glass, of traceries and carvings, of delicate lines and soft curves, of translucent mosaics and a million shades of darkness and light, of palaces and churches resting on the frailest foundations, of steeples and domes pillared on seawashed piles, blends wonderfully in the grayness of an approaching unlighted night, and in the danger that encompasses it, breathes a spirit not only beautiful but particular because its courage comes from its loveliness, which may be the most potent cause of its undoing. T h e sunset was dim; it rested peacefully behind Santa Maria della Salute, tingeing the outline of the great cupola with an indefinite halo. All else was a scheme of gray, from the almost threatening leadenness that hung over the water in the distant Canal di San Marco—out toward the enemy and the ships that stand ready—to a light evanescent gray airiness settling on the Piazzetta where I stood. In the stretch of sky between Santa Maria della Salute and San Giorgio Maggiore, a curtain or, rather, a cluster of soft, small clouds screened a young half moon, which occasionally peeped out and threw a sudden soft, silver light on

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the rippling waters. But, even with its cloudy mantle about it, it diffused sufficient light to turn the waters into mother-of-pearl and make the columned faςade of San Giorgio stand out in a soft whiteness. T h e pali, to which the gondolas are moored, stood out in strong relief, slender, irregular, a little weird, and the ferrules of the gondolas at the Molo, painted in silver, shone with a clear light. I walked to the Piazza; then up and down it, up and down. There was a great crowd of people on one side of it, tremendously enjoying their piazza and ciacolando like a million sparrows. The moon was just coming up above the Procuratie Nuove, bringing out in high but soft relief the carved frames of its darkened windows. St. Mark's and the Campanile were no longer structures built by human hands. They were not comparable to anything material and tangible except to a fine woodcut, upon which time had laid a great softness and tenderness of touch. Because of their blackness, the portals of the Basilica came nearer to being substantial than anything else in that dream-structure, their blackness being tempered but strong compared to the evanescence of every other curve and shade of shadow. T h e Campanile seemed built of whatever it is that God distills from the earth to make the tall gracefulness of lilies; yet it was a campanile and not a flower. Church and spires, steeple and domes appeared to be a manifestation of spirit, of faith, of love, of art. The most wonderful mountain scene, the ocean at its best, may make a thousand appeals, but never this appeal. Just as one sees in the painted figure of the Word made flesh that man might believe not only a recognizably human figure but a mystic halo breathing a spirituality superhuman, so I saw in these beautiful buildings not only the ideal of the artist-builders who tried to express in them the sentiment —the living sentiment—of the period in which they worked, but the very soul of the Venetians. I want to fix my impression. Another church in place of St. Mark's, or St. Mark's in another place, would not have had the same meaning, for it was not merely the grace and beauty of the Basilica nor the light falling upon it that counted; it was something more. St. Mark's breathed all its

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personality of birth, of history, of symbolism; it breathed the Venetian character and spirit which built it, the Venetian love, traditions, devotion, pride, and the inherent sweetness of the race. Pausing by the marble block of the "Bando," I looked out toward the Piazzetta and beyond, beyond to the peace of Heaven! T h e moonlight rested very, very lightly on the Ducal Palace. T h e brick supports of the lower tier of arches and the wooden supports of the upper were charitably swallowed u p by the grayness of the night. T h e flat surface of its faςade had the softness of a rounded surface; it was not to be touched, not even lightly, so near this side of the imponderable and unsubstantial did it seem. Between the two columns, crowned by their symbols, San Todaro and the Lion of St. Mark, one looked out, as through an open doorway, upon endless vistas satisfying to both heart and mind. San Todaro, with the moon shining upon him quite brightly, looked like a brave little warrior, and the Lion's tail, catching the same light, looked long and deliciously defiant. Both Saint and Lion seemed very "human" against the glorious background of gray canal and misty, domed islands beyond, human but not unworthy, a brave saint and a noble animal holding the Book of Books. Late tonight, with the moon high in the heavens and often clear of clouds, the Piazza lost some of its spiritual charm. T h e light seemed to affect even the people sitting at the cafes; they began to sing and talk loudly. T h e Basilica seemed tinged with color, blue of many dark shades, and quite oriental in form, inasmuch as its Byzantine lines became definite and distinct. T h e Campanile remained a more subtle, less graspable thing, with the shadow of the New Procuratie falling on its base and lending a certain mystery to the whereabouts from which it sprang. Two of its sides, one lighted by the moon and the other not, met in a sharp line, which rose majestically toward the sky. Above the brickwork the bell chamber of Istrian limestone shone in pure whiteness, and the pinnacle of the spire, melting gracefully into the blue vault above, dwelt aerially with the stars dotting the surrounding heavens. Across the waters lay the islands of the Giudecca and San Giorgio, beautiful in absolute darkness—not the darkness of a

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silhouette but of throbbing, unlighted forms, warm, lovely, reposeful—a substance of dark, beautiful imaginings resting peacefully in a wonderful calm. Behind its shuttered windows and curtained doorways, Venice spends her evening as it always has in the past. In an apparently dead calle, all of a sudden music rings out. Stranger still is it, in the pitch-darkness under the Torre dell' Orologio, to hear a voice shouting, "Corriere della Sera," and other evening papers. Walking this evening along the silent, dark, deserted Salizzada San Moise, I suddenly heard quick and loud, "Dramma Emozionante" —the call of a barker of a cinematographic show, enticing me to enter. It is difficult to give an idea of the strange effect produced by the combination of the normal and war-measure life of this city. In many of the altane or belvederes on top of the houses, sentinels of the air watch the sky just as sailors, in the crow's-nest of a ship. At night one hears their cry, hour after hour, hour after hour, floating above the roofs of Venice: "Per Γ aria . . . Buona Guardia! Per Γ aria . . . Buona Guardia!" This afternoon I wandered and wandered, looking for the statue of Colleoni. I couldn't find it because everyone of whom I asked the way, said, " T o the right and straight ahead," and, when I followed their instructions, I either struck water or a dead wall. Finally, a nice red-headed Venetian mother draped in a flowing black shawl, holding her little girl by one hand and carrying a basket in the other, said, "I'm going that way," and invited me to join her. Holding the putina's hand in mine, I walked to the Campo Santi Giovanni e Paolo. T h e great condottiere and his horse are protected by a very acute-angled roof, projecting well beyond the statue, which rests on a scaffolding. Sandbags, stacked under a wire netting, are piled around its base. I next paid a visit to the American Consulate, to which I was guided by a Questurino who knew the way because he had taken a "drunken American" there! After the war, he told me, he was coming to America, having heard our country was larger than Italy and not so crowded! T h e Consulate is in a lovely part of Venice, somewhat reminiscent of Holland, and the Consul's gondolier in his smart uniform and the even smarter gondola are

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55 worthy of the literary traditions of the Consulate. Mr. Carroll said I was unusually fortunate to get permission to stay five days in Venice, and he gave me some helpful suggestions. On leaving the Consulate, I walked along the Zattere, past the Calcina and Santo Spirito, to the Dogana. In the Giudecca Canal were the school-ship Scilla, full of "mozzi," twenty of whom I had seen early this morning rowing a big boat, and a number of empty freighters almost completely dismantled. OCTOBF.R

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Venetian weather has been gracious to me, for every day of my treasured store has provided a different color and mood for the city. T h e sun shone brightly early this morning, so brightly that, as I walked along the Riva, it hurt my eyes unaccustomed to Istrian whiteness; but the Venetians were just "wallowing" in it, like birds taking their morning sunbaths, perking, twittering, singing, and generally gay. I spent the morning going to church, or rather to churches, from San Giorgio dei Greci, with its "orthodox" interior and finely carved stalls, snugly tucked away in a canaletto, to Santo Stefano, with its vast arches and painted wooden rafters, on Campo Morosini. But my steps constantly drew me back to St. Mark's, which was quite crowded, unlike San Giorgio dei Greci, where I had seen only two old men. At the early Mass in the Basilica the worshippers were mostly women, but, at the later Mass, the Basilica was thronged with men and women, soldiers and officers, schoolboys and girls, and a squad of British sailor boys, clean, short, and seamanlike, whom I had spotted earlier walking along the Riva degli Schiavoni in charge of an elderly boatswain. As they drew near to St. Mark's, they paused, ill at ease in the crowd of popolani pressing around them, though they tried to look indifferent and began to purchase souvenir picture books of Venice from the hawkers who, at this critical moment, had them at their mercy. "Guess we'd better quit smoking and go in or we'll have a crowd," said one of them, and they marched into St. Mark's. T h e Basilica evidently impressed them, for their eyes wandered repeatedly to the golden domes; and yet, they must have felt at home, for the sand-

ι9ι5 bags, mounted high, spoke of war, and they themselves are among the thousands and thousands of men of at least three nations who are guarding with hawklike eyes a n d gun in hand the iron ring built around this city. It is the constant reminder of this iron ring that gives a dramatic impress to the beauty of Venice. Nothing counts today except measures of defense and protection, and no outsider is allowed in Venice unless he is able to defend it in some sort. One's love goes o u t to it because its fate hangs so delicately in the balance. Λ thousand little precautions point to its danger. T h e Angel of the Campanile, for instance, is completely dressed in khaki, and the vanes on the cupolas of St. Mark's and the heads of the staffs that fly the gold embroidered dark-red flags of the city are covered with canvas to prevent the sun from betraying them to the enemy's eye. After Mass the people flowed o u t from the Basilica into the Piazza on which the sun, near its zenith, was shedding a flood of warm light. St. Mark's was glowing with color, and the great flags at the masts in front of it were u n f u r l i n g their stripes of red, white, and green in the light breeze. T h e pigeons, startled by the exodus of people, flew down from their carved perches on the fa9ade in a fluttering sweep of mystic color—mystic but for a moment, for the animation of the crowd quickly dispelled any impression not vivid and human. It was a great picture—that throng pouring out of the church while the bells pealed: women, with fine heads and copious tresses, set off attractively by their long black shawls, ladies in finery of more or less good taste, soldiers in somewhat unkempt fatigue uniforms, groups of oldish contadini, and countless children who can pride themselves on having the fondest parents in Italy; b u t no tourists—not a tourist in Venice! I had not noticed before that on top of each of the flag masts on the Piazza stands a small golden lion holding rigidly in his paw a straight little sword. How symbolic of Venice today, ready to fight b u t too lovable, one would think, for anyone to strike! At a performance this afternoon in the Sala della Fenice for the benefit of the Casa del Soldato, "Sensafren," a stout, round-faced, jovial sort of man, who undoubtedly loves his Venice, read some

ι 9I5 57 poems in the vernacular. From his description of San Giorgio in the moonlight it was evident that this scene had made upon him very much the same impression as upon me. Among some delicate trifles on St. Mark's were a few charming lines describing the final flight of a sick pigeon to its perch on the faςade to take a last look at the Piazza. Sweet descriptive touches abounded in his picture of the Piazza sleeping under a cover of snow—"Soto una coperta bianca dorme la Piassa . . . Se la xe cosi bela adormentada, Pensa che bela quando l'e svegiada!",—and in his references to the gondolas as living beings deeply hurt by the attempt to substitute pali of reinforced cement for those of wood. Andrea Busetto, a publicist, gave some effective renderings of war poems by Carducci and D'Annunzio, including the passage from the "Canzone dei Dardanelli" which was such an invective of the Austrian Emperor that it was expunged before the war from D'Annunzio's works by order of the Italian Government. I confess I was deeply stirred by the "Saluto Italico." "Rafa," another vernacular poet, with the typical Venetian sense of humor, which is not quite but almost coarse, described to the great delight of the soldiers in the audience the Austrian twoheaded eagle as a fowl so old that it had grown two heads and was more than ready for roasting. I must add a few words on the moonlit hours tonight in the Piazza and on the Riva. T h e view from the arch of the Torre del1' Orologio was as perfect in color, design, conception, and poetry as the mind of man could conceive. T h e absence of artificial lights at night wondrously completes the pictures in Venice. There is only one light shining and that is from the moon. As it strikes the waters, they glisten, and as it strikes the dripping oar of a gondolier, upturned in the stroke, it silvers it for an instant, and, whatsoever it radiates upon without touching, it softens and chastens. The sea fa9ade of the Ducal Palace, struck by this light tonight, made me think of a child's beautiful face, looking out in wonder upon this strange world of today. T h e Venetian women in their shawls, with the light playing through their long fringes, passed along the Riva like slightly silvered shadows. As I bid goodnight to all this loveliness, my heart goes out to

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that circle of men, constant, patient, and ready to die, who, in the moonlight, watch for the lurking enemy. At any moment the siren may suddenly sound the danger note, just as it has often sounded it before, but this time it may denote not merely the death of men, but of St. Mark's.

OCTOBER 18

T h e consul very kindly put his gondola at my disposal this morning, and we rowed around the Giudecca in a perfect Venetian light. T h i s industrial quarter of the city was working at fever heat, boats, factories, and ironworkers. T h e gunpowder in the Polveriera on the little island of Santo Spirito has been removed and stored in a number of ships anchored at some distance from one another, in order to lessen the danger of explosion and prevent the destruction of all the powder by a single bomb. T h e new school on the Giudecca has been converted into a Red Cross Hospital, and fanciful sprays of green have been painted on the gasometer to give it the appearance of a group of trees from the sky. In the middle of the Giudecca Canal are several interned ships, and, nearer the shore, not far from the Church of Santo Spirito, two steamers captured by the Italians in the early days of the war. Some boats laden with light artillery and shells passed us while we were cruising around the island of San Giorgio, where some lovely white flowers on a tender vine hung over a brick wall. Such is Venice at war! At a restaurant where I lunched with Mr. Carroll, a flower girl of considerable age offered him her wares for a consideration. When he told her in good Italian that he could not indulge in the luxury of buying flowers until after the Avar, she looked the picture of surprise. "What," said she, "and I, in the meanwhile, must die of hunger?" N o wonder he relented. Mr. Carroll is an interesting man. He may be classified as Western by an Easterner, and he rings true to this classification, for he has the very appealing qualities and the youthful freshness of the West. H e does not exclude a Teutonic victory. He thinks we may very well be facing a crisis in civilization—its retrogression. Should Germany win the war, many Europeans of a fine and de-

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sirable type will probably emigrate to the United States to escape the moral and physical vassalage they will find at home. Our country then will become again a refuge for brave and free spirits. This it has ceased to be because the hordes coming to us lately, unlike the refugees of earlier times, do not fit naturally into our political experiment. I spent the afternoon walking. T h e Venetians were visibly enjoying themselves, chattering volubly, for the day was warm enough to entice them out of doors. The old Piazza dei Mercanti, with people going up and down the Rialto steps at one end of it, was a joy of motion and color—opera at its loveliest. I wandered in and out of it and around "II Gobbo di Rialto," whence the Republic announced its laws, and up a dozen calli and rughe with enchanting names: Ruga degli Orefici, Ruga degli Speziali, Calle dei Botteri. Occasionally I entered some tiny, dark shop in which a purchase of four soldi constitutes real "finance," but never once was I taken for a forestiere, though I was far from silent! Emerging from under low-arched projections into Campo San Aponal, I saw to my pleasure, over the door of a church, the fifteenthcentury statue of General Vittorio Cappello kneeling before a lady, St. Helena. Finally I unwound myself in a tiny piazza, Dei Meloni, I think, and found as nice and dusty an old bookstore as ever existed in fairyland. A deal of bargaining was going on. A customer's remark that the dust on the books was so thick that he ought to be paid the price of one he had selected for removing it was ignored by the proprietor, Orlando Orlandini, who launched into an oration on the value of imperfect copies of old books. Were not lost pages an evidence of antiquity? Why should a page missing from a century-old book count except in its favor? No, he could not reduce the price of eighty centimes on a book worth ten times as much as that. From the bookshop I walked to the Piazzetta and sat down at San Todaro's foot to watch the day go and night come. Not far away, tied to their pali in a straight row, were some gondolas of a very signorile appearance, which became more than ever Venetian when, in the swell of a passing vaporetto, they began to act like angry and excited popolane. The evening grayness settled slowly,

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softening and blending the outlines of the fighting ships, strung out in gray massiveness along the Giardini, into the general delicateness of the scene. It was a very still night, with a three-quarter moon and a wondrously large, luminous evening star. I am back from my evening walk and a marena at Florian's, where I saw some Italian Jews as Venetian as the purest of the Venetian borghesia. T h e streets were decidedly dark tonight. On the Merceria I heard a measured tramp, and a picket of armed men, short-mantled, gun-on-shoulder, came and went in the obscurity like a "ronda" of Night Watch days. T h e Rialto Bridge was still and lovable in the light of tonight: not a shimmer of light or ripple of water trembled under its arch; not a boat glided beneath it; not a person walked up or down its steps; utter silence on the canal in its vicinity. I did not draw any nearer to it, for it was asleep, if ever a bridge of dreaminess built by man has slept; and, on its steps, asleep, too, like boys tired out from playing all day, were all the "Ninne Nanne" of Venetian mothers and the loving songs of the "Barcheta sotto el Ponte." I have struggled with eye and mind to fathom the impression made by the aspect and color of St. Mark's and the Piazzetta on a night like this. T h e difficulty is increased by the absence of artificial lights, which paradoxically creates an artificial environment for one accustomed to lighted streets and houses. In narrow streets the darkness is not only captivating but convincing. Lovers walk on them because they may draw close to one another, and policemen patrol them because their darkness may cover mischief. No, there is nothing unnatural in the darkness of a calle. But the Piazza and the Riva are different. Their unconvincing note is due, no doubt, to the contrast existing between the number of people on them and the abandoned appearance of their buildings. If there were nobody as well as no light, one would feel in the midst of a dream. Indeed the light tonight on the Piazzetta, where there are never many people, reminded me of the atmosphere of half reality and half unreality in which one finds oneself at the moment of waking from a dream, when one is drawn between the scene before his eyes and the vision still in his mind. T h e picture of the Piazzetta on an evening like this is so pleasing that, if one

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could lose oneself in its contemplation, one could easily fall into a trance of artistic enjoyment, so potent would be its charm. But voices or even music coming from the inside of apparently uninhabited houses give one a shock, because they make the wonderful picture somewhat scenic. T h i s is the plaint of a glutton, I know, but the aspect of Venice is so lovely these days that a very tiny note out of harmony comes close to spoiling it. Even too much moonlight destroys the effect. When the moon shines very brightly, I take refuge under the arches of the Procuratie, where it is so dark that a match struck by a soldier to light his cigarette gives off a great flash, which lights up his face brightly for a moment before it fades away into the utter darkness. OCTOBER

19

It is my last night in Venice, my last night unless I get a reprieve, for which, perhaps, it would have been better not to try. I have asked, however, for an extension of time, and I may get it, as the American ambassador has joined in my appeal. But this is — i t ought to b e — m y Last Night. I feel as if I were making a Will, in which I were leaving a precious but intangible legacy to the One most loved, a legacy so subtle that I should like to wear my fingers to the bone in the effort to describe it, in the wish to tell what it has meant to me and how it has appeared to my mortal eyes, given immortality by the vision. I should like to write my W i l l in the light in which I walked tonight, in which my soul trembled. I should like to write it on a scroll as white as the top of the Campanile, tracing my words in the softness of the light resting on the cupolas of St. Mark's. T h e Piazza and the Piazzetta and the lands and stars and dreams beyond them are too vast and deep and subtle for my effort. I should not attempt to include them in my legacy, for they do not belong to me in a strong, personal sense of ownership. T h e y have belonged to princely minds and royal masters of the pen and brush. Also I should not attempt to include them because they frightened me tonight. My heart and mind were in too humble a state, after walking through a very different Venice, to respond to the vaguely subtle, passionate appeal of the far-distant scent of the Orient that lay lambent on the

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light extending from St. Mark's to the sea. T h e hour I spent in the midst of this other. Venice is the legacy of my last night. I give my walk the name of a narrow little street, "Calle dei Fabbri," a name which in the daytime you may see inscribed on a wall halfway down the Piazza, at the point where this calle breaks into the vaulted arcades of the Procuratie. Here I turned away from the Piazza, all brightly lighted by the moon except for a definitely marked space of shadow out of which the Campanile rose in fine lines of airiness, delicate but robust, and threaded my way through some byways back of San Moisi, having in my mind neither names nor collocation. I passed from light into darkness and found myself in Venice—my Venice, the Venice that not only devised the gentleness of my mother's heart but endowed her with a courage so simple and yet withal so mild and sweet that one might have been misled into thinking of it as submission. I was in the Venice whose songs, chanted softly in my ears when I was grown-up and ill, had eased me from great pain, because I had heard my mother sing them while she lulled to sleep a restless, tired little boy. I was on a narrow, little street that now and again seemed about to end, but one step more always brought me suddenly, as in fairyland, to a street right or left, or to a tiny bridge thrown softly across a still bit of water—a tiny bridge so light and unsubstantial that it was neither plumb nor at right angles with either shore, for it was invariably turned this way or that, as if it had been swayed by the tiny silvery waves below. T h e little streets were all dark, but each of them was different, not only in size, width, and height, but in the degree of darkness enveloping them. They were all so beautiful that the moon was slipping very, very gently and as still as night into every one of them, grasping at everything that could help it to creep lower and lower. It embraced chimneys of every shape imaginable, sliding around the shadows that stood in its path; it peeped over the highest palaces, crowning with silver the buildings opposite, or it glided around the eaves of less-storied houses, drawing fine lines across their roofs. It had its easiest way over the little bridges, polishing the white edges of their low steps into soft snow, resting on the columns and carvings of their balustrades just as the pigeons rest on

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St. Mark's, and sometimes falling over them into the water below, to float in and out, in and out, under the arches. With every window and every door of palace and hovel closed, the little canals were absolutely free to be themselves, and everything rested, immobile, in them—the gondolas, the pali, the steps at the landing places. Even the waters were still, not lazily still, not asleep, but thinking, thinking so quietly that the moonlight, which was gentle rather than bright, gradually covered them without their being aware of it. I felt as if I should walk hurriedly through every campiello I came t o — o n tiptoe, close to the houses—so as not to be seen, lest my presence should embarrass Pantalon and Brighella — p u t them in "sogezion," for this is their land. Ah! Pantalon, Pantalon, and Colombina and Brighella and Gianduja and Arlechin, had the shutters of some of these houses been open,. I certainly should have seen you. T h e Piazza is really too beautiful for you, but these dark calli and salizzade, these turns, these steps over the water, these dips into dark porticoes, lead to your homes. I paused for a while on a bridge at a corner in the dark, watching the canaletto beneath it curve away right and left, where the moon could follow it, but the eye could not. No doubt its line of soft loveliness was the very one planned by the early builders of Venice, who, searching for a little peace, raised these islands out of sea-washed silt—but I must not dwell on that thought tonight. I don't want to write any more. I wish I had fallen asleep on that bridge and dropped over it, as gently as the moon slipped over the balustrade, into the waters beneath and had been carried away, unawakened and softly from this Venice that I must leave tomorrow, leaving this night—a night by itself—my Last Night in Venice. OCTOBER

20

Yesterday was the forty-ninth anniversary of the entry of the Italian troops into Venice, the Veneto having been ceded by Austria in 1866 to the Kingdom of Italy. T h e flags were up, and copies of the Sindaco's patriotic proclamation were posted on the walls, but there were no festivities. T h e band is at the front, and there could be no illumination, of course. T h e city commemorated the

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day by making a donation of money to the families of soldiers. My supplica to the Comando, asking for leave to stay in Venice has been granted. I have five days' reprieve. Early Mass in St. Mark's this morning was very impressive. Behind the High Altar the canons were chanting the morning service, and a group of the faithful, mostly popolane in black shawls, were worshipping at the brightly lighted altar of the Madonna Nicopeja. T h e rest of the Basilica was in semi-darkness. Here and there an old man or woman was kneeling devoutly, and laborers were going u p and down, u p and down ladders, with the small, heavy sacks of sand that are being piled higher every day over all the precious objects. Between the notes of some distant chimes floating softly into St. Mark's and u p toward the golden domes, I heard a faint, shuffling sound as of something scraping the ground. Looking down through a small iron grille in one side of the walled steps that lead up to the High Altar, I saw a couple of men in the crypt, shoveling sand, by the light of candles, into sack after sack. On the way to the Frari, I stepped into the shop of an orefice to ask the price of an old charm, a little pig, that was in the window case. T h e shop was so tiny that one of the two men occupying it had to come out to let me in. Its size is explained perhaps by a very large walled-in safe, which takes up a great deal of room. T h e shopkeeper could not find the key of the case in the window or of another containing a trinket I liked. I wonder if he knows any more about the combination of the safe than the whereabouts of the keys! Farther along I passed some lovely little shops: one dealing in copper, low and dark but aglow with beaten metal, and another, in painters' supplies, a quaint affair under a portico, ancient and hoary, deep and low and cobwebby, with barrels of materials standing under its low arches. Across the way from it, high up in a niche on a wall, was a nice Madonna, brightly painted in red and blue, keeping guard. I saw some cobblers' shops where apprentices were learning their trade in the pitch-darkness. No wonder they become deft in handling their tools! On my way back to the hotel, I tried to cross through a pass be-

19 I 5 hind the Fenice, not believing some boys who told me it was closed. They had told the truth, however, and I was obliged to retrace my steps and face them. "You thought we had fooled you," they said—"El credeva che g'avessimo fa la scimia"—an expression I remember hearing as a child, which I had completely forgotten. In the afternoon Mr. Carroll took me to call upon Mr. Latimer, the only member of the Curtis family remaining at Palazzo Barbara. T h e courtyard of the palace is lovely, especially the high stone stairway, with its wonderfully simple old railing entwined by an iron vine. T h e interior is beautiful also, from the ballroom adorned with Tiepolos to the interesting, long, low library at the top of the house, but somehow it left me cold. T h e times are too stirring, perhaps, for the pure enjoyment of art. In the corners of every room lay open bags of sand for quenching flames of incendiary bombs. Many of the finest objects in the Curtis collection, including a picture by Sargent, who often visited here, have been moved, as a precautionary measure, from the upper to the lower floors. We drank marsala and smoked and talked. Mr. Latimer is greatly pitied by his friends because he is remaining in Venice! T h e Venetians, Mr. Latimer said, were depressed at the beginning of the war, partly, he thinks, because of the lack of light in their houses at night, caused by a temporary cut in the electric power. With the return to normal lighting, they quickly regained their ease of mind and simple joyousness. They have always taken the aerial attacks well, showing no evidence of panic and sending u p great cheers when the defenders rose to give battle. During the second attack a bomb damaged the Arsenal, killed two men, and sank two small boats. Both Mr. Carroll and Mr. Latimer agree that an attack from the sea is an absolute impossibility. Mr. Latimer admires the policy and military accomplishments of the Italians. England, he says, cannot bring pressure upon Italy to send troops outside of her borders until she has exhausted the possibility of supplying men of her own by conscription. Mr. Carroll thinks that the seeming hesitancy of Italy to send aid to the Balkans may be traced to its lack of interest in Servia—

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or rather to the opposing interests of the two countries. Servia may eventually be an enemy of Italy. Whether he is right or not, the a n n o u n c e m e n t in last night's papers of the existence of a state of war between Italy a n d Bulgaria as a consequence of that existing between Bulgaria a n d Italy's allies has helped to dispel this impression, which was \videspread. W e shall now see what form Italy's cooperation will take. T h e present situation in the Balkans has been brought a b o u t by Germany's move against Servia and her capture of Bulgaria as an ally. Germany, no doubt, counts on achieving her purpose of disorganizing the plans of the Allies for a general offensive by pushing them into a moral enterprise on behalf of Servia. T h e diplomatic effect of this manoeuvre is already shown in a distinct variation of opinion among the Allies, some of whom realize that a military success in the Balkans is impossible, because of the difficulties of transportation and the need of haste. Italy, it is well known, is opposed to being led into a trap by this ruse of Germany and believes in a strategic concentration of forces u p o n the western fronts. After calling on Mr. Latimer, I went, just before dinner, to the Post Office by way of the Merceria. T h e shopkeepers are spoiling its picturesque aspect after dark by lighting their windows with low-powered blue bulbs, which allow them to display the most horrible hats and other novelties a n d yet keep within the law. O t h e r streets and squares were beautifully lighted by a moon almost full. T o the west of Campo San Bartolomeo, where Goldoni's statue smiles, the steps of the Rialto, divided lengthwise by the shadow of one of its rows of shops, rose in great dignity, one half as black as only a Venetian shadow can be, and the other as white as the moon. I wonder if the delicate points and ornaments on the roofs of many Venetian houses, which cannot be seen on account of the narrowness of the streets, were n o t designed to catch the moonlight. T h e y cut the m o o n into wonderful fretwork, and throw their fantastically shaped shadows down on the pavement of calli a n d bridges to delight the passer-by. T h i s evening, crossing the iron bridge, under which the waters

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of the Grand Canal lay in a flood of still light, I walked to the Fondamenta delle Zattere and up to the Faro. I did not meet a soul. The only motion or sound was that of the waters lapping the white steps and stone foundations of the buildings. In the Giudecca Canal, high above the waterline, lay the "interned" ships, immobile and desolate, and, close to the Fondamenta, were some round, black boats, unmoved by the slight ripple of the waters. The barconi were asleep; the houses and chimneys were asleep; the islands of San Giorgio and the Giudecca, without a light or sign of life, were asleep. T h e moonlight seemed to have fallen under a spell; it wasn't palpitating; it wasn't throbbing; it was just resting, like a silver-spun net, soft and motionless, on every roof and wall and crevice and crack and chimney and bridge and window and balcony as peacefully as if it had sunk into a slumber. Rounding the Faro I came back to the bridge, getting glimpses of palaces across the Grand Canal, as I passed from moon-filled courts and piazzette into devious dark calli. On and around I went until, tired, I stopped at Florian's for my marena con ghiaccio. You cannot imagine the effect produced on a darkened street by a thin line of light running along the sill of a curtained doorway, especially when no sound comes from within. It spells a mystery, and yet, is quaintly suggestive of—what do you suppose?—the Italian "Maschere"! Every time I pass one of these doorways, I expect to see Arlecchino's head appearing to announce the opening of a show. I know Pantalon dei Bisognosi is sitting quietly behind one of them, wistfully hoping for a chance to come out in tliis darkened Venice, this Venice so like his own. Coming down the steps of the Ponte della Paglia in the soft moonlight tonight, I thought I saw Pantalon turning the corner of the Ducal Palace, but what I actually saw was a shadow of a broad-mantled figure on the pavement; only that of a Carabiniere, unfortunately. What do you suppose I have been thinking of in Venice these last two days? Whether there isn't, perhaps, some family relation between Mother Goose's dear people and "Le Maschere Veneziane"! Who knows whether the children's children of some dear

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old wandering Venetian character of good sailor stock, while traveling far afield like chips of the old block, didn't reach Pudding Lane, Boston, and find it a most congenial spot? OCTOBER 21 Early this morning I heard the noise of distant cannonading. Somehow the whole day has had a marine touch. Moored near the Riva degli Schiavoni were several battle-gray rimorchiatori, each with a bright quick-firing gun in front of its bridge. I've always liked tugboats, but these I admire especially because of their businesslike appearance. Within a stone's throw of the balustrade of the Giardini are the big warcraft. Spaced in a line, one behind the other, they are very impressive to look at, but they would make an easy mark, I should think, for aerial attack. Today, they were like beehives of activity, with sailors busily at work, testing instruments, stringing wires, and hanging life preservers on all convenient points. In the apparent confusion of the scene, one could feel the thrill of preparation for action. An officer on the Iride was telling off shells for young sailor boys to carry on their shoulders from the deck to the magazine below. U p in the bow of the boat, which was high out of the water, stood a marine, gun on shoulder. Seen in profile from the shore, he was a thrilling symbol of the watchfulness of the fleet. Behind the ships rose the Ducal Palace and the Campanile, bright in the sun, tender, beautiful, aristocratic; yet buildings and fleet did not clash, for it seemed natural that these beautiful structures should be defended by men-of-war, just as women, whose loveliness is not unlike theirs, should be defended by men. I had a long walk in the Giardini, where Wagner's bust on the Viale Trieste looks out at the fleet. Some sailors I met were wearing the new gray-green uniforms, which are not so becoming as the navy blue. One of them, a Roman I think, was ogling a pretty girl of the people. Guarda, si volta, ammira, Ed entusiasta, ritorna sui tuoi passi, he recited, grinning, as he passed her, and the girl was pleased.

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Opposite the Giardini, on the Piazza d'Armi, a lieutenant was training some raw recruits. H e was speaking very kindly to them, trying to make the simple orders clear. T h e altana on the roof of the Hotel Aurora is equipped with two aerial guns and a large megaphone. What must be the sensation of a man in this nearest defensive post to St. Mark's and the Campanile, searching the sky and listening for approaching danger, as he guards Venice asleep, trustfully relying on her soldiers and sailors! OCTOBER

22

I began my day at St. Mark's. At the entrance was a wonderful person in cocked hat, knee breeches, ruffles, and sword. What his function was I do not know, unless the Mass, being celebrated at the High Altar to the accompaniment of very soft music, was a requiem anniversary Mass for the head of some noble house. At all the early Masses a very old lame man collects elemosina. He is the most determined collector in the world, but he is sweet; for a penny he gives one a picture of the Madonna Nicopeja and, for four pennies, his blessing. I went again to the Giardini to look at the warships on which there was as much activity as yesterday. Strung between the big and little guns was the sailors' wash. A dirigible flew so low over a campiello I crossed on my homeward stretch that I could see its red, white, and green tail distinctly. Some school children cheered, "Evviva," "evvival" and called to it to come down, with the drawl, cadence, softness of speech, and inflection of miniature Venetians. Every one of them might have been a petite edition of Pantalon. Toward dusk I went to Florian's, then to the Rialto, and, across it, to the little church of San Giacomo di Rialto, the oldest in Venice, with its fetching timber-roofed vestibule. I sought out the little jewelry shop in Calle S. Polo and found the proprietor there today, with the keys. H e explained his absence of the other day by saying that he goes out daily to work for a wage of three lire to eke out his living expenses. As I walked back to the Rialto, the popolane, carrying them-

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selves well in their black shawls, with their abundant tresses as a striking note, were streaming home through the narrow, twisting calli and up and down the irregularly shaped bridges that add a characteristic touch of their own to the impression of movement and life—even gaiety—of Venice. And the little stores twinkled, as it were, before "going out" at darkening time. It was nothing very much, but even scenes like these may never be repeated. With the coming of peace, we shall return to Venice, if it is spared, but we shall never see it again as intimately as now. Not only will the streets be lighted, but the people will be self-conscious. We shall see a pageant of Venice, not Venice itself. Every hour, now, therefore, is precious. Internationalism has merits, but it does allow busybodies to penetrate into places where they don't belong and spoil a thousand subtle trifles that make for individuality and charm. I reached the Piazzetta about twilight. The sea was as impressive as ever in the changing lights of this hour. An atmosphere of silver and pink suffused everything, deepening the color of the Ducal Palace and spreading an indefinite roseateness upon every object, except upon a deep black patch where the Bridge of Sighs, lost in dark shadows, spanned an ink-black canal. Tonight there was a thinly veiled moon. Wishing to enjoy Venice at its best, free from shops and ciacole, still, signorile, tremulous, I crossed the Grand Canal and walked to Santa Maria della Salute. I wanted to try to analyze the subtle atmosphere of Venice, to find out why, with its doors barred and shutters closed, it seems so alive. From the iron bridge to Santa Maria della Salute, I don't think I met more than three persons. Two were mere shadows who disappeared almost before they appeared down one of those unexpected turns, or under one of those porticoes, or across one of those twisting ponti that go to make up the elusive charm of Venice. T h e third was a woman, or rather the shadow of one. She crossed a little piazza and stopped at a house, not only tightly shuttered, like all the other houses, but so impassive in appearance under the moonlight striking full upon it, that it seemed as if its doors must have been pulled to for all time by the last person who had come out of it. Yet, in answer to her ring, the

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door opened, without the faintest sign of light emerging, and she disappeared, swallowed up by that silent and impenetrable "within." Every act in this little incident was commonplace, but its setting, in the hazy light, seemed so unreal as to be almost unearthly. I passed on. Everything was closed. Some gondolas, dismantled for the night, lying two deep in rows, looked as if no one owned them. Here and there, a wreath of vines was strung across a narrow calle, or a bush hung over a Avail. A turn brought me to the white-stepped bridge that leads to the Church of Santa Maria della Salute. Under a moon riding high in the heavens, the great structure rose in voluminous and splendid lines, its magnificent solidity of mass and contour very different from that of St. Mark's —a noble monument with low white steps running up to its fa9ade, like waves lapping a shore. In front of it lay a jade-green, silver-flecked stream of silent waters, on the other side of which rose a line of enchanted, shuttered palaces, with not a gleam of light emerging. From a distance—a great distance, it seemed—came the voices of gondoliers. Otherwise there was no sound or sign of life. In this same silence I walked back, past walls of mystery and loveliness, through the clefts of which water trickled, catching as much moonlight and beauty as it dared, past a small enclosed garden through the dark foliage of which little rays of moonlight filtered. The little bridges I crossed were so white that they seemed to spring from their piers rather than rest on them. I asked myself again and again: Why does Venice, in this aspect of abandonment, seem so alive? If Venice were darkened by choice instead of by necessity; if the Venetians, instead of having shut themselves in their houses, had closed them and gone away, would the same restless, thrilling sense pervade it? What makes the city so beautiful? What, besides the moonlight and the water and the incomparable beauty of its lines? For there is something more than any or all of these in its beauty. I know it is not the spirit of Venice brooding over the city, because there is nothing remotely suggestive of a brooding spirit. But something is resting upon i t — something that comes out of the stones, out of the waters, down from the camini, over the garlanded walls, warming its appearance of abandonment into a life full of depth and feeling. What it is I

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do not know. Perhaps it is the spirit of Venice manifesting itself in the subtle, living evidence, which exists everywhere, of the attempt made by generations of men to express in stone and paint, in line and curve, in bronze and glass and mosaic the reaction upon their spirit of all its garnered loveliness. Oh, if only I could paint the life that dwelt in the silent and supremely graceful beauty of tonight! OCTOBER

23

In the morning I like to go and warm myself at that busy spot on the Riva degli Schiavoni, between the Ca di Dio and the Arsenal Bridge, where other loungers enjoy the "lazy-fying" heat. It is a bustling scene, for all sorts of boats and gondolas manned by soldiers who come "per far la spesa" tie up here. While the boats rock gently and brush against one another, the soldier-marketers heap them with huge sacks of bread, great baskets of vegetables, bowls of provisions, and Basks. Then, with a few loud words to their comrades in neighboring boats to make room, the gondoliers ply their oars, the boatmen let off steam, and off they go to this or that island, this or that caserma, with a sense of good meals casting their shadows before that lends a touch of homeliness to the morning. A t Sanzin's, the shop of a music dealer in the Merceria, where I went to buy a furlana (the Venetian dance), I found a transcription of a real furlana air of 1800, harmonized by Gino Casellati, an old professor of music. Although the furlana has some of the characteristics of the tarantella, it is never sciolta and vulgar; it is polite in a peasant way and crudely gracious. I also invested in some of the old Venetian canzonette. I must find out how Neapolitan songs are keyed. Surely you couldn't sing Venetian except in flats. You always wish to sing it softly, never to shout for joy. This fact, perhaps, is explained by the immanent grace and delicate conception of all Venetian artists, with the exception of a few strong, sensual colorists. While I was in the music store, an old, frail-looking professor of music came in, much perturbed about the war. I sat down with him and the proprietor, the most optimistic of us all, for a three-

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sided ciacola. T h e professor was very down in the mouth about the situation in the Balkans, insisting that Greece and Rumania would join Bulgaria, and then Germany would attack Venice. Tonight the moon rose early. It was up and full before the "darkening" hour, and the Piazza, in the light coming through the arcades of the Procuratie, from the stores and cafes, looked hideously garish and commonplace in comparison with the beauty of its mass and outline on other nights. Later, in a moonlight saddened by a growing dampness and a fleecy sky, I went on my night vigil to San Trovaso, the "Dutch" part of Venice as I call it, quiet and sleepy, all nicely tucked away in its slumbers. Beyond the Consulate I crossed over a bridge that brought me into a narrow lane leading to the Zattere, where the gloomy light was accentuated by the desolate note of the distant masts and spars of the interned ships lying in the Giudecca Canal. Five torpedo boats, looking as useless as playthings, were moored near the Fondamenta. A sailor on one of them was practicing a mandolin, and some of his comrades, who had landed, were paying compliments in a Neapolitan accent to a girl of the vicinage. On my way back I wandered in courts and alleys, but the spark that drove my spirit heavenward last night was lacking. T h e gondolas lined up in front of the Albergo Cavaletto, empty and still, made me think of a row of corpses of soldiers in trenches, awaiting burial. St. Mark's, though, was tremendously appealing in this light, which chastened every vestige of its oriental splendor into an infinitely fine and delicate textdre, and made the angel figures rising, like pinnacles, one above the other on the arch over the main entrance look as white and evanescent as pure spirits against the background of fleecy skies. I felt the depth of what a Venetian woman near me was saying to a friend: "Quando i xe vegnui, no ghe giera un Venesian che no piansesse." I believe the Venetians did all cry at the thought that figures such as these might be hurt —hurt rather than injured. There is an intimacy between Venetian architecture and Venetian people that probably cannot be matched elsewhere. This relationship, having its roots in affection, not history, has been augmented, no doubt, by the spiritual character of their buildings, which are flesh of their flesh and blood

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of their blood. They constitute an ownership in common, a legacy received from the "family," which must be transmitted to the children. A misty veil was drifting in from the sea, diffusing a cold, sad light, under which the delicate beauty of the Ducal Palace seemed more than ever exposed to danger. As I walked up the Riva to my hotel, I heard the Giants of the Torre dell' Orologio announce the hour by striking ten slow strokes and the bells in the Campanile of San Giorgio, which looked very slender and shadowy tonight, answer them one by one in a subdued tone. I could see nothing of the Campanile but its balustrade shining on high like a ring of white snow and its snowy pinnacle melting like a strange white peak into the filmy clouds, through the interstices of which shone a few small stars. OCTOBER

24

T h e air is throbbing with the approach of some stirring event. Even the people walking up and down the Piazza this Sunday morning are visibly influenced by the little ripples of excitement and repressed joyousness playing about in the sunlight, which spring, perhaps, from Cadorna's report of today, with its distinct indication of a stirring advance. There are dust-covered soldiers all over the town, looking as if they had just come from the front. Will it be Gorizia? Is it Gorizia already? Who can tell? Who knows, who knows? But why not feel glad in this sunshine? Even the proprietor of the hotel, who is generally the soul of indifference, is talking wildly about champagne for everybody today. On the Riva, where I turned for the warmth of the sun, a number of French aviators and British sailors strolling up and down added a stirring note of "pull together" to the scene. I stopped to look at a tiny bark, as funny as anything that ever sailed out of Barrie's imagination, a homemade mixture of gondola and canoe, about five feet long and two wide, with a sail, if you please—a patched bit of canvas smartly tied to a broom-stick —to catch the breeze, a rudder operated by two pieces of string, and a paddle made in fairyland from a plank of an old house torn

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down in Mother Goose Land. Its mariner was a superhumanly ugly little boy, a sort of Venetian Happy Hooligan, with one normal eye and the other turned toward his left ear. W h e n he wasn't paddling or pulling the strings of his rudder with the air of a successful yachtsman, he was sponging water from the bottom of his craft. Why it didn't sink, I don't know, unless the waters enjoyed keeping it afloat to poke fun at it. It is getting cold, and the Royal Hotel Danieli is royally allowing its guests to freeze. I heard some naval officers say that a consignment of oil stoves had arrived to heat the torpedo boats. Some days ago I called on Monsignore Apollonio, Arciprete of San Marco. I did not find him at home, but his housekeeper, on learning that I came from America, exclaimed "Maria Vergine!" and begged me to come again. So, this morning, passing around the corner of the Piazzetta of the red lions, whose heads I like to pet just as I pet the head of my dog T r a m p , I stopped at the Arciprete's humble little door in the tiny Calle San Basso and pulled its old-fashioned bell. After it had rung wildly, high up in the air, a woman appeared at a window on the third floor, Venetianly scanning me and Venetianly asking me what I wanted. Apparently I met with her approval, for the little door suddenly and mysteriously opened, disclosing a short flight of stairs leading to a sunny bit of a parlor, whence by a succession of little rooms, each a step higher than the other, I reached Monsignore's study, which was flooded with the light that dwells on St. Mark's cupolas and sheds its rays on Manin's tomb. T h e Monsignore is tall, well built, old but in good condition, with a fine nose and blue eyes lighting up his kindly face now and then with an irrepressible Venetian sparkle. He tried to talk Italian but fell easily into Iiis mother tongue as soon as he understood that I wasn't a real stranger. T h e suffering of the poor in Venice is unavoidable, he said, because of the lack of business and the increase in the price of commodities. No real destitution exists, however, for purses have been generously opened and the Difesa Civile is working hard on behalf of the needy. Some of the women are employed by the government to make clothes for the soldiers, but the work is insufficient and poorly paid. No funds

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have been received from America in answer to Professor McCIellan's plea, as far as he knew, the Monsignore said in reply to a question I put to him. He smiled boyishly and a bit shrewdly as he said, " I dolari dall' America i vegnaria ben accolti." St. Mark's, he thinks, is safe from attack. T h e enemy would certainly have tried to bomb it before now, had they meant to injure it. "Besides," he said, "we are so well defended now"—"Adesso semo cosi ben difesi—proprio—no ghe xe piü pericolo." T h e Venetians stand the attacks well. They are much more moved by curiosity than by fear. "Anca mi," he said ingenuously, as he explained that he had watched the fights in the air with great interest. He takes special pride in the fact that he has been able to keep the miraculous effigy of the Madonna Nicopeja exposed since last May by gifts of devotional lights. For the coming week a candlemaker has contributed candles. "After that," said he, "if it seems as if there would be no more offerings of candles or money, I shall think up some way of procuring lights for the Madonna. Once before, when we needed money for this purpose, I had postcard reproductions made of a picture of the Lion of St. Mark's standing in front of the Basilica, as its defender—a picture that my nephew painted for St. Mark's Day, an occasion we always celebrate in some way. Ε cosi," he added, smiling, "son deventä venditor de cartoline per la Madonna." On the Monsignore's visiting card is a little picture of the Lion. Vespers at St. Mark's. Every open space in the City of Little Byways was crowded this afternoon, as I wended my way to St. Mark's. T h e Basilica had its share of people too. In front of the Altar of the Holy Sacrament, at which the service was held, there was a large group of people, some seated, some standing in irregular lines against the scaffolds of sandbags that cover the treasures of St. Mark's. Among the men, who were as numerous as the women, were naval and military officers, attentive and quite devout, and a sprinkling of French aviators and British tars. T h e Sacrament was exposed and the Litany sung with strength and fervor, though the singing was not always true to the soft notes of the organ accompanying it. From a temporary pulpit

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erected in the midst of the worshippers, Monsignore Apollonio preached on the text, " R e n d e r unto Caesar the things which are Caesar's, and unto God the things which are God's," drawing from it the lesson of obedience to the sovereign and submission to the burden that he, as representative of the Patria, imposes for the common good. One could not escape the sense of peace that came with the benediction. T h e flickering light of a taper on the end of a long pole, carried by a sacristan who became lost in the crowd as he worked his way forward to light the candles on the altar, seemed to wander strangely of its own volition through the darkening church, casting long shadows on walls and columns. T h e " T a n t u m ergo," sung well in chorus, mingled with some distant church chimes playing the "Ave Maria." T h e music wandered softly around arches and domes and columns, spreading as lightly as the incense in which the figure of the Priest looked white and spiritual when he lifted up the Vessel containing the Host. At the sound of the gong, the people bowed devotionally and knelt so low that, when they rose, it seemed as if a communion of prayer was rising from the dark pavement of the church. Many, as they passed out of the Basilica, touched with loving hands the icon of a Byzantine Madonna and Child hanging on one of the pillars, as thousands have touched it in the unnumbered years of its ministrations. T h e light, streaming through the central door, was purified of its intensity in the glorious vestibule before it wandered into the Basilica and sought, surprised and awed, a sheltered place from which to gaze at the splendor facing it. Merging with the light that came through a small window high up in the apse of the church, it bronzed the gold of the mosaics, it darkened the shadows on arches and capitals, it gave an air of godliness to the whole church—raising the domes, as it were, and throwing mysterious dark lights on walls and pillars. I have never seen the church in a better light. All who have labored and fought for Venice might well have been proud of St. Mark's as it appeared today. T h e great men, the doers and thinkers, the warriors and sailors, the artists and saints—all who had dreamed and prayed and hoped and planned here—lived in this light, lived in the benediction that covered us all.

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As I approached the open portal, I saw the flags on the high masts in front of the Basilica and the great Sunday crowds walking up and down the Piazza in a light that was growing dusky but seemed garish compared with the shadowy light within the Basilica. I walked to the Molo and watched the coming of the night over the waters. I like this view best during the few moments of the day when there is hardly any light, when the sun has set and the moon is invisible, and there is only one softly luminous star in the sky, high, high, and far. T h e churches of San Giorgio and Santa Maria della Salute then seem translucent, with a translucence not like that of alabaster, but of smoke turned silver, or silver beaten into thin and not quite lucent smoke. T h e island of San Giorgio has a strange and stirring touch, for in this peculiar, uncertain, but penetrating light, the soldiers in the altana on top of the barracks stand out very clearly. T h e water, smooth and completely at rest, is tranquil, not colorful. Even the gondolas moving in the distance seem almost motionless, so soft are their little turns. With their ferri catching the light, but their felze dim and shadowy, they look like real craft bearing along incorporeal burdens requiring no strain or effort. T h e night falls, the crowds turn homeward, the soldiers and sailors, to their tasks. As the lights of man go out, the shutters come down with a bang as dramatic in its intensity of purpose and resolve as if the enemy were at the gate. T h e vaporetti at their moorings seem strangely still and noiseless. T h e pigeons have all gone snugly to sleep in their niches midst saints and angels. Venice regains all the serenity of old days, all its grace, all its memories. From the altane comes the cry, "Per 1' aria . . . Buona Guardia," and silence settles down. T h e lights on the warships go out, but the flags on every boat, from the tugs in war paint with their tiny guns to the cruisers anchored near the Giardini, stay up at their mastheads. They are the flags of Italy at war. After midnight. Just through an hour's raid. Venice is unhurt! An incendiary bomb fell on the Piazzetta near the Column of San Todaro, not far from where I stood. Its liquid contents burst into flames which were quickly extinguished. T h e enemy was invisible,

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the defense prompt and active. T h e populace behaved well. God be thanked. OCTOBER

25

I shall try to put down only the visual incidents of last night and this morning, no impressions. I am too tired even to attempt the portrayal of the glory and splendor of Venice under fire. T h i s I remember. After my evening walk to Santa Maria della Salute, I stopped at Florian's but left at ten o'clock to retire early. It was moonlight, but clouded. T h e view from the Piazzetta was very subdued in tone. I took a turn around San Todaro's Column to the loggia of the Giardino Reale, where some Red Cross "scows" are moored behind a wooden fence to shield them from the gaze of the curious. I heard a dull sound of a motor in the air. My ear is not attuned to the grinding noise of these modern machines of war, but it seemed heavier than those of the Italian aircraft, even when they are flying quite low. Everybody hastened toward the Piazzetta because the sound, like that of a machine circling or rising and falling, seemed to come from the vicinity of the two historic Columns. When the warning screech of the siren and a blank shot from the signal gun rent the air, the people scurried for shelter, not as they would have in a panic, but at the sudden outbreak of a thunderstorm. T h e only excited voices were those of some mothers gathering their children and running toward the porticoes of the Doges' Palace, where they could only hug the base of the pillars for protection because of the brick supports filling the arches. I hastened toward the Ponte della Paglia, which crosses the canal spanned by the Bridge of Sighs, the highest point in the neighborhood whence I could see both sea and sky. A rocket, a red light, went up from the Arsenal—then two more rockets, a signal that three aeroplanes of the enemy had been sighted. T h e next thing I saw—up to now I don't think more than five minutes had passed—was a red and yellow light of irregular shape breaking in the air above the Piazzetta, on a level with the top of the arches of the Procuratie Nuove, and, immediately below it, lurid flames of the same color leaping from the ground; but I did not hear any explosion. Contemporaneously

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reflectors threw great streams of light across the sky. T h e first, which came apparently from the island of San Giorgio and swept the entire sky arch of Venice, was met by a second from the Giudecca; then another, longer than either of these, shot out from the rear. Except for the signal firing there was no shooting. T h e defense was evidently trying to place the enemy. T h e sky, strangely enough, was inscrutable, though the rumble of machinery, however uneven, was constant, near and far. I ran toward the blaze on the Piazzetta, just behind San Todaro's Column. A strong smell of kerosene rose from the liquid fire which was spreading toward the Library. I saw the engine of evil later, or rather what was left of it, when it was brought into the Danieli: an incendiary bomb in the shape of a candlestick about eighteen inches high, with an igniting charge in its tubular stem and a supply of pitch and petroleum in its heavy base which served to steady it in its fall. It made a slight oval-shaped depression in the stone pavement. While voices on every side were shouting, "Boja," "Canaje," at the enemy, a detonation came through the air from the direction of San Giorgio, not sharp, not overloud, but even a tyro like me knew it wasn't a blank shot. "Al coperto, al coperto," shouted the guardie. T h e fire was out; so I walked up the Riva, around all the open doorways of which stood groups of refugees. At the entrance of the Danieli I saw Lieutenant Commander Jackson, our naval attache, and introduced myself to him. We walked together to the water's edge and took up our stand near the flagpole of a vaporetto station. Firing began from several directions, a sort of dry, "a-musical" music, with real tones and half tones according to the ammunition used. In a sky of gentlest, veiled moonlight appeared small, thick white clouds, lovely, soft but substantial things, which floated long before dissolving. These bursts of shrapnel came more or less in the same area, showing that one of the enemy had been located. T h e rattle of musketry had a music all of its own—rattat-a-tat with quick precision, followed by the pit-pit-pit of small calibre guns. When spent shot and shrapnel balls began to rattle like hail on the metal roof of the vaporetto station, Jackson said, "We ought to get under cover," advice I did not feel inclined to

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heed, so incidental did the danger of the moment seem, measured by the gloriousness of the experience. I stepped into the hotel, however, to get my overcoat, and a sound as of a charge of musketry met me, a round of shot pouring through the glass roof of the court, proof enough that the projectiles, though spent, had some go yet. I could see but dimly the fragments of glass lying on the pavement, for the entire ground floor of the Danieli was lighted by a single candle. Beautiful shadows fell on the Venetian arches and the high stairway of the great hall where, no doubt, Alfred de Musset and George Sand had sat. Around the doorway stood a crowd of men and women, above whose heads, silhouetted against the sky, streams of light were playing. Upstairs, the long hall was dark except for the light of a candle standing on the floor, at the head of the stairs. I changed my coat and went out. My state of feeling was singularly simple, a sense of wholesomeness at the thought that my days might end this way. The ancient gesture of the Greek philosopher who folded his garments about him for the solemn sleep of death undoubtedly expressed the fineness of the truth brought home to me at that moment: there is no fear of death in man, only the fear of pain. Outside, what a picture of war worthy indeed of Venice, playing tremendously to the eye and imagination! First of all, there was Venice as I have tried to depict it, and then there was the effect on the wondrous scene of the sights and sounds of war, as I saw it from many points of view. A strong dramatic touch was lent by the absence of any noise except the battle noise and the invisibility of both the offense and the defense; for, on moonlight nights, the sky acts as a reflector and throws the light on the waters so that the eye cannot detect the presence of aircraft in the skies. You could hear the engines of destruction of friend and foe, you could trace them by their martial music to their habitat in sea or sky, but you could see nothing, absolutely nothing, not even the flash I had always imagined accompanied the firing of cannon, not even smoke—only the shrapnel cloudlets. The light was that of a moon in a peaceful sky cut by bright flashes from the reflectors and dotted with clusters of little clouds. You could see the palaces and their dainty, carved traceries, you could see the bridges, white

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and still, rising over the canals, but you could only imagine the terrible fate hanging over them all. T h e r e wasn't a man visible; the boats were empty; the gondolas were immobile; there was no wind; there was nothing to speak of terror and suffering and death, nothing to point to the probable fall of treasures close at hand, no visible sign of the consuming flame that might take them from the midst of living and glorious tilings—and yet there was war! T h e sense of battle was profound. T h e attack lasted about an hour. As the sounds of strife diminished, the people began to come out into the open. How they talked! Yet everywhere someone Avas trying to prevent the infringement of regulations or impose the silence necessary for detecting the sound of motors in the air. A laborer, a tiny specimen of humanity grasped, with a really fine gesture, the arm of a man lighting a cigar: "Par Dio non te pol spetar?" When the man's only answer was to light another match, he knocked the cigar out of his mouth and scornfully accused him of acting like a spy, "Se diria che el xe una spia." I am told that the crowds in the theatres behaved well when they were suddenly plunged into darkness by the turning off of the electric lights all over the city at the first signal of alarm. As soon as candles were lighted at the Goldoni, the audience urged Tempestini, who was acting in D'Annunzio's La Fiaccola sotto il Moggio, to repeat one great passage. A banquet at which the naval officers were entertaining the French aviators ended in darkness. Finally the cannon and the siren, in an interrupted screech, gave the signal of the enemy's departure. Had I listened to Commander Jackson, who said he thought they would return, I should have saved myself some trouble, for I was half undressed when the long screech of the siren and the signal gun announced another attack. As the electric lights were extinguished, I heard a woman's tense voice in the great hall downstairs, asking, "Is it the closing signal or a new attack?" Her words seemed to reverberate in the darkness. I lighted a candle, dressed, and took a drink of cognac because I was very cold—a reaction to tenseness, probably. Inside of five minutes I was downstairs. It was, I think, a little before midnight. Jackson, in his big, heavy coat, joined me. T h e defense was ready.

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T h e firing was on a heavier scale, it seemed to me, than before, but, inside of a quarter of an hour, it ceased. Seeing a reddish light in the direction of the Arsenal, I walked quickly along the Riva, past Victor II's statue, to a bridge whence I saw plainly the reflections of ruddy flames in the waters. Some sailors and popolani standing nearby saw it too, and, moved by a very elemental impulse, we all started to run—some part of our city, our Venice, was burning! Despite my heavy motor coat I ran so fast that I went up and down the steps of the bridges as if I were hurdling them. Everywhere a fine sense of fellowship prevailed, soldiers throwing open the blinds of their barracks, and patients popping their white-capped heads out of the windows of Red Cross hospitals to ask what was the matter. Out of the narrow lane alongside the Rio dell' Arsenale, a group of women carrying babies, with children running alongside them, were pouring on to the fondamenta. Behind them, flames were flickering, high in the air, against some old buildings. T h e top of a tenement was burning, and these people were seeking shelter. Rough-looking men and grimy coal-passers from the warships were leading children by the hand and helping women with babies over the bridges to the houses of neighbors. I walked on toward the Arsenal and saw flames shooting out of the top of a building next but one to it. Another close shot! I hear that a third bomb went through the roof of San Stae and damaged a fresco. There was no panic but much cursing of the enemy by the crowd, who were shouting for the firemen, "Dove xei, i pompieri, dove xei?" Far away, across the waters, trumpets announced the arrival of the fireboats. Soon a heavy boat, chuck-chucking along, appeared, filled with firemen in brass-tipped helmets, to whom the crowd, strung out along the fondamenta, shouted instructions to take this or that canal to save time. Next came a smaller boatload of firemen and a gondola in which there was an officer directing operations. Although the pompieri had been slow in coming, they were quick in putting their pump to work and stringing out a narrow hose. Despite the usual shouting and running about to which Italians in action are given, the fire was out in five minutes. Afterwards a police officer in civilian clothes—you could have

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spotted him with one eye closed—walked fussily among us, explaining that the fire had been caused by a lamp overturned in the excitement of the raid. And some there were who believed himl Life in Venice had become almost unreal, so out of the ordinary was it in action, conduct, and aspect. I spoke the language of these people as I had never spoken it, and they accepted me as one of themselves. I felt, in a very real sense, as if I were taking part in a family affair, and I could have gone off with those coalsteeped sailors or those gentle-faced laborers as with brothers. I was in bed by 2 A. M. and slept until seven when I began to pack, uncertain whether my sojourn would be extended. Shortly after eight, just as I was half through breakfast, I heard the fateful shriek of the siren and the telling, muffled blank shot of the cannon. T h e effect of the signal was unlike that of last night; it called you out to see rather than imagine and feel. I went downstairs, taking with me the wonderful little binocular Florence gave me. Outside the Danieli I met Commander Jackson in his uniform. Viva Uncle Sam, but my glasses are better than his! T h e morning was raw, with some rays of sunlight flickering through its dull, gray atmosphere. Many persons scurried under cover, but many stayed out in the open. Everything was going on as usual, and quite a little continued to go on as usual. T h e scene was lively, and, if I may say so, "obvious." You could see the enemy's machines, though the noise of the day's work made it almost impossible to hear them. T h e only instance of fright I saw was a woman in a faint, being carried off one of the Lido boats. Boys on the way to school forgot that schoolmasters existed, and errand boys forgot their errands. Several gathered around me, like bees around a flower, dying for a look through my spy glass. I remember especially one, carrying an unconscionable number of baskets, whose mouth was agape with desire. He had the joy of having Italy's enemy brought close to his bright blue eyes through Florence's gift. How strangely blessed are some little things at times! Mr. Carroll, our smiling Consul, soon appeared, with a handful of projectiles he had picked up on the way. W e happened to spy

I9I5 a shrapnel bullet at the same moment, and he begged me to keep it and present it to Florence with his compliments. U p in the sky three aircraft were flying very high, quite sure, apparently, of where they wanted to go. One was heading toward the Lido, one, hovering around the Arsenal, and one—oh, how we watched that! Lower and lower it came, looking like an ugly and shuddering striped dragonfly. T h e other two, meanwhile, were turning tail and running away apparently. About all three of them shrapnel from our defense was bursting—some splendid shots! An Italian hydroplane rose slowly to the rescue, going back and forth heavily in an attempt to reach the height at which the strength of its wings can best be put to service. It takes twenty minutes, I am told, for one of these machines to get the right start. Meanwhile, the striped evil thing was coming, coming. It sailed over the Danieli. It disappeared among the roofs. In the hearts of all of us rose the picture of St. Mark's. T h e r e was an instantaneous move, breaking into a rush for the Piazza, a rush prompted by an instinct much finer and deeper than that of curiosity I know; for, at such a moment as this, one apprehends the spiritual impulses moving a crowd as clearly as one sees the emotions written on their faces. These men, these boys were going to the defense of St. Mark's! "Daghela, daghela! Can de un boja," they shouted. Suddenly the evil thing turned and fled to sea like a man ashamed of his villainy. Shall I ever forget the moment when I saw it turn and sail away? I have read that in the fifth century the inhabitants of Aquileia and other ancient Roman towns destroyed by Attila withdrew to the Rialto and Malamocco, where they built up a greater glory and trained a perfect flower. T h e ways of the new barbarians are essentially more barbarous than those of Attila; they do not destroy a whole city—it does not pay to destroy it entirely—but they maim it, leaving ugly bleeding wounds, where once breathed loveliness. How much less cruel was Attila who put his victims wholly to death! I have received a ten days' extension! I present arms to the Defense of the Venetian Coast!

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I thought hard how to frame a telegram that would pass the censor and yet let Florence know that I am safe and sound. I finally decided on, " I am very well after an unforgettable day." T h e telegraph operator had some doubts about it, but he tried to encourage me by arguing that, " A day may be unforgettable because it's your wedding day. I guess they'll let it through." I myself think, "they" will, especially as the official account of the raid was prompt, fair, and exact. T h e Church of the Scalzi, not San Stae, was damaged by a bomb. Tiepolo's large fresco on the ceiling, the "Translation of the House of the Virgin to Loreto," is irreparably damaged. In the evening I went to the first of a series of "maschere veneziane," acted by Picello's company, a performance as Venetian in its way as the battle night, though it displayed the soft humor and tender heart of Venice at play. It proved to be just the relaxation one needed after the tenseness of the past days. A small orchestra, accompanying a spinet, played some music of the settecento effectively. T h e play, Goldoni's Cameriera brillante, droll and spontaneous despite its occasionally exaggerated tone, was opened by a lampista dressed in a costume of the period, black knickerbockers, blue blouse, and a tall black tasseled cap. As he came on the stage to light the candles at the ribalta, the prompter twisted himself out of his box to let us see that he was similarly arrayed. Everybody acted well, and how we laughed, borghesi, officers, and French aviators, doubling over at Arlecchino's hard-headed jokes, his rough-and-tumble humor, and his insatiable hunger, which makes him measure everything in life by "la pansa" and "se ghe xe da magnar." Ο11 my way home I heard, just as the Orologio finished striking eleven, that strange and impressive cry, " P e r Γ aria . . . Buona Guardia," " P e r Γ aria . . . Buona Guardia," ringing softly through a sky of fading moonlight like the echo of a sound from centuries past. Its cavernous tone is accounted for possibly by the fact that it is megaphoned from watchtower to watchtower. A few words during the day with Commander Jackson confirmed my own impression that the moment you get away from

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the bureaucratic part of the Italian army you find yourself among very friendly and well-disposed officers. He was not only received very courteously and shown everything at the front but was able to collect useful data for the United States about the new appliances and instruments of war that the Italians are using. T h e organization of the army seemed to him excellent and the supplies ample. Not once had he seen a motor break down. No wonder, for the military chauffeurs, most of whom were in private service before the war, are deprived of their licenses forever, Jackson was informed, if anything short of a bombardment disables the machines in their charge! I was summoned to the Arsenal to hear good news, part of a long telegram from General Porro, second in Supreme Command, stating in effect that I could stay in Venice as long as I liked. T h e very courteous officer who has always received me at the Arsenal told me that if I cared to go to Udine, the seat of the General Staff of the army, and other places in the war zone, he thought permission for me to do so could be arranged by telegraph. A striking little note of warl A paragraph in heavy type of a proclamation regulating the traffic to the Cemetery on All Souls' Day prohibits the use of candles or lumini on the graves, as is the universal custom in Italy on this solemn anniversary. OCTOBER

28

Yesterday I spent seeking an interview with Ugo Ojetti, author and art critic of international reputation. As a volunteer in the war he holds the humble rank of lieutenant, but, as curator of the archives, collections, and monuments that fall into the hands of the Italians, he possesses plenary powers in Italia Irredenta, which has always been considered part of Italy's patrimony, though it has been for long years under Austrian domination. T h i s position of Ojetti has no parallel in the armies of the other Allies, whose only records, unfortunately, are the tragic lists of the valuable works of art and history that have passed into the hands of the Germans. A t the beginning of the war, Ojetti served on a commission

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whose duty it was to post special signs, in accordance with the provisions of the Hague Convention, on all of the palaces in Venice registered as monuments of national art. "Before the work was half completed," he said, "we took them all down, unwilling to have Venice look as if she were holding up a thousand hands in a plea for mercy." Ojetti, who has been close to the firing line for the last six months and in frequent relation with the Supreme Command, has no illusions about the possibility of waging war with gentleness. "Venice, however," he said, speaking in English, as Commander Jackson was with me, "is in a class of its own, for the city is essentially a collection of artistic treasures strung together along the Grand Canal; if you touch the smallest pearl, you injure the entire chain. T h e Austrians cannot even plead the excuse of enemies who come from a great distance to attack a city about which they know little. They are better acquainted with every item of this jeweled collection than many Italians. It is no secret that the commander of the aerial fleet of Trieste is as conversant with Venice as I am. If proof were needed of the ability of the Austrians to distinguish localities and of their intention to injure specific buildings, we certainly have it in the bombs they used in this raid; for, on the inflammable wooden-roofed buildings of the Palace of the Doges and the old Zecca, they dropped an incendiary bomb, and on the substantial structure of the railroad depot, a high-explosive bomb—the bomb that by a mischance destroyed the Tiepolo fresco in the Church of the Scalzi." "Understand," he continued earnestly, "if the enemy destroyed our aviation station, which is distinctly observable from the sky, if they poured a merciless fire upon the Arsenal, which offers an unmistakable target of eighty acres of dry docks, wharfs, and basins, if they attempted to set fire to the railroad station at Mestre, through which troops are constantly passing to the front, instead of the insignificant terminal station of Venice, if they even dropped bombs on some military objective that, by some untoward chance, caused the death of innocent civilians—all this, I say, would be tragic and regrettable, but it would be war. But it is not war for the enemy to drop bombs on the heart of Venice instead of on the many easily dis-

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tinguishable places of enormous military importance over which they pass on their flights hither." Part of Ojetti's task is to unearth the treasures of art in the region conquered by the Italians that the Austrians, unable to carry away, hid or buried. After making careful note of them, he leaves them in charge of some reliable person, a local official or parish priest, unless they are of supreme artistic value or in danger of exposure to the risks of war. There is no question but that the Austrians removed or attempted to remove everything of value. They stripped churches of their precious possessions and gave to the clergy in charge of them no receipts or documents of any kind in exchange. "On the very day," said Ojetti, "that Von Bülow, as mediator for Austria during the period of neutrality, was offering the immediate transfer of Aquileia to Italy, the Austrians were engaged in taking away from the Archaeological Museum there 1,600 precious objects—bronzes, jewels, coins, glass, and amber. That was the kind of transfer they were offering!" T o give us an idea of the measures taken by the Italians to protect private property of the enemy, Ojetti told us that he has sealed the personal archives of an Austrian diplomat, rescued from the ruins of a villa in Gradisca—a town badly damaged by the artillery of the retreating Austrians at the time of its capture by the Italians—and forwarded them to the interior of Italy for safekeeping during the war and return to their owner or his heirs at its close. On the other hand, Ojetti drew our attention to the way in which the Austrians treated the Roman ruins in Italia Irredenta throughout the years of their sway. Fearing that the sight of these historic remains might awaken the desire of the inhabitants to become Italians in name as well as in fact, the Austrians excavated them superficially, removed as many loose objects as possible, and then sowed wheat or other grain on top of them. Ojetti is evidently in psychological agreement with this Austrian point of view, however, for he believes in allowing the Italian soldiers to see whatever Roman or Italian remains exist in the districts wherein they are fighting, because he feels sure that the untutored

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but observing minds of the Italian peasants will thus grasp the fact that these lands are historically and artistically part of Italy. He has, for instance, removed the sawdust and planks protecting a fine mosaic floor of R o m a n origin in one of the conquered centres, so that the soldiers may see it. T h e Commander in Chief, General Cadorna, who belongs to a period in which men received a broad and artistic education, was terribly shocked, Ojetti says, by this air raid on Venice. Intensely interested in the search for art treasures, he occasionally spends a quiet evening with Ojetti, discussing the best methods of safeguarding some ancient monument, or visits, in the lull of a quiet afternoon, the Cathedral of Grado or the Museum of Aquileia to acquaint himself with those objects of artistic or historic interest that bear mute but effective witness to the ancient confines of the Italian nation. Through a card of introduction from Ojetti to Padre Serafino I was admitted to the Church of the Scalzi. Padre Serafino looks like a man who has come, struggling but victorious, through a tremendous experience. " N o doubt you wish facts," he said to me, after our first words of greeting were over, "but it is hard for me to unravel facts from emotions. It was all so swift and terrible. . . . On the night of the raid all my brothers were in their cells by half past eight; for we retire early in order to rise at 4 A. M., according to the rules of our order. After locking the door I went to bed, and was just dozing off when I heard a terrific explosion. In the deathlike silence that ensued, I called to my brothers to join me. W e groped our way downstairs to the sacristy for greater safety, not daring to open the shutters or strike a light. T h e defense was by then giving battle, and, as the volleys of shrapnel and musketry rent the air, we huddled together in the darkness, awaiting we knew not what fate. In a lull of the battle I opened the door leading into the church and saw a flood of moonlight shining on chapels and altars and a mass of plaster and rubbish heaped high on the pavement, from which a thin and impalpable dust was rising. For a moment I could not move. I did not understand what had hap-

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pened. T h e n I thought of the Host and remembered my duty. I called upon my brothers to follow me, and, across those smoking ruins, we made our way to the High Altar. But the brothers were so overcome, poor things, that they could hardly make the response 'Miserere Nobis' to my prayers while I removed the Host from the Sanctuary." After listening to Padre Serafino's story, I went carefully around the interior of the church. T h e bomb exploded in a space between the roof and the ceiling, which was not filled with brick, for the church was built in a period when show, not solidity, was the fashion. A much heavier roof, though, could not have withstood the high-explosive bomb used. Nearly all the timbers are still in place, but not a shred of plaster is left. T h e entire ceiling, and with it, of course, Tiepolo's great fresco, lies on the floor, a mass of plaster, interspersed with laths and broken odds and ends of wooden pews. Strangely enough neither the High Altar nor the lateral chapels suffered any damage; even the saints and angels that adorn them came safely through this terrible ordeal. An inscription on the outside of the Scalzi relates that, about the middle of the nineteenth century, the present Austrian Emperor provided funds for the restoration of this church! On my way back to the hotel I bought some of the latest poetic rehearsals of the raid, which numerous street hawkers are selling at a cent apiece. Three hours after the attack on Sunday night the Venetians were reading a poem fresh from the pen of one of their vernacular rhymesters, with the far from polite but richly expressive title, "I xe tornai sti nati da cani"—They're back again, those sons of dogs. Two little urchins were looking this morning at the dent made in the Piazzetta by the incendiary bomb. "See," said one of them, with an earnestness that made me wish to pick him up, take him home, and buy him a million toys, "see where they wanted to start a fire arid burn down the Campanile? Alora giera bela e finida"—That would have been the end of everything. Late this afternoon I walked over to the Fondamenta Nuove and looked out upon the waters. T h e lovely gray light hanging

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over them rested silently on the motionless cypresses of the Cimitero in the distance and set o u t in airy silhouette the Casa degli Spiriti, with two guns on its roof p o i n t i n g skyward. I have been attending the "maschere" every evening. Last night I met Dr. Balanzon, a character I had forgotten. T h e play he appeared in was not by G o l d o n i ; it lacked power and real humor. In between the acts I have been meeting another old friend of a different nature in a little c a f i — a glass of marasche alio spirito! OCTOBER 2 9

O n my return f r o m the G o l d o n i last night, a sleepy hotel clerk handed me a telegram a n n o u n c i n g the arrival of Florence and N e l l i e tomorrow evening. T h e news filled me w i t h such joy that I confess V e n i c e has come second in my thoughts all day. I went to the A d m i r a l t y this m o r n i n g to give notice of their c o m i n g and had the satisfaction of k n o w i n g that a telegraphic order was dispatched to the C o m a n d o at the station to permit Florence Colgate Speranza and Ellen Ryerson, "sudditi nordamericani," to enter Venice. A little note in my t h u m b sketch-book, " O n e star lights V e n i c e , " describing the strange power of the evening star in Venice to prolong the twilight and light the campi and piazzette after dark, fits in with the thought of Florence's coming. Yesterday evening Venice had a strange new aspect in the darkness. T h e Piazza, w h i c h generally conserves whatever light there is because of its spaciousness and openness, was quite forbidding in appearance. St. Mark's and the C a m p a n i l e were darkly diaphanous. T h e y spoke to m e of the sea, of the real, tempestuous sea. T h e i r architectural lines, r e m i n d i n g m e of ropes on ships, strong b u t not stiff, reliable and pliant b u t not hard, suggested that the only proper way of c l i m b i n g to the top of the C a m p a n i l e w o u l d be on a rope ladder, such as sailors use in c l i m b i n g u p to the crow's nest of a ship. T h e cupolas on top of St. Mark's, drenched and heavy w i t h sea air, seemed, in the light playing u p o n them, to heave slightly, and the pinnacles to be tilted in an effort to withstand a gale. O n e could not actually see any movement, only infer it, just as on a calm day at sea one knows that the waters are rising and

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93 falling by the gentle inclination of the deck rail. Wrapped in darkness and mist and drenched by the invisible storm it was fighting, the Basilica was not delicate or airy in aspect, as in other lights. Indeed the impression was so peculiar that it did not seem to fall within the range of pictorial description of the glorious edifice. It was not until today that I found its true descriptive expression as a Ship in the Night, full of portent. I wonder if anyone else saw it in this light and aspect. How many thousand moods it has! Early this morning a number of people out shopping stopped to gaze sympathetically at some convalescent soldiers being carried out of the Hotel Luna Hospital and put in Red Cross barconi, for transport to the railroad station, on the first lap of their journey to Rome. The mail was distributed and off the lads went, some shouting "Addio Veneziani," and others too listless and tired to take any interest in the proceedings. The earnest and tender appeal for news made to a departing friend by a patient at an upper window of the hospital set me to thinking of the wonderful friendships that owe their origin to life at the front—that life of perils shared, of intimate thoughts silently dwelt upon in common, of crises overcome, which culminates before a charge perhaps in a saving word or a touch of the hand to assure a comrade that, though death may be ahead, it will not be death without a friend at hand. In the group of people watching the little scene was a middle-aged woman who couldn't take her eyes off the soldiers. When the boats pushed off, she begged her daughter to throw them a kiss, "Ma buteghe un baso almanco." Then she, herself, looking like a Mater Dolorosa, called God's blessing upon the lads, "Dio li benedissa," with the most appealing tone I have ever heard in a prayer. In the store windows of the poorer quarters of Venice are displayed "Partecipazioni" of the death of young soldiers on the field of honor. These announcements generally bear a photograph of the hero and recite in epigraphical language the story of his life and death. Occasionally they are ornamented. Ordinarily they might seem like little vanities; but, in these days, as I see the expression of compassion on the faces of the men and women who

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stop to read them, I realize that they are notices to neighbors and friends of losses that, to a certain extent, are felt by entire little communities. T h e y are signs of the survival of a neighborliness which does not exist in the big cities of today. A number of Japanese officers appeared on the Venetian scene this morning, their uniforms of tan and yellow with bright red facings adding a new note of color. They lunched at the Danieli and "lighted up" its somewhat dreary dining room. They don't look trustworthy. No doubt they are going to the front to acquire secrets for future use. W e are so mad about instructing that we are willing to instruct others how to destroy us! Occasionally at the Hotel I see Admiral Cagni, who accompanied Abruzzi in his attempted dash to the Pole and distinguished himself in the Libyan campaign. He is not quite the figure I should have expected to see. Perhaps his young and gay-looking wife does not set him off well, though she is a pretty woman. Only one of the ships anchored close to the Giardini remains; the others have melted into the night. Now, I have no pride in being a prophet, but for some days I have been under the impression that the Allies were about to make a surprise move in the Balkans. T h i s impression is, probably, due to the fact that sometime ago I noticed in the press a sudden manifestation of interest in Montenegro and reports of a more active campaign there by the Austrians than heretofore, though, occupied as they are in Servia, one would naturally presume they would not be stirring up activities elsewhere. Today's newspapers announce that Allied ships are making "soundings" and observations in Albanian waters. My idea is that a large Italian force is going to be thrown into Albania. Through this debatable land lies the safest road for reaching the civil population of Servia and its hard-pressed army. It is not a road of easy military access, but Italian mountain and engineering troops have faced more difficult undertakings than this. T h e landing of an Italian contingent on the Albanian coast would cause Greece to see very quickly where her interests lie. On learning of the destruction of Tiepolo's fresco in the Scalzi, a Venetian regiment at the front took a pledge to avenge this crime in their next charge against the enemy.

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Late this afternoon, after the doors of St. Mark's had been closed for the night, its red steps were crowded with women of the people and their children, resting or playing in the lingering warmth of a sun just beginning to sink in the west. Above them, the pigeons were gradually settling into their marble nests on the fa9ade. There was a very sweet note of feeling and color in this picture of the great church, democratically caressing with a simple, kindly smile the humble things gathered in its lap. Tonight is the last of the series of the "maschere," and I shall stop at the theatre for an act before going to the station to meet Florence. Last night Picello's company gave Goldoni's Antiquario. Picello is not as good a Pantalone as he is an Arlecchino. How I wish Florence might have seen Arlecchino and Brighella, home heroes of my childhood! On going to buy a season's ticket for the "maschere," I saw for the first time the ridiculously tiny botteghino under the arcades of the old Procuratie Vecchie that sells theatre boxes, the most delightful thing going in the way of delightful little shops in this city. Nothing less aristocratic than a box can be purchased in it. For a seat one must apply at the banco in front of it, on the Piazza. My ticket for five evening performances, each with a different program, cost me seven lire and fifty centimes or about a dollar and a quarter at the present rate of exchange. After the performance this evening I took a darkened vaporetto from the Riva del Carbon to the railroad station. With sentinels guarding its doors and the stricken Scalzi towering above it, the approach to it was imaginatively forbidding. A stranger, who spoke to me, said he had been in the station on the night of the raid and could vouch for the fact that it had been struck by a number of bombs, though not damaged. When the train was announced I stepped out into the barely lighted and heavily guarded little passageway back of the iron railing that marks the exit to watch for Florence and Nellie. As I saw them emerge from the darkness and look for the Command, I directed them from across the railing, and, then, was allowed to join them. T h e Command was gracious, and gave them permission to remain until Thursday.

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OCTOBER 31 Florence, Nellie, and I "gondolaed" to the church of Santi Giovanni e Paolo this morning. T h e interior was in high light, the background aglow with color from the red and gold hangings and the green stole of the priest celebrating High Mass to the multicolored streams of light filtering through the windows of the apse and the lights on the High Altar. T h e foreground, occupied by a crowd of worshippers dressed in black, was dark. Pausing on the piazza, as we came away, to look at glorious Colleoni in his war array, we noticed that the reliefs on the fa5ade of the Ospedale are covered with sacks of sand. W e visited St. Mark's this afternoon toward the end of vespers and took our seats with a crowd of the faithful in the light of a mellow shadow, restful and beautiful. After the service we walked around the church, the beauty of which was delicately enhanced by numberless subtle shadows falling here and resting there. Some marbles on the walls arranged in a "punt' unghero" design took our eye. Next we attended a little reception at the Consulate, which Mr. Carroll had arranged with tact and care for Florence and Nellie. His engaging and hospitable manner was as fetching as the official one-button frock coat he must have had fashioned for special occasions. He had invited the entire colony of Americans, consisting of five persons, the British and French consuls, their wives, and several other ladies, whose names escape me. After his guests left, Mr. Carroll placed his gondola at our disposal. In the growing evening we floated silently along the Zattere and back to the hotel, treading gently on the softest of waters by the light of the young evening stars. In the evening Florence's suggestion of a gondola ride proved a dream. For two hours we wandered in and out of small canals, silent but throbbing, midst masses of black and gray varying from tall buildings, whose skylines, meeting apparently across the narrow canals, made them look like solid Egyptian monuments, to dainty structures rising easily and gracefully out of the black waters toward the starlit skies. T h e tide was high, and the ferrule of the gondola barely escaped the arches of the bridges under

ι 9I5 97 which we passed. Under the lower ones the darkness was so intense that occasionally we wondered whether we had not happened on the entrance to the Styx, though the darkness was mellow and not oppressive. Pali, bases of palaces, bridges, and balustrades emerged gradually and gently out of an intangible darkness in almost as intangible forms. Some sottoportici faintly illumined by single blue electric bulbs were suggestive of Venice by daytime, so brightly lighted did they seem in contrast with the darkness surrounding them. Now and again the head of a gondola loomed u p quietly but impressively out of dark waters and an atmosphere only a little less dark. Yet the night was very, very clear, for a heavy storm had drenched the air, cleaning it, and leaving no residue of moisture. T h e r e was not even a thin breath of mist. Bright or rather very lucid rays of starlight brought into relief the dark objects on which they fell, though they were too slender to spread any light over them. Our gondola seemed almost motionless in its smooth and quiet progress, as it skimmed over the waters noiselessly except for the lap of the water rolling off the gondolier's oar when he turned it upward at each stroke. Through the silence came the cry, clear and strong, "Per Γ aria . . . Buona Guardia." NOVEMBER 2

"El Zorno dei Morti." Florence led the way to a beautiful morning. By way of the Calle delle Rasse we walked to the Piazza Santa Maria Formosa, and thence along the Calle Lunga with its little shops, past fruit and vegetable stands, past a woman selling wooden peasant wares, and over little bridges to the Piazza Santi Giovanni e Paolo. Here we joined the procession of people going to the cemetery along the fondamenta bordering the Rio dei Mendicanti, a procession paralleled by a line of women and boys, peddling flowers, mostly chrysanthemums and immortelles, heaped on stands, or woven into wreaths hung on brick walls, or planted in pots massed around windows and doors. Here and there memorial ornaments of wood and metal and images of saints were on sale. Every shrine was decorated with flowers, and every person carried a bunch of them. T h e solemnity of the occasion seemed

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present to everyone. T h e gray-cerulean placidity of the waters of the lagoon beyond the Fondamenta Nuove was more in harmony with the thought of the dead than the clear brightness of sun and sky. T h e construction of the bridge of boats, over which the Venetians walk on All Souls' Day from the Fondamenta to the cemetery on the island of San Michele, was prohibited this year. But dozens of gondolas, weighted down with mourners, dressed in black for the most part, were ferrying to and fro in an even but interrupted line, black in color but light and graceful in form, which added to the placid waters a note of spiritual serenity such as I have seldom seen in nature. Florence purchased a bunch of lovely semprevivi and sea heather in memory of my mother and a cluster of white chrysanthemums and immortelles for all our dear ones who have gone, and Nellie gave an armful of chrysanthemums to a little boy on his promise that he would say an "Ave Maria" for the dead. T h e n we wandered back through little scenes of loveliness, of interest, of glory. Shall we ever forget the ins and outs to nowhere, disclosing some view of beauty at every turn?—La Corte delle Muneghe, covered by an old timber ceiling, into which we were enticed by the suggestive and attractive steps of a curved stairway we saw through its open doorway; the uncovered cortiletto adjoining it, with a marble wellhead and the remains of a shrine; and the door, near an adjacent canal, of wonderful design and workmanship, Gothic and beautiful, paneled in well-balanced oblongs by thick strands of carved wooden vine-trunks, the intersections of which are marked by metal ornaments. T h e entire door, even its metal ornaments and bronze knocker in the form of a fish standing on its head, with a tail conveniently curved to meet the grasp of a hand, was mellowed to black, soft and intense, yet full of shades. Not far from the Corte delle Muneghe is the church of Santa Maria dei Miracoli. T h e dignity of its interior, despite its relatively small size, made a great impression on me. T h e general grayness of tone is relieved by beautiful, jeweled marble crosses on the walls and by finely toned portraits of prophets and saints in the coffers of the barrel vaulting. A steep flight of steps leads

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up to an elevated domed choir, with the effect of a terrace, from which the High Altar, banked with sandbags, stands out boldly, as if prepared for a sacrifice. T h e balustrade of the choir and the main portal of the church are boarded over, and, on either side of the entrance, are loose heaps of sand for quenching the flames of incendiary bombs. In the afternoon we intended to shop but spent all our time instead in Griffon's vetreria. W h a t delightful glass! Now and again our choice of objects was interrupted by the appearance of aerial craft in unusual numbers. A large dirigible circled the Piazza, and biplanes, equipped with rapid-fire guns shining in the sun, flew low and irregularly as if searching for something. "There's something in the air," said a man standing near me, and just as he spoke the siren and blank shot of the cannon apprized us that danger was near. Immediately a great crowd of curious persons gathered around the Columns in the Piazzetta and on the Riva. W e heard firing in the distance, as a hydroplane rose, "took its breath," and started off in pursuit of the enemy, apparently. Up in the sky, above the end of the Calle delle Rasse, a black point was moving at great speed. Gradually the sound of firing ceased, and life resumed its normal course. A n attack on Venice was warded off, I hear. Mr. Carroll tells me that since last May at least fifty attempts have been made to bomb Venice, most of which have been frustrated by the watchfulness of the Italian and French aviators. In the evening, a superb, still evening, we went wandering in a gondola through mysterious ways of darkness, varying in depth and occasionally accentuated by white lines. T h e vaults of the bridges, especially those spanning the canals at picturesque angles, appeared out of the obscurity like the strokes in black and white of some master artist, sketching rapidly, silently, and immortally! T h e y vanished quickly from the eyes, only to remain forever in the mind. I have asked and asked myself what impression, that is, what considered impression is made upon a spectator by the sight of Venice at night. It is not enough to say that it is beautiful and mysterious in the unusual darkness of these days, or that its aspect

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resembles that of other times when artificial lights were few and dim. T h e r e is the additional and important fact that every window a n d door is shut tight, a fact that lends a sense of mystery a n d makes one feel as if he were in a strange, unknown, almost forbidding city, an oriental city, perhaps, whose visible life stops at sunset—a city outside his ken and civilization. NOVEMBER

3

T h i s rainy afternoon we walked slowly past the brightly lighted shops o n the Merceria to the Rialto and then, in and out of delightful narrow calli, to my bookstore. T h e lights went out with a bang just as we t u r n e d back. W e followed as well as we could some directions given us, toiling through the darkest stone labyrinth I have ever seen u n t i l we suddenly saw, dimly b u t distinctly ahead of us in the lowering darkness, a vine-covered arbor, a simple decorative affair, which proved to be the traghetto on the G r a n d Canal we were seeking. W e ferried across the canal, standing, as is the rule on a traghetto gondola. Being still ignorant of o u r whereabouts o n landing, we wandered about until we happened u p o n Piazza Manin, whence I piloted Florence a n d Nellie to the Cappello Nero, where we dined very simply after an ample and delicious antipasto. As we emerged from that hostelry, it was drenching wet, and, f r o m the pitch-darkness under the arch of the T o r r e dell' Orologio, the Piazza looked like a lake, mirroring, even in the darkness, something of the glory encircling it. In the Piazzetta, where we paused to listen to that exquisite a n d unearthly cry, "Per 1' aria. . . . Buona Guardia," floating across the roofs from altana to altana, there was a little more light or rather less darkness. NOVEMBER

4

T h i s m o r n i n g we walked to the ancient little Church of San Giacomo di Rialto, which reminds Florence of the churches on the Dalmatian coast. I h a d the good idea of having the shrapnel bullet that Carroll a n d I picked u p on the day of the raid set in a r i n g for Florence. W e chose a setting like that of an old ring we saw in a small shop,

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and inside of twenty-four hours the ring was finished—a beautiful piece of workmanship. Late this afternoon a misty light hung over Venice, a light more portentous than peaceful. NOVEMBER

5

We attended this morning a Requiem Mass for the fallen soldiers at San Salvatore. The interior of the church was hung with black, and, in the centre of it, stood a catafalque draped with the Italian flag. As we walked back to the Piazza afterwards, Florence, with that talent for discoveries which is peculiarly hers, found in a shop a package of postcards, authentic photographs of the Venetian buildings in their defensive array of sandbags and brick supports, the sale of which is forbidden—a very notable find. Then, despite a pouring rain and a heavy sea, which nearly swamped us, we navigated around the warships anchored outside the Giardini, getting a splendid view of the Goito, Monteverde, Carlo Alberto, Saint Bon, and the Pisa; also of several torpedo boats, destroyers, and a hospital ship. On the way to the station with Florence and Nellie, for this was their last day of grace in Venice, the gondola swept swiftly past scenes and places I can never forget because they mark days of glory and perfect beauty, shared intimately with Florence Colgate, my wife. NOVEMBER

9

Mr. Carroll invited me to tea at the Consulate to meet the wife of Admiral Caccia. The ache is on me for home, and I am returning to San Domenico tomorrow. I tried to take a farewell walk in Venice tonight, but the real good-bye was the one I bade it with Florence by my side. I have written a note of thanks to His Excellency, the Commander in Chief of the Piazza Marittima. I am ready to go. These weeks in Venice have meant a great deal in my life; I hope I can make them of some use to others and to Italy.

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NOVEMBER 1 1 . F L O R E N C E . VICTOR E M M A N U E L S BIRTHDAY

T h e cities of Italy presented the King today with albums containing numberless signatures of citizens w h o are honoring the day by contributing ten centimes to the R e d Cross. T h e press grows very indignant a b o u t the sinking of the Α Ticona, near the bay of Cagliari, on its way to New York. Nearly one hundred a n d fifty persons are unaccounted for, some of whom are naturalized American citizens. Although the submarine attacking it bore the Austrian flag, the general belief is that it was German. I heard Admiral Cagni say in Venice that he had n o doubt it was a G e r m a n submarine. And, yet, not a word appears in the newspapers—except in the Idea Nazionale—as to the logical consequence of such an act, not a word except labored justifications of the reasons for Italy and Germany not being at war. O n the train f r o m Venice to Florence yesterday, I had a long talk with an officer on his way to a hospital in Bari, his home town. His left eye was bandaged, and his head, under his military cap, was swathed with a silk kerchief as black as his raven hair. After being wounded in both legs at the battle of San Michele he recovered and went back to the front, only to receive a very severe wound in his head, which he fears has destroyed the sight of his left eye. W h e n he was wounded this last time, lie had the impression that he was actually dead. I never saw a man m o r e genuinely modest: "It is almost impossible to conceive of an average man like myself going through what I have," he said. "If I were told now that I must face it again I should say I couldn't, and, yet, I know perfectly well I should meet it as everybody else does. W i t h the order to charge, comes not only a sense of exaltation, the effect, I presume, of the excitement and the unreality of the environment, b u t a profound feeling of resignation as well." Life in the trenches is very wearying. In the shallow ones built during an advance, m e n lie flat on their stomachs, for Austrian sharpshooters fire at any man whose head shows above them. Indeed the sound of a single shot ringing o u t from the Austrian lines is a sure signal that an Italian has fallen. D u r i n g the night, however, the soldiers enjoy t h e relief of some motion. T h e y work un-

10 1 9 1 5 3 der the cover of darkness as men seldom work, digging or constructing trenches and trying to make themselves less uncomfortable. More ammunition is wasted in the watches of the night than in the daytime, for no sentinel will take chances with the uncertain shadows of the night, and there is a succession of musketry from dusk to dawn. T h e Italians are good fighters, but chiassosi to a degree. At the very moment when they ought to be hiding themselves from the enemy, they stand still and shout "Savoia!" like madmen. On a charge, however, they are irresistible and generally sweep everything before them. All extra-hazardous work, reconnoitering, feinting, cutting wire entanglements, and throwing hand bombs into the trenches of the enemy, is undertaken by volunteers. There are types of men who not only know no fear but are remarkable for the inventiveness and ingenuity with which they carry out the projects entrusted to them. On the other hand, there are men in whose eyes you see the fear of death as clearly as you see the rigidity and whiteness of their faces, and, yet, they do not run away. Those who fail at the front, not through fear, but from sheer inability to stand the noise and excitement, often become insane. T h e sight of men dying creates a sense of personal hatred for the enemy, which counts in an attack. "When I saw my captain writhing in the throes of death and my sergeant and corporal shattered to bits," said this officer, "I was overwhelmed by a desire to kill anyone of the enemy I could lay hands upon." I parted at Florence with this capable, modest soldier, a man without fuss or feathers. May he get the promotion to a captaincy for "merito di guerra" that he expects! New classes have been called, adding about half a million to the number of men in the Italian Army. Very summary methods seem to be used in enlisting the men. Many called from home or office for examination are sent off to some distant post without being allowed to say good-bye to their families. Our seamstress told us in a simple, sad way of her own little tragedy. Her only son was called from his job at Bemporad's bookstore to report for service. As he did not return home, she

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went to the barracks and, after long pleading, was allowed to see him. Later, that same night, she went again and, through the kindness of a sergeant, saw her boy just before he entrained at 3 A.M. On the way up to San Domenico, Florence and I sometimes stop at the Badia and join the women sitting on the low stone wall of its broad terrace, who look longingly and inquiringly at the trains running through the valley below, not knowing whether their kin are among those who suffer or those who sing. Occasionally trains pass northward, bursting with joyous songs and battle hymns. Onward they go toward the mountain bulwarks of Italy and the further shores that Venice ruled, bearing a freight very precious to the nation, the new soldiers of Italy going to the fighting line. But at other times long trains, impressive and ominously still, slip silently southward, bearing the freight most precious of all to the nation—the wounded soldiers of Italy. Today, a train, with one engine pulling it and another pushing it, disappeared in the tunnel on the farther slope of the valley. We saw nothing of it for a few moments, except a puff of white smoke issuing from both ends of the tunnel. T h e n an infantryman, guarding the exit, stepped in front of his sentry box and presented arms to the train as it emerged into the light of day. In that brief interval of time it seemed as if all that was modern, yes, all that was corporeal of the train had been left in the bowels of the mountain. Going on and on in a rising spiral of grades, across olive slopes, it recalled the enchanting processions frescoed on the walls of many an old Italian palace. Naturally it brought them to mind; for, not only is the Tuscan landscape in this valley of the Mugnone the same as it has always been—the rising roadway that twists and turns on its upward way, the cavernous mountain side and garden slopes, the blue of the sky, the silver of the olives, and the impenetrable color of the cypresses—but the new spirit of warring Italy today is not unworthy of those splendid bands of knights and squires of old. NOVEMBER

12

Although Italy preserves silence regarding her attitude toward the critical situation created by the Bulgaro-Austro-German attack

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on Servia and the timorous attitude of Greece, we must exclude the possibility of her remaining indifferent. This crisis in the Balkans has had political repercussions, more or less grave, in every cabinet of the Allies, with the notable exception of Italy. T h e present situation is largely the result of military and diplomatic mistakes to which Italy was not a party. T h e Anglo-French action in the Dardanelles must be viewed as a series of brave but bungling military operations, and the diplomatic achievements of France and England at Sofia, Bucharest, and Athens cannot be called brilliant. Italy, therefore, may fairly claim that France and England can hardly expect her to follow in their military and diplomatic footsteps in the Balkans. For some time past, Italy has been lending an indirect but very substantial aid to Servia by an aggressive offensive against the Austrian front, with the result that Austria has been obliged to recall large contingents of her troops from the Balkan and Russian fronts to prevent the Italians from battering down important gateways in the Trentino and Isonzo sections. This violent campaign of the Italians, unchecked either by the enemy or the wintry conditions now prevailing at many points on the fighting line, has been fought at high altitudes, defended by picked Austrian mountain troops and protected by a series of modern connecting trenches. NOVEMBER

17

Signorina Thunn repeated to us an amusing conversation overheard by her brother at a military hospital in Florence, where he lies wounded. "Officers are really of no use," said the soldier, "none except the colonel." Pressed for an explanation by Captain Thunn, he replied: "What's the use of captains and lieutenants? They always dash forward with us on a charge and are generally wounded or killed. We might as well spare them by marching forward alone. We'd have more officers then. As it is there's nobody left to command us but the colonel in the rear." Piero Roselli tells me that the regiment of Territorials to which he belongs has been without a roof over its head since April—a tent has been its best cover. Those of the men who are able to

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stand the life accept its conditions cheerfully. Untrained as Roselli was, he fell quickly into the new habits of life, once the first unbearable fortnight of learning to live without books and the companionship of women was over. He seldom thought of death and faced the perils of war very much as he had always faced those incidental to the normal life of peace. After the shock of the pressure of a heavy projectile shooting by him was over, he experienced the same sense of relief that he would have in escaping any ordinary accident. T h e contented attitude of the men in the hospitals is due, he thinks, to the fact that they are sustained by the upward swing of the pendulum of fate, which has led them into the quiet and peace of an environment so different from that of battle. Even those who are maimed take comfort in the thought of being alive, of the honor of their wounds, and of the possibility of a medal or a promotion. Roselli does not favor Italian cooperation with the Allies in the Balkans. T h e saving of the situation there, he considers, a lost cause, in which it would be criminal to risk the lives of a hundred thousand men. He does, however, see the reasonableness of sending a contingent of troops to Egypt to protect the Suez Canal, though he claims that Italy needs and will need to keep most of her men on the Austrian front, where the military problems are so difficult that careful preparation and repeated assaults are necessary to ensure success. Verona was bombarded by Austrian aeroplanes early on the morning of Sunday, November 14. A high explosive bomb fell near the arcade of the Camera di Commercio, under which many Veronese, marketing in Piazza Erbe, had sought refuge, with the result that thirty persons were killed and thirty-eight wounded. In addition to these casualties, five persons fell victims to the bombs dropped at random on the city. T h e account of the raid is a horrible tale, and my heart goes out to the Veronese as to neighbors. O n the 15th of November the Austrians bombarded Brescia from the sky, injuring a number of persons. Submarines have been active in the Mediterranean. In addition to the Ancona, the Firenze and the Bosnia have been sunk, and

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there is a rumor that the Tommaso di Savoia has gone down. I heard tonight that Mediterranean commercial traffic has been suspended. Some naval officers of my acquaintance, stationed on shore, have been ordered to sea duty. A naval program is probably being worked out to clear the Mediterranean of this new peril, but Germany has always the offensive. Little doubt exists of the German nationality of the submarines that committed these acts, though they flew Austrian flags. A significant change in the attitude of the government is indicated by the fact that the censorship is now allowing the papers to state this conviction and ply their invectives against Germany. Even the Giornale d'ltalia urges Italy to begin operations against Germany by economic measures, which are amply open to Italians. In the meantime the naval cruiser Piemonte has bombarded the Bulgarian Coast, but it is uncertain whether this action announces the initiation of Italian cooperation in the Balkans. Our cook's husband—not a young man—called upon us in uniform. He was formerly a coachman. Already five hundred of the six hundred men in his battalion of drivers have been sent to the war zone. "My turn will come soon," he said very simply, as his little girl nestled up to him. "It must be done, che vuole?" Poor Territorials! How their borghese life is disturbed! NOVEMBER

20

Yesterday the Austrians dropped bombs on Verona and Belluno. Monastir is about to fall, it seems. France has sent Denys Cochin to convert Greece to the views of the Allies. Wilson is alleged to have asked Austria the categorical question: "Was it or was it not an Austrian submarine that sank the Ancona?" NOVEMBER

24

Greece is apparently ready to remain neutral as the result of the commercial blockade declared against her and the visits of Kitchener and Denys Cochin. This is the maximum of what she will do in the way of observing her treaty with Servia.

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In the meantime the Servians and Montenegrins are retreating. T h e enemy has taken Mitrovica, and the Servian Government has transferred its capital from Monastir to Scutari. T h e Italians are bombarding Gorizia. I have been told by a neutral military authority that Gorizia is impregnable. T h e Italians, however, evidently refuse to give u p hopes of its capture, for early this m o n t h they were reported to be storming the heights a r o u n d it as a prelude, probably, to an encircling movement aimed at cutting off this redoubtable fortified centre from its communications. I hear that no more news of Austrian aerial raids against Italy will be given o u t for publication: a foolish provision. Minister Orlando's speech at Palermo last Sunday is much admired for its form and its effective presentation of facts already known, b u t it satisfies no one as an answer to the specific question: W h a t is Italy going to do in the Balkans? NOVEMBER

2 5 . THANKSGIVING DAY

Florence and I called today on the men at the American Hospital, attended the reception given by Mr. and Mrs. D u m o n t , the American consul and his wife, and dined at the Ryersons, with Mr. Ashburner. I understand that Mr. Wadleigh, the rector of the American Church in Florence, said in his sermon today that there was possibly nothing for which we Americans could be t h a n k f u l this year except for the existence of "people in Europe who are willing to fight and die for principles." NOVEMBER

30.

ROME

I left Florence for R o m e this afternoon. In my compartment on the train I was the only one not an Onorevole Deputato. Before long my fellow travelers, appreciating the fact that I was not altogether an alien, included me in their party. O n e of them, Giacomo Ferri, a "reform" or war Socialist, was carrying his u n i f o r m in a strap. Next to him sat a m a n with irongray hair and a jet black moustache, risen from the masses I should judge, b u t thoughtful and conservative. By his side was a very old man, with a fine, ascetic face, a long, white beard, and

10 1915 9 many medals, who read, when not engaged in conversation, a wellthumbed volume of Carducci. Opposite them sat a much younger man, a mild Socialist, not very talkative, and a representative from Bologna, aristocratic in type, frankly opposed to Socialism. All these men, who had been at the front as observers or officers in the army, were on their way to the opening of Parliament. T h e Hon. Ferri is inclined to rate the soldiers' sense of duty as higher even than their patriotism. This sense of duty, he said, is especially noticeable in the Territorials and older men, who are as stirred by its call as the younger men are by enthusiasm. He spoke of two deputies. One, a Socialist, who had been opposed to entering the war, but offered his services on its declaration, has recently been made a captain "per merito di guerra." He specializes in placing volunteers in positions of vantage to watch the advance of the Austrians after their concentrated fire on the Italian trenches announces an assault. Although he passes forward and backward over the lines of his men in a storm of artillery to see that they are well placed, he has never been wounded. Another, Chiesa, a man nearly sixty years old, happened to be at the camp of instruction when his regiment was called to the front. Ever since he has been pestering the command to be sent into action. On being informed that an engagement could not be created for his benefit, he asked to be put in the trenches, a request that was refused, for men of his age cannot stand that life. Finally he did take part, and honorably, in a battle, to his own satisfaction and that of the soldiers fighting with him. Ferri criticized Cadorna's bulletins. Their bald statements of the capture of one or two mitrailleuses or a hundred prisoners in this or that battle give no idea, he thinks, of the importance of the engagements or the real measure of their success. T h e r e is a special body of daredevils in a certain mountain section, whose claim to fame consists in their readiness to undertake any daring or dangerous feat. Whenever some of their number are picked to perform a special task, they start off with their commander, a Romagnolo, by whom they swear as by a god, bidding good-bye, as a matter of course, to their companions, with whom they leave messages for their families and whatever belongings

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they possess. One of them has been known to walk toward the Austrian lines carrying twelve bombs, light their fuses, one after another, at the tip of a cigar in his mouth, toss them off, and return to the Italian trenches unscathed. All of the deputies were impressed by the number of heroic instances brought to their attention in the war zone, though they did not hesitate to speak of the display of the white feather too. Very pathetic was their account of the Doganieri. Utterly unprepared for service, they were rushed to the front lines and behaved so badly that two hundred were ordered shot. Yet now men from the same corps, properly trained, are doing splendid work on the Isonzo. Many problems arose early in the campaign from the failure of the authorities to realize the scale of contemporary military operations. T w o thousand wounded soldiers, for instance, were brought to a hospital of only two hundred beds. In some places in the Alps the only way to transport the wounded was to let them down cliffs by ropes. Now conditions are quite changed. Great supply depots, roads, and fortifications have been built, and machinery is used to simplify much of the work. That Austria has been planning aggression for a long time is proved by the grants made by the Austrian Government of 60,000 and 70,000 lire apiece to municipalities near the Italian border for the erection of substantial, wide bridges quite unnecessary for local needs, but adapted to military uses. In gauging the Austrian and Italian military situation, one must take into account not only the fan-shaped configuration of the Italian roads, which increases the Italian task of defense and facilitates a hostile incursion, but also such natural features as the woods on the Austrian side of the frontier that conceal defenses and the flat plains on the Italian side that expose them. In some instances the "irredenti" cannot see any advantage in being redeemed. This is not to be wondered at, for these unfortunate people, who are ordered from time to time to leave their homes during military operations, often return to find them destroyed. All of the deputies agreed on the harmful effect of the propa-

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ganda of the priests at the front. T h e presence of army chaplains is important and welcome, but the officers of the army are fearful that the propaganda of the "sixteen thousand enrolled in the army may be mortgaging future sufferings." T h e essential thing now, said one of the Socialist deputies, is to work for and in unity. Any disintegrating force is unpatriotic and dangerous in a nation at war. T h i s is true of politics as well as religious propaganda, but the government has been foolish to censure out of existence the criticism of the "opposition" since it would have been a corrective to this very venom of the priesthood. "Italy, even if she had received all or more than she has won by friendly concession, would still probably have lacked vital national force," said the elderly deputy. " F o r some reason or other it seems to require a baptism of blood to make a people great." Several of the deputies emphasized the attachment of the soldiers to their leaders. One spoke of a review he had seen in honor of a general who had just received a gold medal, earned in the Libyan war. As he spoke to his men "of the six hundred of us" who have recently died in battle, the signs of affection for him on their faces were indescribable. H e was their leader; they were his men. War has shown clearly, said the representative from Bologna, that civilization depends much more upon the development of morals than of science, and he pointed out in proof of this declaration the lack of civilization in the highly organized scientific life of the Germans, and the frequent flowering in peasants of "a moral sense so fine that it puts most of us civilized persons to shame." He was evidently a person sensitively attuned to the feeling of others, for his next remark showed how keenly interwoven his sympathies are with the sufferings of the nation: " I have not hunted this year," he said, "fond as I am of the sport, for I knew that, if I turned homeward, after a successful day's outing, all aglow with the joy of life, I should feel ashamed." As we drew near to Rome our conversation ended on a characteristic Italian note, a paean to bread! T h e worst in Rome, the best in Modena and Bologna. "Pane e salame, pane e salame"— food for the gods!

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Ι . Viva V Italia! I called at the Embassy and found I had been put on the American Relief Clearing House, a committee for Italian relief composed of nominal members under the active management of Mr. Iddings, Mr. Lothrop, and Mr. H. Nelson Gay to whom I was presented then and there by Mr. Page. T h e Ambassador was kind enough to try and get me a pass to the important session of the Senate this afternoon. An usher in blue velvet knickerbockers greeted me effusively at Palazzo Madama and handed me a permit to attend this session of the Senate. T h e Senate Chamber is not impressive and, indeed, how could it be with a portrait of His Majesty in blue trousers and green sack coat, resting his hand, in which he holds a pair of white gloves, on a table covered with a red cloth? About two hundred Senators, all quite old men, were present. T h e President, Manfredi, with his handsome powerful head, looks well the part. Although the Italian Senate has little political influence, its deliberations, owing to the high character of its membership, drawn from the best elements of public, private, intellectual, and business life, always command respectful consideration. T h e Cabinet was complete. On the right of Salandra was Martini, and on the left, Sonnino. Salandra's face, which could be only that of an Italian, gains on observation. At first glance it is very borghese, but, on searching, one becomes aware of great, reposeful power in the deep-set eyes and good forehead. Sonnino might be an American as far as his appearance is concerned. No wonder the Italians don't like him! Martini is an aristocratic type. T h e others are distinctly middle-class borghesi, quite live-looking men. Salandra, after Manfredi's short eulogy of the army, made some formal announcements, and then Sonnino rose amid a great hush. H e read his speech without emphasis, as if he were reading it to himself to weigh the value and force of his words. H e was thinking, no doubt, of the foreign chancelleries, but he certainly did not look as if he cared a damn for his audience. I understand why his countrymen don't warm u p to him; he hasn't their tempera-

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ι 91 5 ment. T h e new and important fact revealed by his speech, though he laid no especial stress on it, is that Italy has signed the pact of the Allies, binding them not to make a separate peace. His speech was greeted with some applause, but the proceedings on the whole were flat and quiet, as they should be in parliamentary circles while men are fighting and dying at the front. Parliament will not have much to do at this session except to scrutinize the accounts and extend the plenary powers of the government. Little opposition is expected to the budget for the army and navy expenses, which, according to the official gazette, are about four hundred million lire a month. Outside of these routine business matters there may be some political discussion and some political by-play, but nothing of great moment. Possibly the censorship of the press may come up for discussion. Sometime ago the various press associations of Italy sent a joint protest against its severity to the government, to which Minister Salandra responded by a move indicative of the geniality of his political resourcefulness. Granting an interview to a writer of the opposition press, he agreed with him that the complaints he presented were just, and asked him to suggest a remedy. This is not an easy task, for the censorship, in small towns especially, functions through an inexperienced clerical force, who cannot be allowed to exercise discrimination. DECEMBER

2

In the early afternoon I spent a half hour with Senator Molmenti, the historian of Venice, a pleasant man to talk to—at his best, of course, in speaking of the city of the Lagoons. He exalted the present spirit of the Venetians. T h e unhappy end of the Republic gave ground for the belief that her people could not stand up, though they might be "buona pasta." They have, however, stood the shock of the present war splendidly. There is great economic stress among them, with which the Central Government has not concerned itself, knowing that, unlike the Milanese, they are neither unruly nor riotous. T h e municipality, however, is taking measures for relief, and the citizens have raised a fund of a million

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lire to help the poor. T h e artisans, especially, are hard up, for the only activity in their line is the restoration of the Chapel of the Rosary in Santi Giovanni e Paolo. Molmenti thought the attempt of the government to shield the monuments of art in Venice entailed a useless expense. General Dali' Olio, the Minister of Munitions, tells him, he said, that the only protection from aerial attack is a constant guard of aircraft searching the skies. Senator Molmenti is chairman of the Consiglio Superiore delle Belle Arti. He gave me a letter of introduction to Dr. Arduino Colasanti, secretary of the Consiglio, who can give me full particulars of the present state of art projects. Molmenti has the reputation of being, if not an "austriacante," a "tedescante," and my interview with him tends to justify this estimation. He is certainly not a friend of the Balkan people. Brigands he called them, in speaking of the methods used by King Peter to acquire the Servian throne and of the pleasure taken by his hired assassins in disemboweling the murdered queen. "What were the Sarajevo murders, too," he asked, "but the deeds of an uncivilized people?" Austria, he believes, will pay the costs of the war. T h e fight is between Germany and England. Neither of these countries will consider the interests of France and Italy in the peace treaties, though Italy may get a better frontier. T h e invincibility of Germany on land and of England on sea will make the difficulty of deciding the conflict by force of arms so great that its final outcome will probably depend on the exhaustion of one or the other of them. DECEMBER

3

This morning I spent a couple of hours in the Borghese Gardens, resting and taking photographs. While looking at a group of tall young elms swaying in the light of a timorous sun on a field of fresh young grass, with their light gold-to-blond leaves eddying round and round and falling to the greensward beneath, I perceived in a flash that Botticelli must have "found" his "Spring" in some such natural scene as this—perceived it clearly, almost in de-

ι 91 5 tail, though my mind, at the moment, was far away on other matters. In the afternoon I called at the Emigration Department and saw, in the absence of Gallina and Rossi, an official I had not met before. He was most kind and courteous, but his attitude toward the government and the war antagonized me. T h e war he called a "pazzia," and the government he thought was maltreating everybody in general and the Commissariato dell' Emigrazione in particular. Later I went to see Dr. Colasanti, who has just returned, on account of the war, from San Francisco, where he was supervising the art section of the Italian pavilion at the Pan-American Exposition. Despite the war and its tremendous drafts on the public exchequer, the government, he says, has recently assigned two million lire for completing the decoration of the new House of Parliament, and has spent substantial sums for the purchase not only of masterpieces—the most notable of these being a painting by Gentile da Fabriano—but of modern paintings and works of sculpture, which will be allotted to various galleries in Italy. All schools, institutes, and commissions of Belle Arti are continuing their work as usual. Three important architectural monuments have been acquired lately: the Casa Traversari at Ravenna, memorable as the home of one of Boccaccio's characters, the Baptistery of the Arians, a sixth-century edifice at Ravenna, and the beautiful Badia of Santa Maria in Pomposa, between Ravenna and Venice, abandoned in the Middle Ages on account of its malarial environment. T h e restoration of these monuments has already been started and that of others, commenced before the war, has never been interrupted. Excavations have not been suspended in Italy or in the African colonies. A new and very important archaeological enterprise, begun since the entrance of Italy into the war, is the delimitation and restoration of a large part of the great Roman camp at Aosta, founded, it is said, by Terentius Varro between 23-28 B.C. T h e interest in art, however, is not confined to the central government. Arezzo, for instance, has begun the restoration of the

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celebrated frescoes in the church of San Francesco, the stained glass in the church of the Annunziata, and the carved choir in Santa Maria della Pieve. In a n u m b e r of cities, the usual annual exhibitions of art are being held. Marinetti's apostles are organizing the F o u r t h Secessionist Exhibition in Rome, though Marinetti himself is fighting at the front, modestly participating, as he puts it, in the greatest symphony ever flung to the skies. T o all this normal activity in the field of art must be added Italy's effort to save numberless art treasures from the perils of war. Many of those that can be moved have been transferred from the war zone to the interior of Italy a n d others that cannot have been p u t in a state of defense by military engineers collaborating with architectural experts and artists. I n Venice alone a large sum has been spent for the protection of the most important examples of her art. Dr. Colasanti started on his journey to the United States somewhat reluctantly, not expecting to find much to interest him there. H e has returned an enthusiast, especially about New York, which he considers, hors concours. T h e view of no other city in the world [he said], gives such an idea of majestic greatness as that of New York from the bay. The skyscrapers are not just engineering marvels; they express the throbbing life of the nation. Could they be stripped of the Greek columns and caryatids embellishing them, they would be a perfect representation of the American spirit. As they are, they are a magnificent symbol of it. New York is the true expression of America, not only of its wealth, its violence, its blending of races, its powerful and youthful enthusiasm, but of all its amazing qualities, its defects and its virtues. Even the layout of New York streets assumes in my eyes a high aesthetic value, owing to its fitness for a city built on a long strip of land between two rivers. Old preconceptions of art must be abandoned in New York. A new aesthetic standard imposes itself, a standard that is perfect because, in its accord with a logical principle and the conditions of life, it expresses the spirit of America exactly as the Parthenon expressed the limpid serenity of Greek thought and Gothic cathedrals signified the aspiration of the human soul to soar toward God. American buildings in Venice or Bruges would be out of place as well as unsightly, but so would the Riccardi Palace and Brunelleschi cloisters be in New York.

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Colasanti compared the tendency of the Americans to crowd their buildings with that of the Romans, who lacked a sense of perspective and huddled their monuments in the narrow space of the Forum. T h e Metropolitan Museum, he says, is the museum of a young country. T h e exhibits, as a whole, are fine, but the paintings are inferior to those of many collections in Europe, and the sculpture is unimportant. Washington he found beautiful but lacking in life; it was built for crowds, and the crowds are not there. Boston, in its dignity and strength, is something like a Ixmdon in miniature. Chicago is ugly, dirty, and lacking in distinction, though Michigan Avenue by itself is fine. DECEMBER

4

In the Roman office of the Posta dei Militari, Professor Grampini, who is serving there as a volunteer, told me that he has often broken the news of a soldier's death to his mother or sisters, but only once has he seen a woman break down. T w o of his assistants, young women, learned at the office of the death of their brother, a young man promoted to a captaincy for bravery. While I was with him, a member of the staff approached us and said to Grampini, " T h e news about X . has come. His father is due in an hour. Will you tell him?" A father who, in an hour, would know that his son was dead! Randolph Santini has just visited the fighting line at Gorizia— without being asked to show his papers! He says that the army is better equipped, better cared for, better ammunitioned and organized than when he was at the front with the outfit to which he belongs. Why Italy and Germany are not at war, he does not know, though he sees no advantage to either in declaring it. Assanti has a theory of his own which for fantasy deserves record. France and England, he says, have deteriorated physically and morally and are on the downward path. Germany and Italy are young, sturdy nations to whom the future belongs, and, after the war, they will be allies.

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On the Via dei Sediari today I snapped a group of women waiting at the door of a committee room where wool is distributed to those who volunteer to knit for the soldiers. DECEMBER

5

Last night I passed from the very dim, blue-lighted Via Margutta into the bright and interesting quarters of the Associazione Artistica Internazionale, to hear Jules Destree speak on " L ' A r t et la Guerre." T h e fine and brilliant audience of intellectuallooking Italians was a good antidote to the depressing atmosphere of the Rome of pro-Germans, pro-everything except an honest and brave struggle. In front of Belgian and Italian flags on the platform stood a Roman wolf. President Bazzani of the Association introduced Destree. I recognized him at once as a man I had occasionally seen at the Ristorante Umberto, who had made anything but a pleasing impression on me. From the time he began to speak, however, in a voice so low that he could hardly be heard, to the moment when he hurled at us the injunction to remember and hate, "Ricordate e odiate"—an injunction made more impressive by his rapid transition from French to Italian—the man was transformed. We say we cannot be moved nowadays by oratory; perhaps, because we seldom hear a real orator like Destree. His art is of a subtle character. T h e impression of his mobile face and his few and unobtrusive gestures count for little; his eyes play the leading part, though his voice also is an asset, not resonant or overpowerful, but convincing in color and timbre. His theme in general was a brief consideration of the special reasons for safeguarding the treasures of art in time of war; the international laws framed for this purpose; and the violations of them that Germany has committed, plans to commit, and must not be allowed to commit. One of the chief reasons for protecting the art of the world from violence lies in the fact that, unlike material wealth, art is not consumed by time and use, but grows in value, interest, dignity, and honorable estate both through time and the good uses of education, culture, and inspiration to which it is put. Great mas-

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terpieces are ceasing to be the subject of individual ownership. They are becoming or have already become the property of the people, for whose benefit they are preserved in national galleries or guarded as national monuments, and, before long, they will become the property of all peoples, to be held by the countries of their origin for the benefit of the world. With this conception of art in mind, the provisions of the Hague Convention, which were accepted by both Germany and Austro-Hungary, agreed to respect all works of art in wartime. Destree went rapidly over the list of violations committed by the enemy in Brescia, in Verona, in Venice, and through the rosary of terrible sufferings inflicted on noble towns and nobler monuments—from smiling Dinant to Dixmude and Louvain, to Bruges, to Ypres, to Rheims—in an ascending but not violent eloquence which brought tears to one's heart, tears not so much of vindictiveness as of profound sorrow at the present desolation of the world, at the loss of so many of its treasures, and at the wickedness that has prompted their destruction. Indeed it seemed as if one could sense in the silence of that audience the tears of the world when he reminded us, without rhetorical effort, without even a rising inflection, that the monuments that have been destroyed we shall never see again—"Jamais, jamais!" In easy, often sarcastic tones, he commented on an article in some German magazine justifying the removal of the art treasures of Belgium to Germany, and, then, made a scathing, biting attack on the Germans as custodians of art, following it up with a general plea for the retention of works of art in the countries of their origin. In Flanders, the arts, especially the minor arts, are so deep seated and native that they lose in value for mankind by being exported from the environment, from the traditions, from the faith and hopes that created them, from the background, and landscapes, and lights that surround and complete and beautify them. This, however, is true not only of Flanders but of every country that has a true art of its own. Over the proposals to construct new Gothic or Renaissance buildings in Belgium to replace those destroyed by the Germans, Destree grew gently sarcastic. He stressed the fact that the art of

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today cannot create true Gothic because it lacks the faith, the beliefs, the feelings, the spirit that inspired the monuments of Gothic art. " N o , " he said, do not build up anew the monuments that German Culture has destroyed. Although their material loss already amounts to several milliards, let not cash payments be exacted for them in the peace negotiations, but let Germany be obligated to send back to their countries of origin all works of art not belonging to German Culture. Thus will many architectural flowers of Flemish influence take their places of old in the only possible reconstruction of Flemish art. Yesterday the Chamber of Deputies sustained the Salandra Government by a vote of 405 to 48. This afternoon I attended a performance for children at the Teatro dei Piccoli, a small and not ungraceful white building. Although this was the third marionette performance today, the house was crowded with grown-ups. The few who were accompanied by children appeared very much annoyed at having their parental fun spoiled by the occasional attention they were obliged to bestow on their offspring. T h e first number on the program was a Punch and Judy comedy, in which the handling of the figures was a marvel of art. T h e next was Puss in Boots—"II Gatto con gli Stivali"—in three acts, with music by Cesare Cui. The King and Puss were perfect, the courtiers bowed superbly, and a line of peasants on their way to work in the fields, carrying their tools and singing, was really remarkable. T h e scenery was fair; some of it quite Mother Gooselike. Whenever the ogre spoke, his eyes flashed red, and Puss responded with a blaze of green. Smoke actually came out of the mouth of a peasant indulging himself in a pipe. T w o dancers, a premier in black tights and a premiere in green skirts kicked their toes together and pirouetted on the light fantastic toe in a way one would have thought entirely beyond the possibilities of wire manipulation. This deftness of handling succeeds in making the figures appear natural—somewhat absurd, somewhat caricatured in manner and form, but natural. T h e King's daughter, a coloratura soprano, sang as if she were a coloratura soprano, and Puss scratched himself as if he were a cat, even though he is a supercat.

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Tonight I heard that the Pope will claim tomorrow at the Consistory that he is not free in belligerent Italy. If he does, I hope the Italians will make u p their minds to let him try living somewhere else. DECEMBER

6

In his allocution at the Secret Consistory today Benedict XV resurrected the Roman Question. T h e indignation of the Italian people at his utter lack of Christian and intellectual vision in selecting such a moment as this to talk of his own petty troubles is well deserved. He urges peace and adds another element of discord; he, Christ's representative, chafes at the inconveniences, postal and otherwise, to which he is subject when millions are suffering and dying. It is too disgusting. For forty-five years the Law of Guarantees has been respected. T h e Italians, especially the Romans, have watched dignitaries from every part of the globe come freely to their city to attend conclaves and conferences. Yesterday they witnessed a similar gathering, knowing full well that not only was Cardinal Hartmann, the Archbishop of Cologne, in attendance, but that, if the Austrian Cardinals were absent, their absence was due to the intromission of their own emperor; knowing full well, also, that if Cardinal Mercier, the Primate of stricken Belgium, was absent, this absence was due to the refusal of the German authorities to allow him to come by the route he had chosen through France, the ally of his violated country. There are arguments and complaints that refute themselves by the march of time and events. Among these must be included the old contention of the Papacy that the temporal power is necessary for the untrammeled exercise of its spiritual sovereignty. Minister Orlando, in his speech at Palermo last month, ably showed that no Pope has ever enjoyed during any period of European warfare so much real freedom and absence from pressure and violence as Pope Benedict XV has enjoyed in this greatest of wars. Even his allocution at the Secret Consistory, with all its hopes and fears, its complaints and protests, was cabled promptly, uncensored, to every part of the world.

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T h e Italian Government has issued a straightforward, dignified statement denying the Pope's declaration that diplomatic representatives accredited to the Vatican by countries at war with Italy have been constrained to leave their posts, and affirming that explicit assurance was given to both Germany and Austria of the safety of both the persons and dignity of their representatives at the Vatican during the course of the war. I have sent an article to the New York Evening Post, summarizing the allocution and setting forth its reactions here, but I doubt if it will be published; the Irish vote in New York is important and sensitive. Commendatore D' Adamo, civil administrator of the conquered territory, granted me a long interview at the Ministry of the Interior. T h e administrative and legislative procedure of the civil department of the Supreme Military Command is based not only on the principles of international law that relate to conquered territory but on the policy of continuing all local institutions, legislation, or customs, Italian or Austrian in origin, that promise well. As no territory conquered by force of arms can be legally incorporated into the government of the conqueror without a formal and solemn act of annexation or a treaty agreement on the conclusion of hostilities, no oath of fealty to the King of Italy is expected from any official in the lands wrested from the Austrians, and the judgments of the civil courts are not issued and enforced in the name of His Majesty but in that of the de facto government, the Supreme Command of the Italian Army. Few local Austrian consigli were functioning in the captured districts because every Austrian able to bear arms up to the age of fifty had been recalled to service and every Austrian of Italian origin, unable to bear arms, had been interned. Many of these latter, known as Italian irredentists, had sought refuge in Italy during the early days of the war. T h e population of the conquered territory is scattered over one hundred and twenty-two communes, organized into ten political districts, eight of which are already functioning under a commis-

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sario or civil representative of the Supreme Military Command. T h e communes are governed by consigli or assemblies, and the towns, by mayors, whose title of Podesta, reminiscent of Austrian rule, has been changed to Sindaco. Many details connected with the administration of justice are still under consideration, for the continually varying military exigencies in this territory within the fighting zone make it impossible to guarantee that absolute and unchanging application of the civil code to which citizens are entitled in normal times of peace. Local tribunals of a popular character have been established, which transact their business according to the procedure of those they have displaced except that appeals from their decisions must be made to the Supreme Military Command and that charges of an important criminal nature must be tried by military tribunals. One of the first duties of the civil authorities has been the reestablishment of the local schools. Teachers who remained at their posts have been confirmed in their positions, and vacancies on the staffs have been filled by instructors who fled into Italy to escape Austrian repression. Some changes have been made in curricula and in textbooks, especially in histories that inculcate a hatred of Italy, but such changes as these can hardly be called a violation of law! Free schoolbooks and ample, warm luncheons are furnished to the children in schools and day nurseries. Equality has been established between the standing of students in the schools of the conquered territory and Italian ones of approximately the same grade. Students are allowed to elect courses in either German or French. Libraries, small but sufficient for the needs of the population, and ricreatori, or children's settlements, have been opened in a number of centres. T h e Italian Government is encouraging the continuance and beneficent influence of the Ginnasio Reale at Ala, the only school of advanced studies in the redeemed territory, by a larger subsidy than that formerly allotted to it by Austria and by the establishment of twelve scholarships for deserving students who desire to complete their education at institutions of higher learning in Italy. T h e Italian army of occupation has fed, and, in some instances,

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still feeds the people whom the Austrians left without provisions when they retreated. One hears on every side the phrase, "Gli italiani hanno portato l'abbondanza." Wherever normal conditions have been to a certain extent reestablished, great depots of foodstuffs have been opened, with the result that their price in the conquered provinces is only about one third as much as in Italy. This is not an isolated instance of the mixture of generous feeling and good sense that characterizes the Italian occupation of the new territory. T h e Italians have made no change or reduction in the salaries of the civil employees they found and confirmed in office, and they are paying to the wives and children of Austrian soldiers, who are fighting probably against Italy, the same subsidies to which they were entitled under Austrian law. General Cadorna has ordered the continuation of all the Austrian laws relating to workmen's accident compensation, sick benefits, and old age pensions, with only such minor modifications of procedure as the abnormal conditions prevailing in the conquered territory make necessary. T h e utmost care is exercised to protect the Austrian civil archives, for these records of ownership of real estate and of property in general serve useful purposes in connection with the imposition of taxation, the continuance of business on behalf of lawful owners, and the preservation of real-estate titles. On account of present conditions, great liberality is shown in the collection of taxes, but the presence of the army of occupation has brought so much new business to some places that the expenses of local administration are almost covered by the tax returns. T h e Rural Savings and Loan Bank of Ala, which was obliged to suspend operations because of the internment of all its directors by the Austrian Government, has been reorganized and is now doing business. Special attention is being given to agricultural questions. Many harvests in the conquered lands were saved by Italian soldiers, who, in some instances, cut and gathered them under fire from the enemy. T h e culture of tobacco, an important product in certain sections, is

125 1 9 1 5 receiving the attention of Italian Government experts, and plans are in progress for the establishment of an agricultural colony to take care of Austrian peasant children orphaned by the war. The wise and very intelligent work of reforestation, pursued by the Austrian Government in the Trentino, has given to Italy that prime necessity of war, timber. Although tempted to make vast cuttings, the Italian Government is very wisely following the advice on this point of Professor Serpieri, one of Italy's foremost experts in forestry, who is on the staff of the Superior Institute of Forestry of Florence. Nor have the Italians thought only of the material needs of the redenti. No less promptly have they considered their duties in the field of religion. T h e few priests who remained in their parishes have been confirmed in their offices, and others, suggested by bishops of adjoining Italian dioceses, have been assigned to vacant posts. In order to avoid hierarchical conflicts or the exercise of favoritism, a field bishop, "Vescovo Castrense," of the Roman Catholic Church has been added to the staff of the Supreme Command to take charge of that new, ever-changing, and tragic diocese composed of the population of the newly conquered lands and the fighting forces of Italy.

DECEMBER 8

Today I called on the Grampinis and met an old friend of theirs, Marchese Lanza, a man of culture and a book collector. He seems as happy as a bird in military barracks, though he is obliged to crop his hair on account of vermin, sleep on straw, and cut out the early meal because it involves the cleansing of a greasy bowl with cold water. "Already," he said, chuckling happily, "I look upon the borghesi as lower beings." Tomorrow I shall probably go to the Public Consistory and then home. This city is full of "influences" bad for the country, influences not directly traceable, perhaps, to German sources, but certainly turned to profit by the Germans. All the pacifists, all the followers of the old r£gime, all the seat-warmers,"all the papists, all the petty and most of the big affaristi, all the disappointed deputies and all the seekers after offices and personal advantages are up early

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and late—mostly late. I am glad to leave Rome, the Rome of pulls, the Rome of narrow officialdom, the Rome of the Vicar of Christ who speaks in His name as he spoke yesterday. DECEMBER g

At a quarter past nine this morning I was standing, freezing, at the foot of the Scala Regia in the Vatican, checking my coat. T h e Consistory was very different from my conception of it. No atmosphere of godliness or even of royal dignity pervaded it; least of all, any semblance of faith or sense of reverence. It was very borghese. T h e people hardly bowed when the Pontiff passed, and the Pontiff's brow reflected neither contentment nor serenity. T h e absence of foreigners this year gave the Public Consistory something of the atmosphere of a "home affair." Gone are the happy days when the hotelkeepers and middlemen of Rome could sell to curious and determined Americans, at prices ranging all the way from 50 to 800 lire, the tickets issued gratuitously by the Vatican authorities for public functions. Benedict X V , in the sedia gestatoria, looked down on a scene much the same, I imagine, as some of his predecessors must have gazed at in former times: nuns of all orders, barefooted monks, parish priests surrounded by devoted members of their flocks, borghese families eager for a great sight, Swiss Guards, pontifical soldiers, and a few strangers, like myself, infinitely more solemn and stiff than the great crowds about us, who seemed moved more by curiosity than interest. As I leaned, shivering in my evening clothes, against the storied but cold wall of the Aula della Benedizione, a strong, honest-looking Lombard peasant in his country clothes was pressing against me to get a glimpse of what was going on over the sea of heads, and a large, rotund brother of St. Francis, tonsured and sandaled, standing nearby, was pleading, with a merry twinkle in his eye, for a little space, just a little space, on the steps between the windows of the great hall. Italians in dress suits were vying with black-robed priests in the attempt to gain a footing on the fluted bases of the gilt pilasters projecting from the walls. Unable to resist the wistful look on the pale face of a young Venetian priest, so short that he could not possibly see over the line of helmeted and plumed guards, I offered

12 1 9 1 5 7 my immaculate person as a caryatid to enable him to cling with his heels to the top of the marble plinth running around the base of the walls. Having risen, he became lordly and ordered me to crook my back to give him a better view, but, in the end, he rewarded me by the offer of an enormous pair of field glasses, which he produced from a pocket of his soutane. T h e choirboys, waiting for the solemn procession, were pressing their little noses through the golden grille behind which they stood, or riotously brushing aside the priceless hangings that separate the choir from the aula in order to get a view of the audience. Some French nuns, pale, ascetic, but with eyes ablaze, were discussing what the demeanor of the Cardinal of Cologne would be like. What they felt in their simple, loyal souls as the distinguished German prelate swept slowly by, safe, free, unhampered in the Eternal City, I may leave to the imagination! But I know perfectly well what the bright, jolly looking Dominican in front of me thinks of the function; for, after telling a group of students of the college over which he presides that a holy man of his parts ought to have been given a better position from which to view the ceremony, he frowns and says, with the air of one who has often attended Vatican functions, "II solito disordine"—The usual disorder. A British officer, in his plain naval uniform, gazes longingly but somewhat hopelessly at the tribunes filled with lovely ladies, who have charmingly interpreted the regulation "black veil" to mean anything from the filmiest of clouds to Spanish mantillas for those whose beauty is thus set off best. A solicitous American husband glances about the audience with evident hope that some kind gentleman will offer a position of vantage to his dear lady, but, bewildered and perplexed, he looks in vain, for a Vatican crowd is, apparently, not unlike a subway crowd at home. As the sound of hand-clapping from a distance calls us to attention, the choirboys leave the grille and line u p watchfully before their master's raised baton; the soldiers present arms; Michelangelo's Guards straighten their fine halberds; and the stream of church dignitaries flows slowly along the narrow aisle that divides the great crowd.

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T h e audience bows very, very hastily, lest they miss a sight of the Pontiff, as he is borne along, high above their heads, in the sedia gestatoria, with two flabelli—tall, ostrich-plumed fans—one on either side. On his head rests the yellow Mitre of Peter, and, from the bent shoulders of his small, spare figure falls a gorgeous and ample robe of gold damask, concealing all that is corporeal of him except his head and right hand which he extends, now right, now left, in bestowing the Papal benediction. Pallid, set in his aspect, he seems to shrink from rather than exult in the acclamation and honors accorded him, moistening his lips constantly as if he were under a nervous strain. He is, certainly, not at ease as a focus of attention. T h e Pope is younger, less astute looking than his photographs and portraits would lead us to believe, with a fineness of line and expression of face, indicative of determination but also of great sensitiveness, which appears to have escaped the artists. As the procession swept by, I was aware that the men and women in the audience were mentally measuring up their spiritual sovereign, for the Italians are singularly able to distinguish the person of the Pope from the high office he fills. The ease with which they make this distinction was clearly demonstrated today. Although some persons near me in the audience mistook the peremptory order of a chamberlain, "Abbasso"—Down—addressed to some men climbing up on the window sill, for an exclamation of disapproval of the Pope, they remained utterly indifferent and unmoved. T h e ceremony began with the monotonous tones of a priest speaking in Latin. " H e is perorating for the canonization of a new saint," the parish priest standing next to me explained to the contadini of his flock, who apparently weren't interested in what they couldn't see. I left before the end, in order to avoid the huge crowd. Passing from magnificent room to magnificent room through a narrow passage lined by thousands of eager men and women, lay and clerical, poor and rich, waiting curiously for another glimpse of "il Papa," I heard from the mouths of men attired in tight-fitting cuirasses and helmets, in the finest and noblest costumes ever devised for

,2 1 9 1 5 9 ceremonials, more German and Teutonic Italian than I have heard since I came to Italy. At the top of the Scala Regia, one impressive Papal Carbineer was keeping lonely guard, and at the foot of it, a letter carrier of the Italian Government was delivering pacchi postali to a couple of Swiss Guards, who were signing the receipt book of the Post Office Department of the Kingdom of Italy. Beyond the threshold Royal Carabinieri, silent and calm, were waiting to enforce the law for Pope or King, and, at various points between the colonnade of St. Peter's Piazza and Castel Sant' Angelo, Italian policemen and municipal guards were scattered to preserve order for Church or State. Neither within nor without the Vatican walls did the thought of trouble seem to worry anyone, and, yet, only two days before the Pope of Rome had solemnly protested that he was not free. I could not help thinking of the effect of that protest on the minds of millions of Catholics who do not know Rome and the Romans. Could these loyal children of the Church have been with me this morning their anxieties would have been greatly appeased. T h e devil, in the shape of the Italian Government, doesn't look so bad at close quarters!

DECEMBER lO-l 1. FLORENCE T h e newspapers give the text of the pact signed by Italy on November 30, 1915, which binds England, France, Russia, Japan, and Italy not to conclude a separate peace or to impose conditions of peace except in agreement with one another. On the train going home from Rome, I rode in a compartment with an Italian officer and four young British officers returning home from Gallipoli on sick leave. There were twenty of these young men on the train. The Colonel appointed me interpreter, and, after the initial stiffness wore off, we had a jolly good time. After serving five months on the Carso front, Lieutenant Colonel Bronchelli has been made a member of a commission to inquire into frauds perpetrated by furnishers of military supplies; not wholesale manufacturers, for the factories are under surveillance, but hundreds of individual workmen employed to supply the enor-

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mous needs of the army. Many sell the good materials they receive and replace them by miserable substitutes. Shoemakers, for instance, use cardboard instead of leather for soling shoes. As the Italian Army needs a million new pairs of shoes a month, the opportunities for profit are obvious. His technical training, the Colonel told us, had been of very little value either in this or in the Libyan campaign, but his general training as a soldier had been invaluable. He doubted very much whether officers can be improvised. "An eye for the land" is what counts in today's engagements, the ability to see how every bit of terrain can be utilized defensively and offensively. H e defended the Austrians from the charges directed against them of intentional attack on Red Cross flags. These are very difficult to see in a plain full of advancing soldiers, and the only chance of success for an attacking army is to broadcast fire and shell. T h e exhaustion following a battle makes one insensible to the suffering of others. Hardly can he believe of himself, the Colonel said, that, on one occasion, he sent word to his surgeon to stop the cries of the wounded, so unbearable did they seem—an order to which the surgeon replied that, inside of fifteen minutes at most, they would cease. T h e worst experience at the front is to see a man caught in an Austrian wire entanglement. "Never will I forget," the Colonel exclaimed, "one poor boy pinioned thus, with half of his face shot off, and the terrible cries coming from his tongueless throat for the few moments of life that remained." T h e Colonel wished me to inquire about the extra pay of British officers. I declined, and he turned his attention to their accoutrements. He could not understand why their sword belts were suspended from only one strap. Not finding their explanations satisfactory, he suddenly turned to me and said, "Dev' essere economia"! One of the young officers, Captain Elliott of Australia, is a soldier by training. He looks and speaks like an American—a Westerner, a cowboy at heart, one would say. He is proud of Australia and her army. In a burst of confidence he told me, when we happened to find ourselves alone during the trip, that, in his opinion, fighting men come only from rural and open country like that of his own

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land and our South and West. T l i e wars fought in the United States form the basis of military studies in Australia because of the similarity of conditions in the two countries, and the training school for officers in Australia is fashioned after West Point. Homesickness for Australia lurked in everything he said. T h e British officers agreed that Egypt is impregnable. T h e air equipment is superb, and the information gathered in far-winged aerial reconnaissances on the open desert permits the English Command to take defensive measures in plenty of time. T h e English allowed the Turks, on their first move against Egypt, to advance as far as they would and then annihilated them. It sounded strangely unreal to hear one of the youngsters, a slight, frail boy, say he had not been able to pot a T u r k digging a trench until he had fired the tenth time. T h e Italian Colonel was a more interesting figure in many ways than the Britishers, but my heart went out to their youth. DECEMBER

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T h e newspapers announce that an Italian expedition has successfully landed in Albania, the only untoward results being the loss of a chartered steamer, Re Umberto, and a torpedo-boat destroyer, the Intrepido, both of which struck floating mines; forty men on the former and three on the latter were lost. T h e aerial activity of the Austrians against Durazzo and Scutari is now explained; also Greece's apparent willingness to conform with the wishes of all the powers, including the Allies! DECEMBER

17

T h r e e of the young Englishmen I met on the train took luncheon with Florence and me today—a cross-section of the British Empire: Captain Elliott of Australia, Lieutenant Main of His Majesty's O w n Scottish Borderers, and Lieutenant Fox of Newfoundland, the lapel of whose coat is adorned with a caribou. Newfoundland, he said, has sent 2,500 men and reserves to the war, every man it could muster. DECEMBER

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W e had some visitors from Rome today, Miss McGinnis, Mr.

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Norval Richardson, First Secretary of our Embassy, and Mr. Lothrop of the American Academy. Guglielmo Marconi made his maiden speech in the Senate the other day. Speaking like an Anglo-Saxon, he was an effective witness for "Italy, the freest of all the countries at war in Europe." Senator Barzellotti made a strong attack on the government, voicing his disapproval not only of the censura but of the secrecy maintained in regard to treaties and conventions, destined to influence the fate of the nation and the lives and happiness of the people. Although Salandra's reply was not effective, the Senators, including Barzellotti, sustained the government without a single dissenting vote. T h e Austrian reply to Lansing's note, asking the nationality of the submarine that sank the Ancona, is stupidly haughty and the special plea of a shyster. But nothing, I suppose, will be done about it, especially with Wilson busy getting married. Richardson tells me that the Italian Foreign Office has persistently and consistently told the Embassy that "up to yesterday nothing definite has been ascertained as to the nationality of the submarine." D E C E M B E R 2 5 . CHRISTMAS

We celebrated the day by "homing" the refugees from Rome, Mrs. Richardson, Norval Richardson, Miss McGinnis, and Mr. Lothrop, at a Christmas luncheon, which included cranberry sauce and a homemade plum pudding, the piece de resistance. Our table was gaily decked with an American flag, two little green trees, garlands of green, and red Santa Claus favors. DECEMBER 2 7

T h e sun came out for a few minutes this afternoon and shone on a stirring scene to which Florence and I were summoned from the villa by bugle calls: a troop of mounted artillerymen, with bugles slung on their backs, bending over their straining horses, as they climbed up the steep Via Salviati—a martial picture lovely to behold against the background of olive-green hills and the finely lined Villa Salviati. T h e men were oldish richiamati, some of them not entirely at home on their mounts, which the bystanders told us were American!

1 9 1 5 *33 Greece has filed an enquiry as to Italy's plans in Albania, in reply to which, the newspapers say, "Italy has given full and satisfactory assurance," whatever that phrase means. Meanwhile all Servia seems to be coming into Italy. Thirty thousand Austrian prisoners of the Servians have been turned over to Italy, most of whom have been fumigated and interned in Sardinia. At Bari an exposition of Servian painting has been opened. Little news of Egypt comes through, and about what comes there is a vagueness and forced sense of serenity far from reassuring in spite of the optimism shown by our young visitors the other day. As for the Italians, they are as inscrutable as ever. I fear they are as selfish as ever. DECEMBER 2 9

Richardson lunched with me at the Lido. The Ambassador, he says, thinks the war will not leave any spiritual or intellectual benefits in its train. Leoni Egisto, one of several soldiers on leave at San Domenico, called on us today. His feet were partially frozen by icy water in the trenches at Podgora, near Gorizia, and a bone in one of them was broken by a shrapnel bullet. He is suffering from fever and his nerves are upset, but he must report to his deposito at Modena tomorrow to be examined on his fitness for service. In the first line of trenches, Leoni says, the soldiers stay for a period of five days, living as best they can, sometimes in fifty centimetres of water, which has been known to wash away the soles of their shoes. Food is irregular; sleep is almost impossible; and the vermin are maddening. After a turn in the trenches they are allowed a rest in the trincerone, back of the lines, where they enjoy the certainty of meals and the comfort of being dry, for, at the worst, only a few drops of rain trickle through. When they are finally relieved from front-line service and marched to the rear, they are billeted in tents furnished with a little clean straw, upon which "we rest," said Leoni, "with as much comfort and joy as upon a letto matrimoniale, though sleep is impossible—the trick of it has been lost." A special treat doled out to the soldiers at the front, some excel-

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lent sweet chocolate perhaps, warns them they are being "fattened for market," to use Leoni's words. T h e planes go out to reconnoitre, the artillery sweeps the trenches of the enemy for several hours to clear away obstacles, and then the Genio goes forward to cut wires and place bombs and nitroglycerin tubes. As soon as all is in readiness, the officers shout, "Avanti Savoia," and the men spring out of the trenches and make a dash for the enemy. " A man gets terribly frightened," Leoni confessed, "and goes ahead only because the officers lead—otherwise he couldn't. T h e noise, the explosions, the cries of the wounded for their mothers are so terrible that it seems as if one were about to lose Iiis mind, and by the time the Austrian trenches are reached, everybody is ready to spike the first man he encounters." If the soldiers succeed in reaching the points where the entanglement of wire has been cut, the charge is generally successful. If it is a failure, "Si salvi chi puo," becomes the order of the day, and everyone rolls, runs, or creeps back to the Italian lines as expeditiously as possible, or drops into some hiding place while the artillery belches forth a curtain of fire to cover the retreat and stave off a counterattack. Leoni described how he dropped, after an assault that failed, into a hole and set to work to dig himself in with his little army spade, which, at that moment, was far more useful than his gun. He described the big shells as merciful because they take five seconds to explode, giving a man a chance to run to cover, but the silent shells and the asphyxiating bombs as fearful. "So far, all is going very well," said Leoni. " W e are going ahead; slowly, to be sure, because, with every step on the mountain front, we have to climb and often hold difficult positions halfway up the mountain slopes." DECEMBER 31

T h e year ended with sunlight, the first in many days; so Florence and I went off to the hills. In the Piazza at Fiesolc we took a vettura and drove to Castel di Poggio, one of the finest drives on God's earth. Beyond Fiesole comes the broad valley of the Mugnone, which terminates in a group of great mountains—a foreground of Benozzo Gozzoli with a horizon beyond the reach of mortal brush. Against this stretch of hazy mountains stands Monte Senario. It was still but

19 15 dramatic in the mist s u r r o u n d i n g it today. In front of it rose a semicircle of balder mountains casting fine soft shadows and seeming to stand out in relief. Nearer still, across the valley, were the slopes of rugged Lastra, cleft by sharply notched quarries and hills softly clothed in the reddish-brown of faded scrub oak and the gray-green puffs of olive trees. T h e clouds never leave the heights of the Mugnone valley. T h e y stretch over them in great soft folds as if, beautifully relaxed and at home, they were just about to settle down. Beyond Fiesole a grove of motionless, aligned cypresses prepares us for the mediaeval aspect of the view opening out on the right: the sweep down a smaller vale, and u p its farther slopes to the Castel di Poggio, the great stronghold of the Manzeccas, who lorded it over this countryside in the fourteenth century. Beyond it, lower down, lies the Castle of Vincigliata. T h e Manzeccas may have been a very bad lot, b u t I can understand the reason for the legend that Selvaggia, daughter of Giovanni Usimbardi, Lord of Vincigliata, who unhappily fell in love with Simone del Manzecca, hereditary foe of her family, is supposed still to h a u n t her windows, white as snow, watching for the coming of her lover from the hills. At the foot of the driveway to Castel di Poggio there is a sweet little chapel. Beyond it we did not go, though I am drawn to the small church of Santa Maria of Vincigliata, to see Giovanni del Biondo's picture of a Madonna with the Divine Child "holding in His h a n d a little blackbird with a red breast." I think I shall be unhappy until I see that little bird. Driving back to Fiesole, we had an unforgettable glimpse of the great, square tower of Poggio, with the setting sun resting on its broad, turreted top like a beautiful thought on a heavy, fine brow. We stopped for tea at the Aurora, and, afterwards, climbed u p the steep paved path that leads to the little piazzetta in front of the Franciscan Convent, from which there is the famous view of Florence. O n a wall near at hand hangs a marble tablet inscribed with Carducci's sonnet, "Fiesole." Never have I seen Florence quite so lovely as it was tonight under a golden setting sun lighting u p the greenish Arno and throwing flecks of gold on the city's skylights. Walking down the Via Vecchia Fiesolana in the fast gathering darkness, we passed shadowy groups of people toiling up to Fiesole, u p o n

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whom a distinct touch of ancient days seemed to rest: men returning home from their labors, women with great bundles oi fascine on their backs, and a sprinkling of the beggars who file down the hill every morning to their various "spheres of begging," the lame, the bent, and the aged. T h e arch connecting two houses on opposite sides of the Via Fiesolana, a little above the entrance to the Riposo dei Vescovi, with the narrow stone-paved Via suddenly disappearing under it in a sharp turn, was particularly engaging this evening. And the bells rang the Ave Maria; those of San Domenico somewhat stridently and a bit wildly as if youngsters were tugging at their ropes, but the ones farther away, in gentler notes and more measured waves of sound. Scarcely any other noise was heard as the people trudged home from work, not tired, for no one looks tired in Italy, but rendered less vocal by the day's labor. If the electric lights had not been suddenly turned on, we should have seen night approaching as in ancient days.

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JANUARY

1.FLORENCE

W c attended today's festivities at the American Hospital, expecting to share the soldiers' enjoyment of a Christmas tree provided for their entertainment after a pranzo di gala. T h e event, however, proved to be a little journey into the inexplicable Italian character. I think we enjoyed it more than the men. As a symbol, the tree seemed to leave them cold. W i t h Latin realism, they discussed whether it was the top of a tall tree or a young one. Weren't the American Christmas tree ornaments strange? T h e y accepted very politely stockings full of little gifts, some with interest, others with wonder, as if they thought net a fragile fabric out of which to fashion stockings. They enjoyed the singing, and, even more, the dancing of a little girl, on the program of festivities, but they enjoyed most of all the treat prepared for them by one of their own number, a head, with eyes moved by a pendulum, of "Checco Beppe," as the Austrian Emperor is facetiously called in Italy. T h e fabricator of this invention, an oldish man and a photographer by trade, came back from the Argentine to fight. He is a strange character, quite mad on the subject of machinery and never so happy as when he is talking of it and bringing out of his pockets innumerable sketches of tireless wheels, auto mudguards, motorcycles, and flying machines. During the musical program I sat next to a young man, a gentlemanly chap, with large blue eyes, wearing a cap that covered a bad shrapnel wound in his head. H e had been trepanned, seven pieces of bone having been removed to relieve his poor brain. "I remember," he said, as he recounted his story, "that I wasn't a coward. I stood at my post until I was hit on the head. W h e n I tried to speak, I couldn't. Something had killed speech. I lifted my cap, found it full of blood, and sought refuge behind some rocks, where I mopped my head with the medical preparation in my kit and waited four hours until darkness came on and the hail of fire stopped. T h e n I dragged

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myself to the trincerone, and asked a soldier to help me walk to the medical station. I speak like a foreigner," he said slowly, "but I am a Florentine. I am regaining my speech. I don't complain; it might have been worse, but sometimes my head pains me very much." Later, while the soldiers were singing in chorus, I went upstairs to see a couple of patients, too sick to come down. One was under the influence of an opiate to relieve his sufferings. The other, a Venetian, Carlo Calo, who had been in bed for two months, was visibly suffering from a high fever. He seemed, however, to enjoy our little talk together. I spoke to him of Venice. A bell summoned the soldiers to wind up the festivities with marsala and brioches. Few of those who had gone upstairs came down again. Perhaps they thought, as one of the men suggested, that the bell was summoning them to a religious service. Anyway I never saw a buffet more coldly received. I remember sumptuous feasts at which men scrambled for food, but here they had to be sought. One robust-looking Tuscan peasant resented the ringing of the bell. It made him nervous, he said. This little incident reveals the state of "shock" often lurking behind the normal appearance of these men. "We must keep merry," said this man. "We must not think of battles. Those who do, go mad. For weeks after I left the front, I dreamed about it. I do still. In my dream I am generally attempting to drag away a gun I have captured without firing a shot. Think of itl" he added, smiling at the impossibility of getting possession of a gun so easily. JANUARY 2

T h e papers announce that the Italians have sunk two Austrian destroyers near Durazzo. Events are maturing in Albania, and the enemy seems to be on the point of abandoning Salonica in order to turn towards the Adriatic. Through the darkness and mist tonight I walked with Florence to Fonte Lucente, up the narrow cobbled road outside our gate, which twists and turns on its way up hill until it finally comes out on top of a precipitous ledge overlooking the winding valley of the Mugnone. Intermingled with the heavy song of the river, noisily

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foaming over the stones of its half-dried bed, was the rumble of a train hauling its freight in and out of the tunnels on the steep grade of the Faentina railway. T h e hills seemed to close in upon us, and the cypresses were stiller and blacker than ever. Just as we reached Fonte Lucente, the fa9ade and graceful, arched portico of the little church were suddenly and dimly illumined by the light of a candle carried by someone walking across the courtyard in front of it. Through the veil of mist in the valley, we saw a little fire blazing at the entrance to a tunnel, which had been lighted, no doubt, by the soldier on guard. It was poetic, though perhaps it had served to cook his dinner. With Fiesole open to his upward gaze and the surly Mugnone foaming below him, there must he guard throughout the night the trainloads of munitions and supplies passing northward, for danger is everywhere; yes, even here, where Fra Angelico must have gazed and dreamed and hundreds of other painters have listened to the message of these sweet hills and dear, winding roads that says, "Paint—paint on." Along the bottom of this valley runs the Via Faentina, an ancient highway. At the point where it narrows and the Mugnone grows surly, there are some tenements and an old stone bridge—a dirty, picturesque spot, tremendously mediaeval even now. Walking along the river the other day, I heard the tap, tap of the workmen in the quarries on the hill across it, though I could not see them. On the rocky slopes of the hill a flock of sheep, almost invisible, were pasturing, and a brown-clad shepherd, barely discernible, was slowly trudging after them. Farther on, by another stone bridge, at a turn of the river, was a mill, a tannery perhaps, through which the sluiced waters of the Mugnone were flowing. T h e sight of the shepherd made me think of another shepherd, an old man, who appeared at the Comando of a small town and offered the finest goat of his flock to the officer in charge. "His Majesty the King is at the front," he said, "and his wife, the Queen, must be greatly worried about him. How then can she nurse her last born? Please give her Majesty this goat. Tell her not to be anxious and assure her that the goat's milk will make the baby princess so strong that the King will rejoice on his return from the war."

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JANUARY 3

A t Mrs. Ryerson's today I met M a j o r Andreaiii, an officer of field artillery in the regular army, the husband of a c h a r m i n g American girl. H e is here on eight days leave, after seven months at the front, as chipper and " u n s h o c k e d " an officer as I have seen. T h e Italian artillery has always had a good reputation, he told me. T h e world famous breech-loading cannon w i t h the corrugated bore was the invention of General C a v a l l i of the Sardinian artillery. T h e guns now used by the Italian army, of the type of the Deport, are made in Italy, so accurately and precisely that one can almost " p a i n t " with their shots. A t the b e g i n n i n g of the Italo-Austrian campaign, M a j o r Andreani's battery formed part of the artillery that supported the infantry in their dash across the border, where they met with little resistance. T h e Italians attained their next objective, some strategic points on the m o u n t a i n slopes c o m m a n d i n g the Austrian military roads, by m o v i n g at night silently and swiftly, dragging their guns by hand over footpaths and improvised roads. In these positions they waited quietly and patiently, d u r i n g days and nights that were very trying, for orders to attack. W h e n they finally advanced, the Austrians, taken by surprise, fell back along the entire line of operations. Most of the time since then M a j o r A n d r e a n i has passed near T o l mino, where he has b u i l t a chalet in which he enjoys many of the comforts of home, even his afternoon tea! T h e cold is not severe, b u t the m u d is terrible, knee-deep, and as l i q u i d as a stream. T h e days pass quickly with " s i g h t i n g " and bombarding. H i s eyes glued to his glasses, he watches a battle as if it were a grande manoeuvre rather than actual war, the entire interest of the campaign for him b e i n g concentrated in the question of aim. T o get the range of invisible targets, airplanes are used. H e thinks the Austrians must have aimed purposely in the majority of cases in w h i c h they have struck R e d Cross depots, for a field glass is generally amply sufficient to prevent the training of guns on protected buildings. T h e Austrians are less spendthrift with their a m m u n i t i o n than they were in the earlier days of the war, though they are still well

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provided. T h e accuracy of their aim leaves something to be desired, but their teamwork in concentrating fire from different batteries on one point is very good and proof of the excellency of their telephone system. They fight well. Major Andreani has seen some of them, with all their comrades dead around them, throw hand bombs at the Italians before surrendering. T h e suffering at the front has made little impression on him because he sees it, through his glass, at such a great distance that he gets 110 sensation of reality and therefore none of cruelty. One tragic incident, though, that occurred while he was pounding to dust a certain section into which the Austrians had dug themselves, has left a bad memory: the sight of two Austrians meeting death from his guns, as they returned to the shelter of some woods from which they had emerged to drag a comrade out of a hole and carry him to safety. On another occasion Major Andreani was watching a thin line of Italian soldiers ascending a green slope, free of the enemy apparently, when he suddenly saw a piece of the greensward cave in and a mitrailleuse emerge. It enfiladed the Italians, killing and wounding the officers and men in the lead. While those in the rear fell flat, seeking cover, the Major, who already had the range of a point of woodland above, where he had anticipated trouble, quickly got that of the mitrailleuse. He planted one shot twenty meters to the right, another twenty, to the left, and a third, plumb on it, killing the men and wounding the officer in charge; whereupon the Italians rose, made a dash for the woods, and reappeared shortly with some Austrian prisoners. His battery had saved the day. JANUARY 4

Ugo Ojetti invited me to call on him at his Villa at San Gei vasio. It is flanked on either side by a children's ricreatorio, both of which are maintained by Signor and Signora Ojetti (whom I met at the close of my call, when I accepted Ojetti's invitation to drive into town with his wife and himself). I do not remember how the conversation led to King Victor, but, in a long, quiet, almost intimate conversation, this is the portrait of his sovereign that Ojetti painted for me. " T h e King's knowledge is favolosa," he began, "he is a man of

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precise facts, and his field of interests is limitless. His knowledge of the topography of the unredeemed lands is intimate and particularized. For instance he could easily make a map of the siege of Gorizia in the sixteenth century, showing the exact location of the Venetian artillery and the Imperial forces. His historical information is absolutely exact. T o make a mistake in a date of even a day would be as impossible to his saturated but well-classified mind as to make a mistake of a millimeter in the design of an ancient coin he is thinking of adding to his collection. T h e King's memory, however, is not limited to subjects connected with his position. He is very interested in art. He motored up from Rome several times to see the Esposizione del Ritratto held in Florence some years ago. Though the portraits had come from all over Europe and every part of Italy, the King recognized the provenance of almost every one of them and referred to special points he had looked up about them in his books 'a casa' "—"a casa" being the royal mansion. "But all this precision of knowledge might make King Victor a pedant," I suggested. "Yes," agreed Ojetti, "but if you want to describe the King's character by a single word, you will use the word 'saint,' not 'pedant.' I do not mean to ascribe religious sainthood to him. I am speaking rather of a certain asceticism and mysticism in his character, which is wholesome because it is practical and human in its vision. T h e r e have been saints in the Savoyard stock, not a few, and great soldiers. T h e asceticism and mysticism of the King are those of a soldier, or, at least, they are in harmony with and complementary to a real soldierly character. This soldierly abnegation comes from a conception of duty, both profound and spontaneous, which has always manifested itself in the hour of need. Today it is steadily and constantly present. It is not necessary for him to be at the front, for he attempts no leadership, though his great topographical knowledge is helpful to the staff, but his presence there is a tremendous example to the men in the ranks. He has none of the comforts of his generals or even of his colonels, not because he desires to pose, but because he is a soldier and not a leader. He sleeps on a camp bed, and his meals of two courses, very similar to the rancio of the soldiers, are served on a table covered witii oilcloth. He has visited

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every hospital at the front, and his relation to the stricken soldiers is that of a comrade. T o the men of his own province, Piemonte, he often speaks in dialect." Ojetti dined alone with the King on Christmas Eve. It was a simple repast on the oilcloth covered table. The etiquette which forbids a subject, while conversing with royalty, to introduce a new topic was laid aside. What was said I do not know, but I could feel that this hour with his sovereign had been rich in impressions. "Even the little conventional lies of social intercourse are paralyzed in the King's presence," said Ojetti, speaking with a fineness of ring and tone in his voice that was utterly free from the least trace of servility, though it abounded in the sense of loyalty and devotion. "The King is sometimes charged with the want of initiative by those not understanding to what an extent he is handicapped by a profound sense of his constitutional limitations. Should his Prime Minister, supported by a parliamentary majority, come to him with a plan totally at variance with the sovereign's own views and convictions, the King, clear sighted, well-equipped mentally, and splendidly informed as he is, would unhesitatingly bow to the government of which he, too, though King, is a subject." "With us in Europe," said Ojetti, expanding his subject, "kingship is inwrought in the history and in the sequence and development not only of statecraft but also of civilization. Possibly Americans would understand why kingship of the Savoyard genus seems to us very natural if they could realize what it means to Victor Emmanuel himself." I pressed him for greater clarity and he musingly went on, "Italy is a reality, not a concept to the King's mind, a substance rather than a creed in the field of ideals. T o the soldiers' shout, 'Viva il Re,' the King returns the cry, 'Viva 1' Italia.' If he feels himself part of Italy, it is not in the sense of personal importance. He is deeply conscious of his kingship, but it is a kingship possessed of historic content, of something belonging not to him but to Italy. Splendid too," Ojetti proceeded, "is the King's spiritual sense of duty towards the country over which he reigns. If it should appear—which God forbid—that the death of the sovereign could be of aid to Italy in her battle for victory, or could bring her troops nearer to the national goal, or could save a regiment of her soldiers

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from defeat or suffering, Victor Emmanuel I I I would go to his death with a directness of purpose superb in its simplicity. He belongs to history, and the history of Italy is greater than that of the Savoyards, though they are so inextricably a part of it." Ojetti is a royalist and I am a republican, but as he ceased speaking we sat for a moment in silence, gazing upon the portrait he had drawn with affection and respect. J A N U A R Y 6 . LA BEFANA

FEAST OF T H E EPIPHANY

Florence and I drove out in "Petrolio's" little vettura to L' Olmo for lunch. W e started from the Torricella in a heavy mist, which we gradually left behind as we rose to Fiesole, but, on our return, late in the afternoon, the fog was still so dense at San Domenico that we could hardly see three yards ahead. A little below Villa Medici we turned to look back toward Monte Morello just as the sun, at the horizon, was shining on the mist and turning it into a great sweep of mountain snow, which blanketed everything in the far distance and the valley below. T h e scene looked exactly like a sunset on the snow-capped Alps or, rather, like a picture of the Arctic Zone— nothing but sun and snow and sky. T h e piazza at Fiesole was quite lively this morning, filled as it was with laborers who had deserted the fields in honor of the feast of the Befana. Beyond the town we met only huntsmen and groups of girls, the poor girls whose lovers are all at the front. Even the osteria of L* Olmo was quite desolate, despite the warm sun shining upon it and the new provincial road being built near-by. After lunching on a small terrace, attended by an ill-mannered hunting dog and a sheep dog which fans one affectionately with her tail, we talked with a couple of oldish men and four or five youths dressed in their Sunday clothes. Several of the men of this little community, most of whom are in the army, have been killed at the front. Nobody complained or criticized; they simply enumerated men called to service, wounded, and killed, as they might have spoken of harvests that had failed, though of lost harvests they probably would have spoken with more interest, certainly with more heat. They look forward to the capture of Gorizia and Trieste; then to the peace

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and quiet of the old life. Fiesole, they said, has lost fifteen or sixteen of her soldiers on the battlefields, and the priest of the little church of Sant' Ilario, where we stopped g o i n g home, spoke of two of his flock w h o had fallen in the war. Sant' Ilario of Montereggi! W h a t a sweet experience we had there, straight from the hands of a fairy godmother. D r i v i n g home from L ' O l m o , I asked " P e t r o l i o " where the church at Montereggi was. "Eccola," he said, and just then I heard the sound of a bell. L o o k i n g up, I saw a small square tower, o u t of the belfry of which a little bell was almost j u m p i n g in its anxious endeavor to make a noise. C l i n g i n g to a pole above it was a tiny mediaeval angel cut o u t of a thin sheet of metal, a delightful little weather vane. T h e tower rose o u t of a walled square, beside w h i c h ran a cypress-bordered lane. Into this w e turned and came out on a terraced piazzetta w h e r e a little church stood, facing all God's glory in the valley below and on the hills beyond. A n impression of joy, almost of godliness, was made upon m e by that little house of G o d so resolutely t u r n i n g its back on the highway i n order to gaze at the splendor of hill and vale. Guido, K i n g of Italy, gave Möns Regis and all the surrounding countryside to the Bishops of Fiesole as early as A.D. 890. In the fourteenth century this church was under the patronage of the Baldovinetti, whose arms are still on its fa9ade. It has been so often restored that little remains of the old edifice. In spite of the noisy little bell we expected to see an empty church, but, on o p e n i n g its door, we found it crowded. A n ugly little building it is, b u t somehow lovable, with its big, heavy w o o d e n rafters that seem so quaint, so resolved to proclaim their age, and yet so unnecessary for holding u p its tiny roof. Perched high u p is an ugly little pulpit in the shape of a tub, so high u p that surely n o preacher could step into it without b u m p i n g his head against the rafters. T h e door leading into it looks as if it had been made for marionettes. T h e congregation was composed of many women, contadine in holiday dress, the younger with scarfs thrown over their heads, many, many children, and a n u m b e r of old m e n w h o were carrying off the honors of the day by their support of the priest's chant at the H i g h Altar.

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Shortly after our entrance the priest walked over to a side altar, and some boys, acting as acolytes, scurried in his wake to light the candles. Resting on the altar was a pink Bambino, wax or wooden I know not, resembling a baby in fasce. The little congregation sang to Him in nice Tuscan Latin, bowing down as the priest raised Him on high to bless them with His pink, sweet image and then hastening forward to kiss Him, not reverently perhaps, but fondly, just as they would kiss a dear, dear child. And what could the Child Jesus like more than the love of these simple contadini? One old man approached the altar, knelt down, and smiled with real, copious delight the moment his lips touched the Bambino. After the service I clicked my camera and took some photographs of the church and of a group of contadine going home by a country road below the terrace. Then five or six boys lined up against the fa£ade of the church to be made immortal by the sun. I asked the priest, when he came out of the church, whether I could send the photographs to him for distribution and whether he would buy some dolci for the children. He kindly consented; then invited us very civilly into his house and offered us ν in santo. Father Calvelli formerly taught at the Collegio della Badia at San Domenico, but now he is here, "watching the stars," as he puts it. His parishioners number about five hundred good souls, none of whom have any understanding of the war. They are imbued with the idea, originating in the head of some malcontent, that the priests and signori have brought about this war for the double purpose of killing off the canaglia and keeping an upper hand over those of the lower classes who survive. Socialism, though, has made no headway among the contadini. "Sono troppo furbi," explained the priest smilingly. After thanking him for our most unexpected and enjoyable little visit to this hill of gladness and godliness, we drove on, leaving behind the mountains on which the blue light was ever deepening, but keeping in sight Monte Senario, growing dim in the twilight. When the view of it and the adjacent hills on the right, dyed in tints of lavender darkening here and there to purple, was finally shut off by a wood of cypress, we turned our eyes just in time to see the sun kiss a bold goodnight on the unbending forehead of Castel di Poggio.

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JANUARY 8

During the last month, Foreign Minister Sonnino has redeemed the pledges made in his speech at the opening of Parliament on the first of December. A n Italian expedition, carrying enormous supplies of ammunition and food for the worn-out soldiers and famished refugees of Servia, landed in Albania about the middle of December, after the loss of some minor vessels. Later that month the Austrian and Italian fleets engaged in a battle near Durazzo, in the course of which the Italians sank two torpedo-boat destroyers and damaged the Austrian light cruiser Novara. A contingent of Italian troops sent from Valona to Durazzo to assist in the rehabilitation of the Servian refugees took fifteen days to cover that short distance; for, out of rough mule paths, they had to make a practicable road over which they could transport enormous supplies of flour, rice, and other foodstuffs. In other parts of Albania, too, a country notorious for the deficiencies of its communications and the engineering difficulties of its topography, the Italians are constructing roads, viaducts, and bridges for strategic and logistic purposes, paralleling their engineering feats in the Alps. Bari has become a sort of intellectual and commercial capital for Servian officials and military officers. T h e Italian Government has taken steps for the exchange of Servian banknotes into Italian lire. Of approximately one hundred thousand Austrian prisoners captured by the Serbs, seventy thousand were surviving at the time of the Servian retreat into Montenegro and Albania. Of these about forty thousand have died, and the thirty thousand survivors, turned over by Servia to the Italian Government, have been transported from Albania to Italy. It is an open question whether all this activity on the part of Italy in behalf of her eastern neighbors will dissipate the undoubted antagonism of the Servians to certain Italian claims in the Adriatic Sea, but the hospitality Italy has extended to these brave people, and the substantial aid she has given their army ought certainly to bring about more friendly Italo-Servian relations in the future. W e can only wait to see whether the force of events will solve a problem that the shrewdest diplomacy has heretofore failed to unravel.

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J A N U A R Y ΙΟ

T i t o Bencini, a fine, intelligent, genial young mechanic, a former employee of some American residents of San Domenico, paid us a visit today while on a leave of absence from the front granted him for "merito di guerra." T h e only unpleasant incidents of his military career have been the hardship of parting with his aged parents and an attack of pneumonia. Otherwise he is a very satisfied man because, as he well says, "Ci siamo tutti," meaning thereby to convey the idea that everybody is working in some way for the war— the very first time, perhaps, that such a statement as this can be made of a war. He would like to go to Albania, more for a change than for any particular reason. Tomorrow he returns to the Isonzo front. At Cervignano he expects to find a motor to take him to the foot of the hill on which his mountain battery is stationed. "If there isn't a motor, I'll walk," he said. Bencini described to us the labor involved in transporting a gun up a mountain. It is carried in sections on mules as far as the pack animals can go and thence dragged the rest of the way by soldiers, who assemble it, put it in position, and open its shield, like a book, around it. After the shield has been banked with earth and all is in readiness, orders to fire come by telephone from the commanding officer and by signal from observation balloons and airplanes. Tito's commanding officers are very fine men, looking carefully after the comfort of their men and testing personally the guns to prevent any danger of explosion. Many officers, though, have been trained so hastily to fill positions in the expanding army that they aren't experienced enough to lead their men, a fact of which the soldiers are perfectly aware. One becomes so hardened to the harsh side of war that the sight of suffering awakens no particular sensation, but to hit the mark is always a delight. T h e weather on the lower Isonzo is not colder than that of Tuscany. Woolen sweaters, hoods, and gloves keep the men comfortable; their shoes, though, are worthless and last only a short time. T h e rancio, supplemented by lemons for "cutting" the plentiful but sandy water, is good, though it arrives very irregularly. T i t o and his comrades find the scaldarancio more useful for making a tiny blaze at which to warm their hands than for reheating their

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food. T h e y often play at kicking each other's feet to keep themselves warm. Each man is allowed to send three postcards a week free, though he may write as often as he pleases at his o w n expense. T h e post office i s — " w e l l , a b o x on a tree." News bulletins i n f o r m the men of what is g o i n g on in the world outside. M u c h of the time passes not unpleasantly, for the men rest and play cards in the trincerone w h e n they are not serving the guns or b u i l d i n g trenches and huts. In this relatively safe refuge the younger officers lodge with the men. Here, too, the superior officers camp just before the launching of a big attack, of which frequently they warn the men in a speech, as at the time of the advance on Sei Busi. Ever since T i t o has been on the front, the Italians have steadily pushed their lines forward. JANUARY

11

Fiesole, Vincigliata, Settignano, Ponte a Mensola! A day of perfect loveliness, the beauty of w h i c h was augmented by a touch of war. As Florence and I, in "Petrolio's" little carriage, r o u n d e d the corner at the end of o u r road, the V i a delle Palazzine, and started up to San Domenico, w e observed two armed soldiers above the Badia l o o k i n g d o w n in o u r direction. T u r n i n g around, w e saw a company of infantry in b r o k e n ranks panting u p the steep road from the Ponte alia Badia. O n reaching V i a delle Palazzine, they turned u p it toward Fonte Lucente. Fiesole was their objective, as it was that of a large contingent of troops w e met in the Piazza of San D o m e n i c o , m a r c h i n g u p to it by the " t r a m " road. A t the order, " D i v i d e t e le righe," they formed into two columns, one on either side of o u r little vettura, those in the lead equipped w i t h guns, the others with gray-green canvas knapsacks, food bags slung over their shoulders, and wooden canteens. O n the way up to Fiesole, one of the boys, chatting with Florence, jokingly remarked that our country cab had a special military escort of honor, and, indeed, w e have never before been surrounded by a regiment! In the Piazza of Fiesole, they lined up alongside the D u o m o , removed their impedimenta, deposited them neatly in straight lines on the pavement, and dispersed gaily and gladly at the command, " R o m p e t e le file." T h e sight of one of them sharing his hunk of bread with a beggar woman

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inspired Florence to purchase cigarettes and postcards for the boys. Soon she became the target of a Savoia charge! What those youngsters didn't do to obtain a postcard or a cigarette! We drove off in self-defense, over the road that leads to Castel di Poggio, gazing upon a landscape painted in colors of God's palette and enveloped in an atmosphere so serene that it seemed to breathe the satisfaction of the Master. Of course we stopped at Santa Maria, a little church, with a sweet tower, standing on a knoll behind the Castle of Vincigliata, to see the Madonna and Child holding a little bird with a red breast. The interior of the church is not particularly pleasing, because of its unusual height, perhaps. The sweet and primitive picture by Giovanni del Biondo we were seeking hangs over a side altar. The Madonna and Child were evidently cut out of an ancient canvas and inserted in a modern painting, with the result that the saints in the latter have simply exchanged one object of worship for another, as their attitude of adoration shows. The Madonna is blonde and the Bambino is quite at home with the black bird, but I could not see its red breast. T h e Priore Aristide Cartei of Vincigliata joined us in the church, a delicate-looking priest, pleasant, frank, and simpatico. He pointed out a colored majolica bust of a Madonna and Child, modeled, he said, by a predecessor of Delia Robbia, but so proud and lordly is the appearance of the Madonna and so lacking in spirituality and simplicity that I doubt the accuracy of his information. The Priore offered to write us a letter of introduction for Vincigliata. He must be a musician, for, in his study, a sunny room filled with pictures, prints, and postcards, there is quite a clever portrait of him sitting at the piano as well as other signs of his predilection for this art. When we took our leave, he led us out into a tiny walled garden by way of the dining room, where I noticed an old, much worm-eaten sideboard, ancient enough to be the father of all similar antiques. T h e walls of Vincigliata rose gray and silent, echoing back the ring of the custode's bell rung long and lustily by "Petrolio," our impatient man-at-arms. We tried to glimpse some sign of life between the old cypresses surrounding the Castle, but with no success; so on we went, walking, for Florence was beginning to feel the itch

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of adventure. We passed a little church abandoned in the wildwood, dark, calm, and contemplative in the murmurous silence of the straight-lined cypresses that surround it and merge with a forest running up the slope in its rear. At length, in a lovely boscal edge of woodland, we paused to enjoy our tea, very good tea, and a splendid view, and then continued our walk down the steep and winding road to Settignano, which runs between bare, brown slopes, unswarded and stony, that are redeemed by a growth of cypresses. The aspect of Settignano, with its horrible modern villini, its proudlooking men, its many cooperative associations, and the remnants on its walls of manifestoes bearing very plain traces of the words, "Abbasso la Guerra," makes me wonder if it is not socialistic. A long strung-out church and a good-natured belfry are built at an angle with its quaint Piazza, at one end of which stands the ancient statue of Septimius Severus, the alleged founder of the town, and at the other, the modern one of Niccolö Tommaseo, who is doomed to face posterity in the stiffest of attitudes. JANUARY 12

The Austrians have taken the Lovcen, and Montenegro's fate seems settled. The Allies complain, the Italian press complains, but no measures—except words—appear to have been taken to prevent this new victory of the Teutons, who are proceeding to destroy every small state in their way. JANUARY 13

At the foot of the Fiesolean hills, shut away from the ample loveliness of the Tuscan campagna, lies a little valley of sweet delight, which daily calls us home. Our spirits are attuned to its special charm by the persuasive atmosphere of peacefulness resting upon the road that leads us hither. T o the right an old stout wall, catching the warmth and sweetness of the roses overhanging it, shuts off the vision of Fiesole, a vision too beautiful for the peace we seek. To the left, slopes covered with olive trees, soft and misty and green, give new meanings to the pictures in the church of San Domenico on the Piazza behind us. Strangely and softly all about us is the sense of glad peacefulness that pervades the heavenly hosts of the Beato

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Angelico, and the sense of serenity so felicitously depicted in the "Baptism of Christ" by Lorenzo di Credi, whose reasons for choosing the Arno as a site for the Sacred Rite and Monte Morello as its background we now understand. While we walk slowly, yet with a tender gladness, past the ancient Badia, the great spirits, so closely associated with its blessed silence, Cosimo de' Medici, Brunelleschi, Pico della Mirandola, and all the learned men of the Platonic Academy, cease to be historical characters and become coparceners in all this loveliness. Just below the Badia, around a short, steep turn to the l ight—a little forbidding, like a test of faith for the reward beyond—we see the valley winding below us. Here, there is nothing but the loveliness and peace of God, the stability of hills, the undeviable course of water, and a background of great mountains resting under an ample shadow of clouds. Florence, with all the splendor of its domes and towers, is hidden from view. T h e eyes rest on things elemental. It is Tuscany, yes, but a Tuscany rugged as well as sweet—somewhat, perhaps, as it was when life was harder, yet simpler, like that of the shepherd we see even now silently and slowly accompanying his homeless flock on yonder slopes—a life that in one way yielded little, but in another was gloriously generous. Today, the ruggedness of this closed-in valley, the primitively strong loveliness of this cleft in the Tuscan hills, befits the fine spirit of Italy-at-war better than the more obviously beautiful spots of this enchanting country. As the Mugnone, now but a stream on a wide, rocky bed, winds in and out of the foothills, it murmurs of the brave men pushing forward to their goal as resolutely as it is pressing on to the Arno. Its very bed, in its nude strength, seems, somehow, symbolic of that mighty current of the youth of the nation, who, last spring, moved irresistibly forward to the northern heights to meet the ancient and merciless oppressor of Italy. Florence and I often rest awhile on top of the cliff overlooking the valley, to which the path passing our villa leads. T h e white, hard road below, which follows the twisting course of the Mugnone, leads over the hills and far away to Faenza. It yields spots of color and activity: a noisy jattore whipping and whooping his tireless little pony to town, and staunch, gay donkey carts tinkling their

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measured way to Florence. T h e deep notes of the campanone in Giotto's belfry, four miles away, reach us here with a singularly fine resonance, intensifying the short, staccato sounds of the stonecutters working in the quarries on the opposite slope. It is a scene of peace, but peace in war. T h i s morning, while a squadron of troopers were trotting along the ancient Faentina highway and pickets of soldiers were starting out from the tiny white village of Pian di Mugnone to relieve the sentries at viaducts and bridges, a bugle drew our attention to a grayish line of soldiers marching down Via Salviati, the daring road that connects the Via Bolognese with the Ponte alia Badia. For years and years the rumble of the Mugnone has been the only prepotent sound in this quiet valley with the exception of the noise of the infrequent railroad trains running between Florence and Faenza, which attempt to assert their supremacy over the older and more primitive modes of traffic. Now, however, this unimportant railroad system has become one of the strategic highways of embattled Italy, and, over its tracks, heavily freighted trains continually pass, transporting immense quantities of supplies and munitions to the fighting line. T h e enemy may audaciously bombard the shores of Italy from Ancona to Brindisi, but the fire of the most terrible gun ever invented cannot leap over the Apennines, under whose magnificent protection this tiny railroad functions. W h a t defenders! Monte Morello, strong, impassive, bared for battle, Monte Senario, its fine blade raised to defend Florence against all enemies from the skies, and Monte Falterona and Monte Fumajolo of the Tuscan Alps, titanic reserves that have stood motionlessly on guard throughout the ages. JANUARY

18

A gray, unsmiling day. W e visited Villa Bondi, one of the Ospedali di Riserva, which undertakes the rehabilitation of mutilati after they receive preliminary care in other hospitals. T h e villa is reached by the Via delle Forbici, a narrow road deviating from the old road connecting Florence and San Domenico at the site of a large shrine just below Villa dell' Ombrellino. T h e fa9ade of the building is plain and not. especially interesting. Possession of the

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shrine at different times by the Alighieri and Portinari is recorded on two lapidi, one dedicated to Dante and the other to Beatrice, hanging on the wall of the much-restored courtyard, either side of the doorway. T h e famous Dante wellhead has been removed from the centre of the courtyard and affixed to one of the walls of the villa in such a way that it is half outside and half inside the building. T h i s arrangement gives the attendants of the farmacia easy access to its waters. An u p p e r loggia enclosed in glass, with a raftered ceiling, restored and painted, r u n s a r o u n d the upper story of the villa, facing the courtyard. Most of the rooms, compared with those of other villas, are small, b u t they are splendidly lighted. A large room upstairs, tastefully decorated with a portrait of the King, festive greens, and flags of the Allies, has been set aside for the celebration of special occasions. Dr. Nenci, the physician in charge, a serious, pleasant young m a n , is very simpatico, and his manners toward his wards, all of whom are crippled in body or mind, are most friendly and engaging. T h e r e are now sixty-six patients in the hospital. For me, the saddest were two, very different in type: one, a young, strong, stocky Alpino from Udine, a pale-faced peasant boy, without hope even of artificial compensation for the arm he has lost because part of his shoulder has been cut off; the other, a successful southern borghese businessman on a small scale, clean and natty, well over thirty years of age, slowly recovering f r o m deafness and dumbness, with which he was stricken after the explosion of a granata. His answers to the doctor's kindly questions, shouted in his ear, came with a guttural start and a terrifying hiss—short, quick, and inefficient. Another patient, a little wizened being, with part of his left leg amputated, looks sixty years old b u t is only thirty-two. Brusciano and Pinto, whom we had known d u r i n g their stay at the American Hospital, are also here. Brusciano's left h a n d is in bad condition, and he is subject to nervous outbreaks, n o t a matter of wonder in a survivor of tetanus. Pinto's right arm is doing well and is not permanently i n j u r e d , b u t he has a fixed idea that he cannot move it. A ReggioCalabrian, tall and dark, a former railroad employee, was practicing walking on his artificial leg a n d rejoicing in the promise of a suitable position, which will enable him, with the help of his pension,

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to support himself and his parents, both of whom are over eighty years of age. In one of the wards a long black figure was lying on a bed, a man with his head very low and his game leg curved, just as he had thrown himself down after an electric treatment, which had made him very drowsy. Among the helpers in the Sanitä division, Dr. Nenci told us, there are actually peasants who never saw a bed until they were assigned to this service. In the scuderia opposite the villa a workshop is being equipped to make artificial limbs to meet the special needs of the patients, though Dr. Nenci himself believes that, for utilitarian purposes, the old-fashioned stump is far superior to an artificial leg. In a school for the mutilati, run by young women volunteers, we saw two pupils practicing on a typewriter, and others conning their alphabet and learning to write. Arrangements are being made with a local agricultural school to train a number of the less crippled patients as head gardeners and agricultural experts. From Villa Bondi we drove to the tearoom in the Arte della Lana to meet Franchetti. H e tells me that the Officina Galileo, which Salandra and Martini are scheduled to visit tomorrow, was started as a semiphilanthropic or socio-scholastic institution to train men in the making of fine mechanical instruments, optical ones in particular. N o w it is turning out fine mechanical devices for the Italian artillery and similar instruments of precision for the Russian Army. T h e fall of Cettigne, without a fight apparently, and Tisza's announcement to the Hungarian Cabinet of the unconditional surrender of Montenegro have elicited some signs of anxiety from the Italian press, which is unanimous in its expressions of anger. T h i s disaster is explained by Barzilai, speaking for the government, as the inevitable consequence of the failure of the Allies to help Servia. Will it stop here? Is Sonnino's finely spun diplomacy too finely spun? Is it a house of cards? O r is Nicholas of Montenegro angrily retaliating for the inefficient help of the Allies? JANUARY

19

On the arrival of Salandra and Martini today, flags were flying all over the city. T h e gonfalon of the Golden Fleece of the Quartiere

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of San G i o v a n n i was h a n g i n g on G i o t t o ' s tower. W h e n the P r e m i e r a n d M a r t i n i a p p e a r e d on the balcony of their hotel to greet the p o l i t e a n d orderly c r o w d assembled in the piazza b e l o w , a g r o u p of students sang " M a m e l i ' s H y m n " very well. T h e r e was n o o t h e r m u s i c because the occasion for their visit was war, n o t a festa. Salandra's deep-set eyes h a u n t one, t h o u g h his face is m o r e classical than intellectual. JANUARY 23. ROME

F l o r e n c e and I a r r i v e d here two days ago. W e are staying at the P a l a c e H o t e l a n d r e j o i c i n g in some splendidly s u n n y weather. A f t e r a w a l k i n the P i n c i o today, d u r i n g w h i c h w e saw a n u m b e r of S e r v i a n officers, w e called o n the G r a m p i n i s . T h e y told us a b o u t the visit m a d e to the f r o n t b y G i a c o m o B o n i , the archaeologist. H e was especially interested in the astuzie

practiced by the p r i m i t i v e

b u t fierce and c o u r a g e o u s Sardinians, w h o b e s m i r c h

themselves

w i t h the r e d earth of the Carso before g o i n g i n t o action o n that f r o n t , so that they m a y b e as i n c o n s p i c u o u s as possible. H e described to t h e m also a cleverly masked f u n i c u l a r that delivers rations to a h i g h A l p i n e post, w h i c h formerly had to be transported o n muleb a c k o v e r a steep a n d circuitous r o u t e of fifty kilometers. T h i s evening R

, a m e m b e r of o u r d i p l o m a t i c staff, told m e

o v e r o u r coffee c u p s a story g o i n g the r o u n d s of R o m e . S o n n i n o , tired of the c a m p a i g n of criticism in the English press of Italy's a t t i t u d e toward the N e a r East, recently f o r w a r d e d to G r e y , the E n g l i s h M i n i s t e r of F o r e i g n Affairs, a copy of a letter received f r o m h i m six m o n t h s a g o n o t i f y i n g the Italian M i n i s t e r of F o r e i g n A f f a i r s that E n g l a n d w o u l d take care of the Balkans if Italy w o u l d look a f t e r the A d r i a t i c . R

seems i n f l u e n c e d by this d a m n a b l e un-Italian atmosphere

of R o m e ; he talks of an i m m i n e n t political crisis and says he w o u l d n o t b e surprised to see Italy c o n c l u d e a separate peace w i t h A u s t r i a , to c o n s u m m a t e w h i c h G e r m a n y w o u l d press u p o n her ally to m a k e every possible concession. H e quotes Sir R e n n e l l R o d d as saying that peace, an " E n g l i s h peace," w i l l c o m e w i t h i n six months. T h i s r e p o r t does n o t agree w i t h w h a t C o u n t A l d r o v a n d i told m e today at the C o n s u l t a : that the English expect the w a r to last three

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years. But this is Rome! Although it was Sünday, Aldrovandi was deep in work, with papers piled high on his desk and telegrams and messages arriving constantly. I thanked him for his kindly efforts on my behalf. "There is not much I can do for you," he said, "and even less I can tell you because of your journalistic connections." He described a trip made a few days ago by Baron Squitti, Italian Minister to Servia, from San Giovanni di Medua to Italy. Before the end of it he wished himself dead, for zig zagging at the rate of 30 kilometers an hour to escape the pursuit of two Austrian torpedo boats is not conducive to comfort! I brought up the subject of the Servian crisis and the criticisms of Italy in connection with it. Aldrovandi admitted that the Servians are terribly down and in need of help. "People do not realize, though," he said, "that every time transports are convoyed to Albania, thirty naval units have to be dislocated. Four transports have already been lost." In reply to my remark that the general opinion of our embassy is that the position of the Italians in the Adriatic is none too good, he snapped out, "Non direi che fossero competenti in materia"—I should not consider them very competent judges in such a matter. T h e Montenegrin plot thickens. Nicholas arrived today in Rome, kissed King Victor, and left for Lyons, to meet his wife and daughters. A game of surrender, involving the semistarvation of the Montenegrin troops and the publication of accounts of bloody but imaginary battles, is said to have been arranged between Austria and Montenegro, or rather, I should say, between Austria and the Montenegrin monarch, for the people of that hardy little country are reported not to be in sympathy with the views of their ruler. T h e British claim to have a copy of a treaty signed by King Nicholas, wherein he undertakes not to make any substantial resistance. JANUARY

25

Through the courtesy of the American Embassy I was able to talk today with the one official of the United States who is accredited to a "Government without a Country." He represents the Republic to a nation existing only in the hearts of its stricken and

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exiled children, the heroic Kingdom of Servia. Ambassador Page, Mr. Lorillard, Charge d'Affaires of the United States of America to Servia, and I discussed the Servian question from many angles. Mr. Lorillard is evidently a man who can take care of himself. It is well, for he had no easy task in following the uncertain peregrinations of the ever-moving capital of the fugitive kingdom of Servia. While transferring the legation from Scutari to Durazzo on horseback, over roads that in many places were but mule paths or beds of streams, he passed through a country strewn with corpses of men who had died from exhaustion, and occasionally he saw men dying, abandoned in their extremity by their helpless companions whose own turn would probably come soon. T h e sight of hundreds of dead horses, stripped of their hide by Albanian brigands before the poor dumb beasts had breathed their last, added to the horrors of his travels. T h e scattered remnants of the Servian army that finally reached Montenegro and Albania amounted, perhaps, to one hundred thousand men. Most of them were barefoot and unarmed, for their uniforms and accoutrements had been lost, sold, or stolen, and all of them were famished. T h e question of relief for the Servians is far from simple. T h e gates of aid are the ports of Albania on the lower Adriatic coast, ports too shallow for ships of heavy draught. Only one good harbor exists on the lower coast of the Adriatic, the Austrian naval base of Cattaro. Possession of it enables the enemy to harass shipping bound for Albania and make constant use of airplanes to watch the naval and military movements of the Allies. With Servia and Montenegro wiped off the European map, with Greece helpless if not treacherous, with uncertainty and disorganization in the entire Balkan area, the nearest semblance of the order necessary for organized aid is to be found in Albania. T h e de facto government in central and southern Albania is in the hands of Essad Pasha, a native of force and ability. Although a despot and a law unto himself, he is the only negotiable figure in that unruly country, where he has organized an army of some twenty thousand men of the rural gendarme type. Behind Essad stands Italy, whose occupation of Valona, several

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months ago, constitutes the one hope of lending a hand to the Servians and checking the Bulgaro-Austrian advance. Mr. Lorillard thinks that Italy's efforts in behalf of the Servians have been greatly underestimated. She has contributed a substantial share to the work of saving the remainder of their army and has transported to her shores thousands of Servian refugees, soldiers, and Austrian prisoners at the expense of substantial losses in shipping and men. Also she has the task of providing food and munitions for her army in Valona, an army equipped with considerable artillery. Mr. Lorillard feels sure that Durazzo, with the Italians in command, can hold out some months. Mr. Page had decided views about some of Mr. Lorillard's statements, especially about the possibility of bringing aid to the Servians through Albania. Essad Pasha may have a good deal to say, he thinks, about the ultimate distribution of the great quantity of supplies now awaiting transportation to Albania from Brindisi, where they are stalled. In the afternoon Florence and I attended a Red Cross exhibition of some interesting impressionistic war sketches painted at the Italian front by two brothers, Tommaso and Michele Cascella. T h e father of the boys, Basilio Cascella, an artist, was their teacher. His basic rule was to make his sons appreciate all the aspects of the subject they intended to draw, to make them understand that everything has a life and a sentiment of its own, intimate and real, which it is the duty of painters to express. T o inculcate this idea in one of his sons, he provisioned a shepherd's hut on the mountains and left him there to learn to live and draw the life of the mountains. In Rome he sent him out daily, with a few sous for his midday meal, to observe and paint the Eternal City. In Paris he instructed his sons to study first of all the scenes in the streets, and then to paint, not the individuals in them, but their intrinsic nature just as, at home, they had painted, not the myriad drops of the river, but the river itself. Some of the sketches of the celebration at Quarto in 1915 show the effect of these precepts, for, though they represent a great crowd of people breathing and throbbing with life, as well

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as a m u l t i t u d e of objects, the result is attained with no redundancy of line or color. Cascella insists that our contemporary artists ought to draw the life of o u r period, just as the painters of the Quattrocento and C i n q u e c e n t o depicted the saints, knights, and heroes of their age, and those of the eighteenth century, the figures of their times. Especially trained to paint landscape, these y o u n g painters are particularly well equipped, their father thinks, for the opportunities afforded them by this war, in which the episodical or anecdotal character of former conflicts has no equivalent. T h u s the battle scene and war spirit of today are to be found, if at all, in a landscape like that of T o m m a s o Cascella, wherein an erect, motionless A l pino, standing in front of some transparently b l u e mountains spaciously ranged under a quiet sky is gazing watchfully into the endless, uncertain, and menacing space ahead. T o m m a s o puts in fighting men everywhere, in his landscapes of heroic mountain summits, of courageously silent valleys, and of brave advance posts in the snowdrifts. B u t Michele contents himself with simple scenes of nature: a peaceful field dotted with fresh young trees and warmed by a serene sun, above which rises the smoke of a heavy calibre artillery missile like an accident or a smirch, or a quiet, sunny, green hill, from the base of which flows out a yellow mist of soldiers' crosses like a field of wheat, quiet and still, yet w a r m — " T h e Field of Heroes." Michele's work is the picture of a feeling rather than that of a scene or an emotion; even his colors seem to vanish into the canvas. A t present the young artists have been called to arms; they are c o u n t i n g shoes for the army and, occasionally, passing the night in the guardhouse for counting wrong! FEBRUARY

1

W e lunched with the Marchesi D e Viti de Marco. A m o n g their guests was Signor Bruccoleri, R o m e correspondent of the Giornale di Sicilia. T h e opinions of Deputy De Viti and Signor Bruccoleri substantially agree with those I have expressed in the A m e r i c a n press. Bruccoleri claims that, at the commencement of hostilities, the

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nondeclaration of war against Germany was a military necessity because Italy, with an indefensible border, had all she could do to hold her own against Austria. As that military inequality has now ceased to exist, the Italian Government is adopting the policy of giving Germany every opportunity to strike openly. Surely Italy's declaration of war on Turkey and Bulgaria and her adhesion to the pact of the Allies by which they agree not to make a separate peace were sufficient provocation to induce Germany to declare war, if she had any such intention. T h e domestic policy of the government is altogether another question. Italy cannot declare war against Germany because the country is not in complete accord on the subject: the Interventionists who are in favor of war are opposed by the Giolittians, the Socialists, the Clericals, and the powerful financial and banking interests, which in Italy are closely bound u p with the government. T h e position of Salandra and Sonnino, with the country for them and Parliament against them, is very difficult. T h e government, therefore, after its unsuccessful attempts to draw the German fire, must await or seek a popular occasion for declaring war on Germany. Salandra cannot appeal to the people for their direct suffrage without being certain of a very substantial popular support, strong, spontaneous, and irresistible enough to break into violence, should an attempt be made by the parliamentary majority to resist his appeal. He must, therefore, be wary lest he make a move that would be a false one, however patriotic it might be, if it did not evoke such a consensus of opinion as would hold the followers of Giolitti in leash. It is not probable that the followers of Giolitti are actually conspiring with the Germans, and, certainly, they are not in Germany's pay, but they are so politically prostituted that, even in this historic moment, they have their fears and interests more at heart than the destinies of their country. Von Bülow, however, made a basic mistake in using essentially the same methods to influence the Giolittians and other malcontents as he would have employed in dealing with Balkan ministries, a mistake that shows how difficult it is for an outsider to understand Italians, no matter how trained he may be or how long in contact with them he has been. Italian political life may be debased, but its engagements and its conduct

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cannot be bought with money; it is not corruptible in the broad, nasty sense of the word. Germany has found its most fertile field of influence in commerce and banking. Italy has grown strong and powerful through the aid of German capital and organization. Take Μ and those of his ilk for instance; they are not pro-German in any affirmative or ethical sense; they are for business and the profits in it, no matter whence they come, and, knowing no nationality but that of business, they oppose a war against Germany because it would greatly affect their interests. It is practically impossible to take a stand in opposition to these financiers who stand on their rights and act within the law. T h e only legal hope of redress would be to change the fundamental corporation and banking laws of the country. T h e objections to this course are obvious: the exclusion of foreign capital would be disastrous inasmuch as Italian capital is still largely landed and generally timorous, and the exclusion of alien directors would very likely prevent foreign capital from coming into the country. Dummies are always available, too. T h e problem, therefore, is not at all easy of solution. In the world of trade the reputation of Italians for paying their debts is poor. Yet what could more luminously clear up this misconception than the fact that, for thirty-three years, Germany has made enormous profits in Italian trade, so enormous, indeed, that even now they deter this mighty empire from declaring war on Italy, her military inferior. It is rather another example of the sagacity of the Germans outrivaling that of others. Knowing the ins and outs of Italian business life, they grasped the fact that the Italians, owing to lack of capital, are not poor payers but slow payers, and they, therefore, established banks to discount for a consideration the notes of Italian middlemen and traders. This handicap of inadequate capital will be as great an embarrassment to the business world of Italy after the war as it was before. Unless banks are established with the aid of American or English capital, the business and profits of Italian trade will go again to the Germans. Both De Viti and Bruccoleri scouted the idea of a ministerial crisis. No doubt there is some general dissatisfaction; it is not taking any definite form, however, and, in the absence of very special

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reasons, the country cannot afford to risk a change in the government just now. The discontent about maritime rates affords an excellent example of the difference between the English and Italian political outlook in business. The Italians, who expect their government to take a hand in business, regard the stiff English shipping rates as a very unfriendly transaction between allies, but the English Government, whose citizens expect it to interfere as little as possible with business, fails to see what action it can take. England, in despair, will probably make a gift of some ships to Italy, the acceptance of which will intensify the international belief in her mendicancy and lessen her political prestige. This prediction brought up the question whether the political outlook of Rome has not been affected by her reliance for centuries upon the world's alms as a matter of right. Of our country the Marchese said that, owing to our wise policy of "hands off in Europe and no European interference in America," the United States has no concern with changes in European political units. Indeed, he went so far as to claim that, in its political aspects, the fate of Belgium is no affair of ours. The status of the seas, however, is a matter for our political concern, and, consequently, Wilson performed a clear duty in attempting to maintain the principles of international law on the sea, even though he refused to fight for them. Morally, however, De Viti admitted that the very nature of the principles upon which the United States exists makes us bound to favor the Allies. FEBRUARY 3

Countess Μ , a friend of the Kaiser, is at our hotel. She is a handsome woman beyond her prime, but the Kaiser's taste and mine don't agree. FEBRUARY 4

Ambassador Page today, in the course of a conversation, expressed his belief that if Italy had not entered the war, it would have come out of the present dramatic period as a small Sardinian kingdom of the past.

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Sonnino's policy of silence appeals to the Ambassador, for he thinks that in time of war the foreign minister's policy of taking the people into his confidence only to the extent of asking for their support and appealing to their sense of sacrifice produces the best results, provided results are being achieved. Otherwise it is a suicidal policy, because people who have been asked to wait in ignorance will rise in revolution if their waiting has been in vain. Mr. Page is of the opinion that, in some parts of Italy, there is considerable economic suffering among the genteel poor who cannot be relieved in any open, avowed way. T o aid Italy is difficult anyway because of her reluctance to accept contributions from other countries since the Messina earthquake. The generous American assistance on that occasion was so exploited by the American press that the world never heard, least of all the Americans, of Italy's own contributions. The truth is, says the Ambassador, that Italy spent more on the rehabilitation of Messina than on the prosecution of the Abyssinian War. In connection with this topic, Mr. Page developed the thesis that the interest of America in foreign countries is distinctly of a human, sentimental, or "family" kind. America is interested in France because of its republican sympathies and the aid it rendered our country; in England, because of its history, its common law, its religion; in Italy, because of its art, its classicism, and its monuments; in Germany, because of its science and Lutheranism. In none of these relations has America any political interest. The attitude of the European nations is just the opposite. Their only interest in the life of other states is political, and, consequently, they are completely indifferent to a country like ours with which they have no political ties. Τ , one of the Italo-American reservists who crossed with us on the Taormina, has arrived in Rome from Bari, disillusioned, with all sorts of unpleasant stories of his army experiences. One evening he said in a low, emphatic tone, as if he had been thinking over the subject very carefully, "I am sure I am of American stock . . . my mother is a clean, decent woman"! Mrs. Harriet Boyd Hawes, a well-known archaeologist whose

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claim to fame rests upon her excavation of an entire city in Crete, small but complete, is now in Rome. She is known as the "Lady of the T o n . " With funds raised in America to help Servia, she purchased a ton of meat and vegetable rations. These she had packed in small tins because her experience as a Red Cross nurse in the Turco-Greek War had taught her the difficulty of distributing and cooking loose supplies. She traveled second class from New York to France, in personal charge of her thirty-nine cases, which she induced the French authorities to ship ά grande vitesse to Brindisi, a port she finally reached too, after many attempts, through the influence of Mr. Bosanquet, head of the English Servian Relief Mission in Italy. She was not allowed to cross to Albania, but her ton was sent on its way, available as it was for immediate consumption, unlike the sacks of corn and flour plentifully provided by others but often wasted because of the lack of wood and cooking conveniences among the Servian refugees. Mrs. Hawes is quite fanatical in her complaints of the Italians. She does not understand that the Italians, who see no hardship in going eight or nine hours without food themselves, can hardly be expected to worry over the impossibility of giving the Servians three prompt meals a day. But her complaint of lack of water at the concentration camp seems well taken. At Brindisi, Mrs. Hawes says, there is a "mosquito fleet" of English trawlers and fishing smacks, waging war on submarines. T h e smaller boats hunt in couples and harpoon their prey; then tear it apart by going full steam ahead in opposite directions! T h e crews take their work very simply and naturally, often reporting "all hands lost" on one of their boats as an incident of the day's work. FEBRUARY 5

Marchesa De Rosales invited us to go with her today to see a branch of the work of the Comitato Romano per l'Organizzazione Civile, carried on in the splendid rooms of Palazzo Doria. Fifteen thousand women, wives of richiamati, are employed to make military uniforms and underwear for the Roman military depot at the rate of seven or eight lire a week! Yet they look quite contented and

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happy. I took a photograph of a little girl carrying a big bundle for her mother; her name was "Effie," and she was born in Trenton, New Jersey! FEBRUARY 6

T h i s afternoon Florence and I went with Mrs. Richardson to call on the De Bosis, who live in Villa Diana on Via Tuscolana. O n the tennis court was a party of young people for whom I felt very tenderly, even though I envied their youth in this glorious period. A m o n g them was the Marchesina De Viti de Marco, Valente de Bosis, an officer in the Granatieri, and a young lieutenant convalescing from a wound. T h e y were all togged out, and the whole party had an aspect of youth, of grace, and of a "bright tomorrow," which made me feel old in years but glad in heart, for we shall pass, but Italy and a thousand sweet, bright things will remain for a million young hearts. As we walked about the gardens, Signor De Bosis called my attention to a nightingale "trying out" its voice. He insists that nightingales occasionally die in their endeavor to attain notes of great beauty. Late one night, years ago, while he was listening on the Palatine, then in a wild state, to a nightingale singing with growing fullness and effusion, it became suddenly silent—so suddenly that he thinks it died in its creative effort of loveliness. FEBRUARY 8

Miss Lemaire, who is in charge of the relief of the Servians in Rome, told Mr. Lothrop and me this morning that, inside of two weeks, every question connected with it will be settled. T h e better class Servians are so satisfied with their temporary quarters in the Albergo del Popolo in the San Lorenzo district that they refuse to move to more commodious lodgings. By appointment I went this afternoon to call upon General Ricciotti Garibaldi, the son of the great warrior, in his modest and humble quarters at 57 Via dei Pontefici. As I climbed the dingy, cold stairs leading to his apartment, a sense of sorrow came over me at the thought of what an effort this crippled man on crutches must make to reach his home. A tall, rather fine-looking woman,

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who seemed ill at ease in Italian but perfectly at home in English, opened the door—Signora Garibaldi. She showed me into a sitting room filled with Mexican riding outfits, swords, photos, flags, and pictures in cases and on chairs. Hanging on one of the walls were portraits of Bruno Garibaldi and his brother, who gave their lives for France; their faces were veiled by black scarfs, draped over the frames. Ricciotti Garibaldi, leaning on his crutches, came into the room and greeted me kindly. He is an old man of seventy, wearing a beard in an attempted simulation of his father's appearance. Good and kindly his face is, the face of a man of the people, not strong, round, a bit heavy, with quiet eyes, and a thick nose. He was dressed in a black "Prince Albert," with a shirt and collar of gray flannel. I told him I should like to hear his views of Italy in the war and his opinion of America's attitude. "Let me answer in inverse order," he replied, smiling. His preconceptions, he said, were all in favor of my country, with which his family had always had friendly relations. He recalled the invitation of the United States Consul to his father, after the failure of his Roman campaign, to take refuge on an American corvette at Civitavecchia—an invitation he declined but never forgot; the offer of his father's sword to Lincoln in our Civil War; and the proffer of his own services to the United States in the Spanish War in the event that our country was invaded. Then he launched into a scathing diatribe on the failure of our nation to rise to its present great opportunity: " T h i n k , " he said, "of a Japanese fleet, rather than an American, coming to aid liberal and liberalizing Europe in this war!" Of Italy in the war, General Garibaldi drew a distinction between the people and the government. He trusts the people wholly, believing in their patience and willingness to submit to a long war, but he is opposed to the government, because he regards it, 110 doubt, as the outward expression of the Crown. T h e Crown is an obsession with him, though he is natively too simple and honest a soul not to temper his violence in the face of facts that cannot be doubted. " T h e King does not count," he said. "Italy is ruled by Palazzo Margherita. I am a Republican but I should not oppose a monarchy

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like the British, if the little prince were put in his father's place, with his mother, a fine, good woman, as regent." He told me of the revolution he organized last May to overthrow the King in case he accepted Salandra's resignation as head of the government, and of his plan, approved by Kitchener and Joffre but not by Sonnino, for raising an army of volunteers to attack AustriaHungary through the Balkans. His admiration of England, as a whole, is unbounded, though he is far from giving his approbation to all of her military leaders. In spite of this reservation he bases his hopes of a victorious end of the war on England, on her general doggedness, her growing determination, and her inexhaustible supplies. At the outbreak of the war General Garibaldi cabled his sons in America to come home. "We must make a bloody sacrifice for the cause," he said when they arrived. "Go and start the fire." T h u s it happened that two of his boys died for France, and the arrival of Bruno's body in Rome lit the spark that set the country ablaze. Of his other sons, he thinks Peppino gives the greatest indications of military promise; he has shown real ability, won the admiration of his men, and been promoted to a colonelcy for merit despite the anticipation of the military authorities that he would be too undisciplined to make a good officer. He had no special praise for his remaining sons. Indeed he referred to them in these extraordinary words: "Oh, they are the ordinary contribution to the war that the country makes"! Despite his crutches, the general accompanied me to the door, assuring me, as we shook hands, of the final success of the Allies. Hotheaded and riotous he is, if you will, but the son of Garibaldi. I could not help the sense of emotion at the sight of this chip of the great rock, this whelp of the Lion of Caprera. He had come from the loins of a man whose deeds have stirred two worlds, a man who will live in history and legend for countless generations. This evening we dined with Ambassador and Mrs. Page, at the Palazzo del Drago. It was almost a family affair, for, in addition to Major and Mrs. Barnaby, Mrs. Page's slim, bright daughter, only Norval Richardson and his mother were present. Mrs. Page is a kindly soul and an easy conversationalist, vivacious and emotional.

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I sat at her right, and we talked politics, she horrified, as a stout partisan, at sitting next to a Mugwump! I repeated to her what General Garibaldi had said to me; that he devoutly wished she were President of the United States! T h e Ambassador, after gathering the men of the party in the library for coffee, questioned Richardson about his mission to Colonel House in Paris, from which he returned today. House gave one to understand, Richardson said, that he was pro-Ally, though not even a distant allusion of his could be construed as derogatory to Germany. T h e Colonel is, undoubtedly, a discouraged man, reflecting the French world at Paris, which sees no end to the Avar. " I n a month from now Hell will break out—we shall not have seen war until then" were the words he used in predicting the coming offensive of the Allies, which the Germans are prepared to counter in full, as no one knows better than he. Colonel House dwelt especially on an impending German submarine warfare, to be launched on a large scale. Physically, Wilson's Special Ambassador to the Countries at War is small and unimpressive, but his moral and intellectual qualities evidently made themselves abundantly apparent, for Richardson concluded thus, "You feel that he has genuinely at heart neither Mr. Wilson's political future nor the fortunes of the Democratic Party, only the good of his country. I should say it is more probable that the President reflects his views than that he reflects those of the President." A member of the party who accompanied Colonel House to Germany told Richardson that he had seen no evidence of suffering in Berlin. Germany is sufficiently well stocked apparently to hold out indefinitely. Although it is true that the people go without meat three times a week, they regard this disciplinary self-denial in the light of a religious rite, which uplifts their spirit and exalts their confidence in themselves. Despite the fact that, as courier for the ambassadress, Richardson included a visit to Worth among his manifold duties, he found Paris very depressing. "At night Paris is dead," he said, "and the Parisians, at this moment of inactivity on the front, seem even bored by the war. France, however, is determined to fight the issue through. I could awaken no interest in the French for the Italian

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struggle; they are wholly and solely engrossed with their own." Mr. Page asked him what he thought of the current criticisms that the American Hospital in Paris is being run too showily and expensively. He had visited the hospital, Richardson said, and seen no evidence of extravagance. Mr. Page spoke quite seriously of the possibility of the participation of the United States in the war. In the event of such an occurrence he thinks that our hyphenated citizens will straightway show themselves to be good Americans. It was an enjoyable and even stirring evening, so close did we seem to historic events during that hour in Mr. Page's library. FEBRUARY

9

Walking up Via Veneto this afternoon, Florence and I felt very much at home, not only because of Uncle Sam's coat-of-arms over the entrance to the consulate, but because of the men and women we met, whose clothes and gait betray them to be some of those fellow citizens of ours abroad, whom Mr. Wilson quite vehemently accuses of plotting against the neutrality of their country. W h a t would he have said, could he have seen, as we did on reaching the Corso d' Italia, the Stars and Stripes flying side by side with the Tricolor on one of the best preserved towers of the Aurelian Walls, the home of Moses Ezekiel, the American sculptor? Near Porta Salaria, three companies of Grenadiers, tall and silent, passed us on their way to the station. T h r i c e has their regiment been reformed, so heavy has been their toll of blood in the struggle for Gorizia. W e made our way to the hospitable home of Marchesa De Viti de Marco, who was receiving Servian refugees and their friends this afternoon. Passing from group to group, we listened to tales that, two years ago, one would have expected to find only in imaginative literature. T h e black, angry eyes of an Austro-Servian refugee from Trieste were veiled with tears while she told us that the Austrian authorities had not only arrested her son for his advanced ideas and imprisoned him at Marburg but had exhibited him at various railroad stations as a traitor and a prisoner. T h e wife of the Servian

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minister of the interior, a tall, stout woman, in whose uninteresting face a good deal of common sense is discernible, related in a mixture of French and Italian the experiences of herself and other women of the cabinet on their flight from Monastir to Salonica. Five days they passed in the saddle, with only an occasional snatch of sleep on the ground. "But that is nothing," she said as she tried to continue her tale, "my only brother was killed. . . ." As her narrative broke off, Madame Varovic took up the sad and endless story of suffering and hardship, graphically describing a woman she had seen during the retreat, who was so exhausted that she killed her babe and threw its body into the river, in order to husband her strength for her other children. There were many sad-eyed faces at the reception, but the saddest of all was that of a lady to whom Mrs. De Bosis introduced us— Eleonora Duse, as her eyes told, though their glory belongs to other days. T h e smile, the wondrous, fascinating smile is a shadow of what it was. Tired, tired Duse, who looked at me straight when I spoke of what bound me to Padova and Verona, cities connected with her own early life. She introduced us to Dr. Olga Resnevic, a Russian married to Dr. Signorelli, an Italian medical officer; and, as we talked of the spirit of sacrifice of the Italian people and the valor of the Italian soldiers, a fire lit Duse's face, a little flame, not a great fire, and her white petals, as it were, commenced to crimson with the passionate bloom of her great days. She told us of a contadina who received the news of the death of a son at the front with only these words, "Se fosse almeno l'ultimol"—May he be the last I shall lose! I walked home with Professor Grampini. Over the massive, old Roman walls that border the Corso d' Italia, the blue-faced street lamps were shedding a dim and beautiful light. "Certain indestructible laws of the spirit," said Professor Grampini, "produce strange results at times. T h e victories of this war, for instance, have been won so far by the vanquished. Today every thinking man in Germany knows that Belgium has triumphed over the Kaiser's empire, though there is only a shred of Flanders King Albert can call his own, and tomorrow he will become aware that Servia, though

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it is completely invaded, lives in the spirit of the Servians just as the spirit of Greece lived in the Athenians after they took to their ships and abandoned their city to the Persian hosts." FEBRUARY IΟ

T h e doorway of the Royal room of the railroad station was decked this morning with French and Roman flags, the red, white, and blue of France encircling the maroon and orange of Rome. T h e decorations were in honor of the arrival of Premier Briand and other members of the French Government. Motors and carriages constantly drew up to deposit their important loads—Salandra, Sonnino, Barrere, French and Italian generals—and then lined back. Patients at the windows of an adjacent palace, converted into a territorial hospital, gazed down upon the scene with interest, but masons at work on an annex to the station continued their tasks as if quite unconscious of both the crowd and the occasion. There was not much cheering when the French guests stepped into the waiting motors, but some well-meant and earnest handclapping as they sped across the piazza and up the Via delle Terme to the Grand Hotel. Soon after entering it, they appeared on an upper balcony and bowed repeatedly to the throng in the street, among whom were some students singing the "Marseillaise" with vim. With sunshine flooding the Eternal City in warmth and brightness today, I walked up Via del Tritone, enjoying the delicious odor of roasted chestnuts blended with the sharp, sweet smell of fresh mandarins that floats out from the stand of a vendor on Piazza Barberini; also the gay display on street corners of branches of almond blossoms, bunches of yellow jonquils, and baskets of violets and pansies. In a scene so redolent of gaiety and spring, one might have expected to banish the thought of war; the thought perhaps, b u t not certain subordinate aspects of it. Today they seemed to mark my every step. In a long string of cabs I saw motherhood in all stages of gladness and sorrow, mothers enjoying the companionship of sons on leave from the front and mothers accompanying sons to the railroad station to say perhaps the last good-bye. Occasionally I brushed

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against a spare, long-limbed, erect Servian officer or passed a Servian Red Cross nurse, hardly less tall and quite as erect, whose black veil fell prettily over her shoulders, individualizing her from the more conventional blue-hooded Dame of the Croce Rossa Italians. Although accustomed to all sorts of costumes in this city of prelates and officials, my eye was caught by the uniforms of two Massachusetts " T e c h . " boys I had met at the Embassy the other day, which combine the sartorial inventiveness of Teutons and Allies: German caps, English leggings, and Serb-colored clothes cut in unmistakable American fashion. Farther on I heard the quick notes of a military band, and soon a long line of youths filed past, the new levies for the army, shepherds of the Campagna and students of city schools, who, tomorrow, will be wearing the ubiquitous gray-green of the army. On my return to the hotel I found Richardson with Florence. T h e Ambassador, he says, threatens to fire him if he talks any more about Colonel House. With us, however, he is among friends! In the evening I paid a visit to Professor and Signora Signorelli, with whom Eleonora Duse had urged me to talk. T h e couple evidently belong to an idealistic, radical group, desirous of seeing the Italians regain their position of leadership among the artisans of the world. Their thesis is that the Italian is patently not meant by nature to undertake hard physical labor because of his marvelously developed and sensitive nervous system, though his sobriety, temperateness, and adaptability enable him to accustom himself to it in the absence of more congenial occupation. This effort, moreover, results in his giving to the world a contribution far inferior to what he is capable of making. His native skill, deftness of hand, and power of expressing in form conceptions of the mind, fit him to be an artisan rather than a laborer. The recent revival of handmade lace, which has revolutionized the lace markets of the world, claimed years ago by the machine, clearly proves the fact that the peasant of today can produce, under a little pressure or encouragement, as beautiful handiwork as his ancestors. T h e Italians have to be encouraged. A word, even to the soldiers, is sufficient to change their outlook. This need of commendation is part of their sensibilitä, of their intense creative mentality, which

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often leads them to make exaggerated statements that impress foreigners as insincere, untruthful, and, sometimes, even dishonest. If the Allies win, Italy will still be at a disadvantage industrially, for she has none of the elements, such as coal and iron, that constitute success in the civilization of today. Instead of being satisfied to be a custodian of her ancient art, Italy ought to use her mastery and skill to create again products as fine, if not finer than in the past—products that will be without competition in the world. The idea of dominion is largely a conception of mind, not necessarily a political fact. T h e Papal dominion of Europe was just as much a reality as that of political Rome. It was another form of power, the form best adapted to the special conditions of an epoch in which the leading men gravitated to the church and ruled the world. Italy may rule again by exercising her primacy in craftsmanship, a primacy not only of skill but of imagination. T h e French are probably more brilliant than the Italians but less solid and reliable, a difference partly due to the natural conditions in the two countries, the soil of France yielding naturally and generously, but that of Italy requiring patient work to make it fruitful. This circumstance has developed in the Italian a restraining realistic vision that mitigates his idealistic fervor. T h e temperate climate and the loveliness of his land are also reflected in the Italian. He does not aspire to wealth. His sobriety is wonderful, and his desires are relatively few, for he has grasped the fact that satisfaction with one's lot is the first condition for the enjoyment of life. T h e Germans made a great mistake in judging the Italians as a people solely addicted to business; there are countless things the Italians love more than their "affari." T h e Italian quality of gentleness is often mistaken by foreigners for servility, but the Italians are not servile. They are profoundly tolerant and democratic, though they resent anything like imposition or control, and rebel against brutality. T h e bad and dishonest elements among the people, which unfortunately advertise the race abroad, are really not representative of the nation. Lately the people have been aroused as they have not been since Passion Week last May when they silenced the Giolittian Parliament and insisted on joining the Allies. This time their resentment

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is directed against the English and French. "We are giving our sons to help our Allies free Europe, and they are making big profits out of our need for coal and imports." Their indignation has been intensified by the apparent willingness of England and France to plunge into any wild adventure on behalf of the Servians and the Montenegrins. "The pretensions of these two governments are astounding, though the Servian army does not exist as a fighting machine, and that of Montenegro, at its best, is not a military unit of any importance. Even more astounding, however, is the readiness of the Allies to listen to their advice rather than that of the Italians. Servia and Montenegro, small and inefficient as they are, count for more, apparently, to English idealists than the friendly cooperation of Italy and the Italian army of three million men." This feeling of the Italians has been exploited by the German press and German propagandists for their own purposes. "Fortunately, though, there are signs such as the drop in shipping rates and the price of coal, and the visit of Briand and Bourgeois, that show the Allies have taken note of the situation in time." The people will not tire of the war, Dr. and Signora Signorelli think; and in proof of this statement they cited the remark of a soldier to a comrade expressing a wish for a speedy end of the war, "Non importa quando finisca pur che finisca bene." FEBRUARY

13

Florence, Mr. Richardson, Mr. Lothrop and I motored this splendidly soft, sunny day to Olevano. We stopped on the way at Genazzano, an old walled town perched high on a rocky cliff separated from the hill it belongs to by a ravine. From the base of this cliff a winding, walled road ambles up to the top on which stands a huge but badly preserved palace of the Colonnas. The proportions of this building are immense, and the battlements upon which it rests, stupendous. A bridge over a moat leads into a courtyard, enclosed on three sides by the walls of the palace, in which there is an old marble wellhead ornamented with the Colonna column and a double-tailed mermaid. Behind the palace a viaduct runs over the ravine lying between the cliff and the hill to a garden laid out on a plateau.

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O n a narrow street below the palace is a house with graceful carvings, charming bifurcated windows, and finely proportioned stone lintels, reminiscent of architectural bits in Viterbo. It belongs to the Vannutelli family and is now being restored as a monumenlo nazionale. Some time ago it was on the market for the sum of 4,000 lire! W e were unable to see the famous Madonna del Buon Consiglio in the local church, because it was Sunday and there was a crowd of men and women attending Mass, seated respectively on the right and left of the building. A t Olevano we lunched in the rough "everywhere" sort of garden of the Albergo Roma, basking in the bright warm sunshine, with violets profuse at our feet and flowers blooming all about us. T h e stone buildings of the old part of Olevano look as if they were protuberances of the dorso of the mountain on which the town is strikingly built, so perfectly do they blend with it in tone and substance and so closely do they cling to it. From the dilapidated tower surmounting it one can see Bellegra, San Vito, Capranica, Rocca di Cave, and Velletri in the far distance. From Olevano our road rose and rose to a point whence we saw the town directly below us and the shimmer of the sea far away on the left. T u r n i n g sharply, we suddenly caught sight of the great cataclysmic vale where Subiaco lies, a vale of so peculiar and special a nature that one wonders if the gods did not shake this region with might and fury and then throw it down in superb disorder. T h e houses in it look like heaps of stones or dust dropped at random. T h e r e is nothing level or serene in the scene—not even a peaceful note of color. Just beyond this point Ave came upon the fierce little hamlet of Bellegra, as gray and old as the rock on which it stands. Climbing up the steep, narrow, mediaeval mule road to the small Piazza Reale, surrounded by time-worn houses, we met great crowds of peasants, enjoying the holiday. T h e contadine, erect, strong, fine-looking women, were dressed in brightly colored, stiff bodices, and many of them carried brass water vessels on their heads. From the little piazza we walked to the ancient gateway in the patriarchal walls,

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whence we had a splendid view of the valley below, and, then, threaded our way down hill by a tortuous, hopelessly dirty old road, the Via delle T r e Morette. We reached home at six and had tea with Mrs. Richardson. FEBRUARY 1 4

Briand has left Italy, and Austrian airplanes punctuated his departure by attacking Milan, with the result that fifteen civilians were killed and many injured. They also dropped bombs on Rovigo and Ravenna where they damaged the fa9ade of Sant' Apollinare Nuovo. This afternoon Mr. Ezekiel made us a long and interesting visit. Dr. Colasanti of the Consiglio delle Belle Arti came to dinner. In outlining his views on art education in Italy, he explained that he would take the industrial art schools out of the Ministry of Agriculture, Industry, and Commerce, and organize them into an art university, in which all students would be obliged to take the elementary course in technical and applied work before they were allowed to take up training in the fine arts. Thus the least gifted among the countless number of pupils in the art institutions would learn some useful craft, and those really endowed with artistic ability would acquire a good preliminary technical training. T h e effect of such a regime as this, he thinks, would be to diminish the number of pupils and augment the quality of their work. Of America, Colasanti cannot speak too highly. It is true that it has no culture of its own, but this has been true of all active, "throbbing" civilizations. " T h e culture of Rome was Greek, not Roman," he explains, "and you, in America, living your own great and characteristic life, are, in the meanwhile, enjoying the culture of Europe and making it your own. Five centuries from now, if the question be asked, 'Which was the most characteristic civilization of the twentieth century?' the answer will undoubtedly be, 'The youthful, swinging, successful industrial life of America.' Life in Europe is the same as it has been for centuries. It is in no way significant of this epoch."

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This morning I went with Lothrop to see the crippled soldiers in the Policlinico. Most of them seemed quite cheerful. One young chap, whose frozen feet had been amputated, was practicing walking on temporary iron stumps with as much interest as if he were trying a new and interesting mechanical invention. H e walked and ran wonderfully well and even trundled his fellow patients about in little convalescent perambulators. A pitiful boy, with only a short piece of each thigh left, was in bed, very blue because his first trial of the stumps had hurt him very much. FEBRUARY

l8

A new and serious question has arisen between Italy and America, the refusal of the Italian authorities to allow the wives of some native Italians to join their husbands in America, because these men, who are naturalized citizens of the United States, have not answered Italy's call to arms. T h e holding of innocent hostages seems to me so mediaeval a weapon that I cannot believe Italy will use it. However the Ambassador has received no reply to a letter of protest he wrote to the government six weeks ago, specifying twelve of these cases, some of them based on affidavits and proofs of naturalization. Commander G , Chief of Cabinet to Minister Admiral Corsi, received me very affably this afternoon at the Ministry of Marine in an old convent on Via dei Portoghesi. He is a fluent talker, but the talk led nowhere. In fact, some of it made an unfavorable impression on me. He offered to introduce me to Admiral Mazzinghi, chief of the Naval Press Bureau. From him I can get data and photographs of some recent naval operations and excerpts of a government report, to be issued shortly, that shows Italy has nothing to regret or justify in her treatment of the Servians. T h e navy, he says, believes in a policy of silence. If the English and French had abstained from describing their recent skirmishes in the Adriatic, the Italians would not have described their own engagements there. A large part of the work of the navy is negative; it consists in preventing attacks. If the press boasts of the measures taken and ends achieved, the Austrians, out of pure irritation, will

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be driven to action. "And why add to our tasks?" asked Commander G . Our friend Miss Hubbard had a little adventure today, which is proof indeed that our letters to America are carefully read. No wonder mail takes over a month to come or go! She was summoned downstairs by the porter of the Palace Hotel to see some agents of the police, who questioned her about a pro-Austrian scene she had described in a letter to a friend in the United States. T h e fact that it was written on Palace Hotel stationery led the censor to presume that the incident had taken place in this hotel whereas it had actually occurred in a pension in Florence before Miss Hubbard came to Rome. This explanation, happily, satisfied the police, who took their leave as soon as they were convinced that they were not dealing with an anti-patriotic demonstration at the Palace Hotel, which is always under suspicion on account of its former German affiliations. I took dinner tonight with the Reverend Walter Lowrie at St. Paul's Rectory. He told me of his efforts in behalf of the Austrian prisoners in Italy, of whom there are now about thirty-five thousand. Technically his status is that of a visitor for the Y.M.C.A., but actually, through a friendly understanding with General Spingardi, head of the commission for the prisoners, it is rather that of an inspector, whose suggestions have been not only appreciated but almost invariably put into effect by the Italian Government. The prisoners are housed in castles, palaces, convents, schools, and barracks. Although the men have little opportunity for exercise on a substantial scale, they are satisfied with their treatment, as, indeed, they ought to be, Mr. Lowrie says. T h e difficulties which arise are due in the main to racial and religious differences, for there are Croatians, Bosnians, Slavs, Mohammedans, Jews, Calvinists, and Catholics among these involuntary guests of Italy. In making an effort to respect all their religious and cultural idiosyncracies, the Italian authorities have found that the Jews are not nearly as particular about their food as the Mohammedans. The Austrian soldiers, who are happy to have finished with the war and its hardships, show no sign of resentment or hatred toward the Italians. They are allowed to communicate with their relatives

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and receive gifts of supplies from their homes. Mr. Lowrie showed me a fiddle, a clarinet, a trick box, and some cigarette holders they have made with only the help, in some instances, of a broken spoon. T h e Austrian officers preserve a very stiff attitude and seem anxious to return to the front; they keep utterly apart from the soldiers whom they regard apparently as beings of a quite inferior and different order. In the many places Mr. Lowrie has been in the course of his visits to prisoners, he has not found any appreciable suffering among the people. Even at Ancona, on the Adriatic coast, where the aspect of the absolutely empty port made a deep impression on him, he saw no evidence of suffering and received no requests for aid. He is an admirer of Italy and the Italians in this war, particularly of the matter-of-fact way in which they accept war, taking it seriously but naturally as a necessary evil, not hysterically as the AngloSaxons often do. He has heard from English officers, who have visited the front, that the Italian engineering work is really epic in character. W e agreed that the Pope lost a great opportunity in this war in not taking up "arms," as the Vicar of Christ, for principles as opposed to interests, worldly or political. Mr. Lowrie spoke appreciatively of a number of the younger "intellectuals" of the Catholic clergy and criticized the bad taste, narrowness, and ignorance of some of the efforts of Protestant proselytism here. FEBRUARY 19

Mr. E/.ekiel invited us to lunch with him today at his rooms in the Aurelian Wall. Signor and Signora De Bosis and their family were present, with the exception of Lauro, the youngest, who is laid up with a broken arm. T h e r e was a certain sense of sweetness about this occasion ;ve shall not readily forget. Whether it was due to the strange mixture of tendencies, types, and races in the De Bosis family, so tightly held together as they are, or to Ezekiel's Victorian hospitality, I do not know. Our feet rested on a tiger skin under the long marble table at which we sat, and after a good luncheon, we refreshed our hands in lavaboes of sandalwood water.

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FEBRUARY 2 0

A day that need hardly be recorded, so long will it linger in memory, though it will remain as an impression or a vision in the mind rather than as a picture to the eyes. Florence, Miss McGinnis, Norval Richardson, and I left Rome early this morning on the crowded double-decked tram for Rocca di Papa. The day was perfect, sunny, soft, and warm. The tombs on the Via Appia rose in a fleeting horizon behind a soft, undulating foreground of tender stretches of grass. Metella's Tomb was not even imposing, so softly did it settle into the mellow landscape. Behind us the outlines of the Eternal City were encrusted upon an opalescent horizon. Never have I seen St. Peter's Dome speak of the faith that built it as on this day. Against a celestially blue and tenderly fresh background of sky, it stood out absolutely white, as white and soft as a chalice veil, calling up the vision of some spiritually minded Pope arrayed in his robes of white. Rome has never expressed to me any spirituality, but had my first view of it been like that of today—the Dome of that whiteness and texture, the sky of that blue — I should surely have regarded it as a blessed abode of angels. Their wings of white appearing in the sky would only have completed the harmony of the scene. After passing Castel Gandolfo with its ugly villini and barracks, we went on to Marino with a lovely ruined tower in a green, mysterious, winding ravine, the placid still lake of Albano, and Val Violata; thence to the foot of the funicular and up to Rocca di Papa, where we lunched at the Albergo Angeletto in preparation for our little excursion to Monte Cavo. Norval and I had procured donkeys for Florence and Miss McGinnis. Not finding donkey-riding to her liking, however, Miss McGinnis decided to walk and I took her place on Gigi's back. I shall never forget that ride with Florence, past the quaint, thatched cabins near the great ice storage holes to the craterlike hollow, encircled by hills—where, according to legend, Hannibal camped— thence, over a scenic stony slope, upon which, as we ascended, picturesque yokes of long-horned oxen swung into view, and up the

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road to Monte Cavo. What a road! What a road! T h e sense of classicism, of Rome, which makes itself felt here more unmistakably than in the Colosseum or the Forum, is not deepened but confirmed and perfected as one treads on the well-set basaltic stones of this Triumphal Road of the Latin People. T h e air and the sun proclaim the glory of old. Even the gnarled trees, whose bases are covered with moss and ivy, seem to sing of Roman feasts and triumphs. On the summit, the venerable, many-branched beech tree, rising from its great base of cyclopean rocks, completes the illusion, which here is not an illusion but a reality, the reality of Rome—a civilization more material than that of the Renaissance, powerful, earthy, fresh, creative, bold, and mighty, calling to mind satyrs and fauns, heroes and gods, supermen and undermen. Circling the moss-covered walls that enclose the grassy plateau on top of Monte Cavo, you pass from view to view of the superb horizon of Roman power and Roman history: Lake Nemi, with its castle jutting out softly on a promontory of soft green, silent under its crown of hills, its silence suggestive of countless tales; Lake Albano, with a character of its own, brother though it be of the other lake; in between, this and that town of the Castelli, each perched on a separate hill and clinging to a separate existence, with a history great enough to make it wish to stand alone; and farther away, the undulating folds of the Campagna extending like ocean billows toward the Desired City, which is unseen but so present to the mind that not even the horizon can efface the sense of its empire. Beyond everything is the sea, lest we forget that Rome was mistress on the water also. Here and there, in the foreground, a lonely tower casts a sharp shadow on the plain, as the setting sun strikes it, and the smoke of a charcoal-maker's fire rises from an undulating stretch of woodland. Behind Subiaco, to the east, soar the mountains, tall, grim, sweet, snow-topped. Standing beside the cyclopean rocks and looking toward the sun, I thought I had never been conscious of a silence so great as this or of one so eloquent and profoundly fraught with thoughts. W e walked down. T h e soft and mossy path, beyond the triumphal pavement, is rich and deep in leaves that never rustle, silenced as they have been by time and moisture—a path shadowed by trees and bordered by flowers, snowdrops and crocuses, as magical in

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their loveliness and profusion as if they had been tossed there by dancing maids or piping Pans. One's thoughts turned to garlands and dances, wreaths and feasts, for the warmth and softness of the atmosphere sang of life and pleasure and joy. T h e festal character of the scene changed abruptly at Hannibal's Camp. Long rows of timber, cut and piled on the hills, seemed like dead remnants of life in this place where so much of life had been. Legendary though this place be, I saw, as it were, the Carthaginian hosts, planning, hoping for the Unconquerable but Desired City— beyond, so far beyond. Threading at length the narrow stone streets of Rocca di Papa, dark, mediaeval, full of mystery and struggle, we reached the funicular, which took us down to the tram station. Rocca di Papa, as I turned to look back at it, stood out sombrely but mystically in the darkening night, flecked with lights like an altar lighted by tapers to show the Host to the faithful, or rather like a sacrificial altar of ancient Rome, upon which inextinguishable lights have burned and will burn through all time. F E B R U A R Y 2 2 . WASHINGTON'S BIRTHDAY

T h e reception today at the Embassy was well attended. Several "hyphenated" Italians, the American wives of Italian subjects, were present. Mr. Page, after a few brief words on the significance of the day, read by request two of his Southern stories, and read them well. In the evening we dined at Miss McGinnis's, with our Naval Attache, Captain Train, Mrs. Train, and an Englishman, Mr. Burns, who has recently returned from a six-weeks' stay at Brindisi. While there he saw no evidence of friction between the English and Italians. Captain Train, a young and apparently able man, spoke of our navy, not boastfully, but well. FEBRUARY

23

I called on the Honorable Andrea Torre of the Corriere della Sera, the new president of the Associazione della Stampa, a curious, sharp-looking, bald-headed man, very businesslike in appearance, who received me most graciously. A letter from the Boston Transcript suggests that I send some articles.

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C , a young Italian whom I knew in New York, called upon me today in the uniform of an artillery officer. He has found no evidence of any opposition to the war in the south of Italy, where he is stationed. T h e call to arms is regarded as an incident of military necessity and is responded to without ardor but without objection. T h e men who came back from the front on leave are invariably enthusiastic. T h e government is actively engaged in procuring a large number of volunteers in his arm of the service to act as Bombardieri. Ninety thousand reservists have come back willingly and gladly from the United States to serve in the army. They are readapting themselves to conditions here just as they adapted themselves to life in America. As for C , after an absence of twelve years he finds only slight changes in Italy, the business opportunities and the initiative of the people being no greater than when he left. T h i s state of affairs, he thinks, is due to the bureaucracy, though the climate may play a part, too. T h e interference of the state with business militates so greatly against the possibility of increase in profits that there is no incentive for individuals to undertake new enterprises. FEBRUARY 2 5

Signor Bruccoleri of the Giornale di Sicilia came to luncheon today. H e has written a book on Sicily, but has reached no definite conclusion on the question of emigration. His belief is, however, that, though its temporary features may be good, its effect on both the government and the people is deleterious, obscuring, as it does, the real fact that fundamental relief of economic conditions must come from within, not from without a country. Bruccoleri is a radical but he believes the management of the war ought to be left in the hands of the present ministry because, only through its continuance, can the Giolittians be prevented from returning to power and jeopardizing the issue of the war. MARCH

3

I attended today's session of the Congresso della Societa Italiana per il Progresso delle Scienze at the Sapienza. T h e University, founded in 1303 by Boniface V I I I , is a dignified building, to the

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environment of which some secondhand bookstores lend their characteristic note. It is only a stone's throw from the silent Pantheon. O n its very finely proportioned cortile, which is enclosed by a double tier of loggie, opens the Church of St. Ives, built in the shape of a bee in honor of the Barberini Pope, Urban VIII, in whose armorial bearings this diligent little insect plays a prominent part. T h e atmosphere of the University struck me as being more American in spirit than that of any other place I have seen in Italy. T h e appearance of the students, too, is markedly like that of our college boys at home. Clean-shaven and wholesome looking, they are dressed a good deal like our young men, and their faces have the same youthful outlook. I wonder whether Professor Boas's "findings" that the racial physical characteristics of the children of immigrants are affected by their American environment are not after all based upon an error in comparisons. W o u l d he not have found the differences he notes between father and son in any civilized, modern country? MARCH 4

Florence and I went this evening to hear Senator Ruffini speak on Cavour's political thought concerning questions relevant to those of today in Italy. He contrasted the interventionist policy of the House of Savoy, which has always tended to increase the prestige and even the dominion of its chiefs, with the neutral and legal program of rich and powerful Venice, which gradually lessened its power and influence. In this connection he repeated to us the reply of a simple Piedmontese fantaccino to the complaints of a comrade in the Crimean War about the deep mud in the trenches, "With this mud we shall make Italy"! Ruffini unflinchingly stressed the point that Italian unity was won too easily, "troppo a buon mercato," in consequence of which Italians have not sufficiently valued it, and foreigners have not regarded it as a definitive conquest. "Should we win nothing in this war," he concluded, "the blood of our youth will not have been given in vain if it cements our unity and attests to the world our deep and abiding appreciation of it."

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MARCH 5

This morning I had a long walk in the sun with Norval Richardson. I do not merely like him. I am fond of him. He is a cheerful, many-souled chap who makes the best of everything. I know of no word of just praise for Norval Richardson, whose many wellbalanced qualities combine to form a character such as I have not found in any other human being. H e seems to have come naturally by all his acquirements, over which shine a blitheness and real sunniness of character that cause affection to bloom in the hearts of his acquaintances. MARCH 7

T h e funeral of our Consul, Mr. Kelley, took place this dreary, rainy morning in the Cimitero degli Inglesi. Every American in Rome attended it. I was deeply conscious of feeling that we had all come, not only to pay our last respects to this American official, but also to pay a tribute to our country. Americans in Europe are on the defensive, for America has lost prestige, and we must rally around Her who is unloved by the strangers in whose midst we live. Perhaps some of the inscriptions on the tombstones accentuated this feeling by lending a note of nostalgia to the day. "S.S., born at Litchfield, Conn., died in Rome"—so far, so far from homel I have seldom encountered such a truly buoyant spirit as that of Professor Romagnoli, who spoke this afternoon on the education of the blind at the Lyceum Club. Born blind, the son of a laborer, he is now a professor of philosophyl His father succeeded in developing his self-reliance and initiative by encouraging him, when a boy, to take u p sports like swimming and climbing trees. Schools for the blind generally tend instead to suppress independence, despite the well-known fact that the loss of one sense develops secondary senses of a supplementary and compensatory character. Besides, as Romagnoli said, "Ognuno e cieco davanti a quello che non sa"—Everyone is blind facing the unknown. T h e School for the Blind in Milan is a monument to pity but a handicap in the struggle of making the blind relatively independent. Both the French and Italian systems are based too much on this kind of benevolence whereas the German, useful as it is in its analysis of

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how far the secondary senses can be trained, is too generic and neglectful of individual needs. All the blind in Germany, for instance, are employed in ropemaking, an industry the government has monopolized for their benefit. T h e ideal method, in Romagnoli's opinion, is that of the English and Americans who try to develop a healthy mind in a healthy body by encouraging sports of all kinds. These train a man, though blind, to find himself, and prepare him to embrace new and stirring experiences. A blind man cannot fre a normal man, it is true, but he may acquire a sense of peace and comfort and attain a greater inner guiding light than he would have achieved without his burden. MARCH 8

From recent official reports we learn that since the middle of December, the Italian naval forces, despite the active opposition of the Austrian Navy, have played their part in transporting 260,000 men and a large amount of stock from one shore to the other of the lower Adriatic. T h e y have also convoyed 100 supply ships and ferried back and forth military and political authorities. Meanwhile the army has held its advanced positions on the Austrian front during the Alpine winter, a task involving the maintenance of thousands of men in encampments at altitudes ranging from 6,500 to 10,000 feet and giving rise to tremendous problems of all kind. Shelter for the men on the mountain fronts has been furnished by blasting caverns out of rocky slopes and erecting barracks of lumber transported by mule or by hand. In certain parts of the front, quarters have been constructed of cement blocks or bricks, manufactured in plants or kilns built on the spot. Special pumping stations, mechanically equipped to carry water up to high altitudes or over long distances, provide an ample water supply for the Carso, where there is no water, and for other sections, where it is frozen at its source. MARCH 9

T o d a y I began running a Ford and procured my tessera for the Press Gallery. T h e national flag flying this afternoon on a balcony of Palazzo Montecitorio signified that the Italian Parliament was

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in session. A motionless soldier, in gray-green uniform with bayonet set, stood on either side of the entrance, which was kept clear by a dozen Royal Carbineers, dressed in long scarlet-lined cloaks and Napoleonic hats, walking back and forth slowly and impressively, in pairs. Inside, a huge doorkeeper, arrayed in blue and silver livery, cocked hat, and shining baton, presided somewhat condescendingly over the going and coming of deputies and their favored constituents. My first impression of the Chamber was far from impressive and, least of all, convincing, despite the fact that the quality of the discussion was fair. At the government bench were only undersecretaries, though Sonnino, very self-contained, self-sufficient, and wholly indifferent apparently to his surroundings, came into the Chamber for a few minutes to introduce some bills. In the evening we dined with Count and Countess S . The Count has a historical face, pallid and thin. His cold, unlighted but unforgettable eyes and sharp, slightly misshapen nose give him an expression that is grasping and tight. T h e Countess, both in aspect and point of view, strikes me as a woman whose sole interest is in facts, a woman to whom ideals are errors, if not sins. I do not doubt that she lives up to her appearance of a mediaeval chatelaine by ruling with an iron hand. Although a large number of men belonging to their estates have already been called to the colors, the crops have not suffered, owing to the intensification of methods and the employment of women in the fields. MARCH

10

T h i s afternoon I called upon Salvatore Cortesi of the Associated Press in his office in Piazza di Pietra. Cortesi has grown slightly older since I saw him some years ago, a change manifesting itself chiefly in an accentuation of his Italian features. He is a genial, fair-minded man, reasonable and sensible in an essentially Italian fashion. He was very cordial and extremely open in the way he spoke of the obstacles thrown in the path of journalists here. If public opinion abroad is unfavorable to Italy, it is Italy's own fault for pursuing a policy of silence, a policy ascribable to Sonnino, who holds all the other Ministers in a state of fear. Sonnino's important speech

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last December, announcing the adhesion of Italy to the agreement of the Allies not to make a secret peace, was held up four days by the censor. On the other hand an excellent English version of the Papal allocution of December 6 confided to Cortesi to be released as soon as the Pontiff began reading it at the Vatican, arrived in San Francisco—owing to the difference in time—before the Pope finished it here. Tonight we dined at the Embassy. Among the guests were Mr. and Mrs. Jay, Signor Cortesi, and Mr. S of one of the wellknown press associations. It was an interesting, animated dinner. Mr. Page was in excellent humor and kept the conversation at an entertaining pitch. Upon the withdrawal of the ladies after dinner, the men drew up to the fire to listen to Mr. S 's account of his stay in Salonica. T h e Allies, he says, have an army of 350,000 men in Salonica and 150,000 Serbs in Corfu. T h e situation of Greece, to which food supplies are doled out by the Allies according to the way in which the government conducts itself, would be comic if it weren't tragic. Only one roll for breakfast means that England has forbidden the landing of wheat, by way of tightening the ropes. Even the King is fed or starved as the Allies see fit. T o prevent the Greek Government from reselling oil, of which it has a monopoly, to the enemy, the Standard Oil agent in Athens notifies the Allies whenever Greece purchases oil in excess of her needs. They immediately seize and search the mail, occupy an island suspected of being a submarine base, or take any other measure they deem wise. T h e opinions of Mr. Page's guests on the probability of a German success at Verdun and the likelihood of an Allied offensive differed. Nobody seemed optimistic, not even Cortesi, though he was the most cheerfully inclined. After we joined the ladies, Mr. Page told us some stories of Inez Milholland, of whom he speaks with humorous admiration. One day, receiving no response to the whistle with which she was accustomed to greet one of the young secretaries, as she passed along the street under the windows of the Embassy, she entered the building and found him stretched out asleep on a lounge in his office; whereupon she took possession of his desk, and, when he awoke, he found her in charge!

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On leaving, we drove S to his hotel. He is an example of the broker of news, a man of no polish, and of only the slightest schooling, I should judge. No doubt he's a hustler; he certainly seems to have more go than W , but it's a mystery how he can possibly fathom motives or policies. These are not his business, however. He is like the Standard Oil agent of whom he spoke: he buys and sells something that is very much wanted. No doubt he gets the news, but it does not seem possible that he can get anything else in Europe. MARCH

11

In the afternoon two young Grenadier officers paid us a call, Valente de Bosis, who has been under fire at Monfalcone and on the Sabotino, and James De Viti de Marco, who has just graduated from the Modena Military School. T h e two were delightful, De Bosis charmingly bashful about his war exploits and De Viti trying to help him out of his dilemma of modesty. On the whole De Bosis' experience is much the same as that of other young men I have met. War is neither so terrible as it is painted nor it is quite real. This sense of unreality is due, no doubt, to the fact that under the conditions of modern warfare, you seldom see the enemy; but it is associated with the whole field of sensations at the front. T h e death of comrades makes an impression, but not the impression you had imagined. T h e soldiers have no sense of fear apparently, not even in an assault. "Things change their values," said De Bosis, "even money doesn't represent anything; you give or take 100 lire indifferently." T h e infantry fire relatively few shots while charging, for their purpose is always to close in on the enemy with the bayonet; once that object is attained, the victory is won. De Bosis thinks the most helpful attributes of a soldier are health and a real sense of affectionate interest in his comrades. "In the Italian Army," he said, "affection counts more than discipline. T h e relations between the officers and the soldiers at the front are intimate and splendid."

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MARCH 12

Avvocato Fabrizi, whom I met the other night at dinner, writes, over the signature of "Fabricius," a fierce article in the Messaggero, contradicting the reported statement of the young Duchess TorIonia that 300,000 women and children in Rome are suffering. T h i s afternoon we drove to the Janiculum and called on Mr. and Mrs. Carter of the American Academy. T h e y took us to see the historic Villa Aurelia, now belonging to the Academy, which was badly damaged at the time Garibaldi held it against the enemy. During the evening Richardson dropped in to call. H e explained his preference for Rome over Florence by saying that Rome is a stage across which there is a constant succession of new scenes and colors whereas Florence is a picture all in one tone. ON SEEING SOME ENGLISH RED CROSS GIRLS ARRIVE IN ROME AND DEPART FOR AN UNKNOWN DESTINATION

Adieu 1 You came unheralded, unsung— A group of girls; a little worn, I thought, Young but subdued, and traveled but un-glad, Frail, yet with strength by faith and purpose bought. Adieu! You've gone as silent as you came! Girlhood of England, as you pass'd there swirl'd A sense of battle and the sound of drums . . . Somewhere, a flag rose, gloriously unfurledl march

13

Today's discussion in the Chamber of the government's economic policies was preceded by a statement that the Minister of Foreign Affairs had issued orders that Italian representatives abroad should not encourage any fetes in foreign lands for the benefit of Italian war institutions except those promoted by their fellow countrymen. Di Cesarö, speaking in approbation of this measure, concluded his remarks with an expression of hope that foreigners, who were sincere friends of Italy, would show their sympathy by offering their affection and respect rather than material gifts. T h e galleries were crowded in anticipation of speeches by the

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Honorable Aurelio Drago and the Honorable Antonio Graziadei of the opposition forces. Drago, a fluent and engaging speaker, presented his views on the lack of synthesis in the government's economic policies. During the eight months preceding the declaration of war, the government ought to have made definitely visioned plans of an economic as well as of a military character instead of having been content to meet problems as they arose. No measures, for example, were taken to provide the necessary supply of coal and iron. In its "offensive" policies, too, the government has been far from clear and convincing in its action. It has even allowed suspicious exports like sulphur, used in the manufacture of ammunition, to go to Germany. In closing, Drago urged that the war be conducted on the high plane set by Salandra in his master speech on the Campidoglio, which had been instrumental in bringing home "thousands of our sons from America, proud to fight for their country." Graziadei, a short, slight, sandy-haired man, made a distinction between the political and technical aspects of the situation; of the former he had nothing to say, indeed, he was on the side of the Ministry, but he questioned the technical ability of some of the government leaders to carry on the war. "We must win," he insisted, "and the only question is, 'Who can best use the forces and resources of Italy for this end?' " In one of the galleries was a pink-faced old man, with white hair and white moustache, very straight and unobtrusive, the general in command of the storming of the Gorizian plateau, Doberdö, I was told. A crowd of men in fatigue uniform in the officers' gallery made an impressive picture. T h e Tribuna della Casa Reale was occupied by two ladies, one of them a fine, delicately faced woman of obvious high class. In the diplomatic gallery was a mixed group: a typical side-whiskered Englishman, a Japanese, some borghese looking ministers and their wives, and Mr. Page, whose engaging pose and small, well-shaped head singled him out as the most distinguished of all. Η , an American newspaper man, came and sat near me. He is another journalistic wonder. Not a word could he follow of speeches or procedure, for he knows no Italian, and yet he did not

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hesitate to show his contempt for that of which he understood nothing. MARCH 14

Florence and I attended the Requiem Mass for King Humbert at the Pantheon today, Florence in improvised black, and I togged out like a sexton'at a funeral. Troops, facing the temple, were drawn up on the square outside it, infantry in the centre, with Bersaglieri to the right and Granatieri to the left. Behind the iron railing outside the entrance stood a double line of Carabinieri. As a setting for the ceremony, the interior of the Pantheon was splendidly adapted. In the centre stood a high round catafalque, heavily draped with black, under a canopy of embroidered black velvet fringed with gold and looped with gold tassels. Against its sloping sides were massed wreaths of flowers, and, around it, was placed a ring of huge candles, the wavering, glinting lights of which shone on the helmets and cuirasses of the immobile guard of Royal Corazzieri encircling it. Over the main altar hung a black banner emblazoned with a silver cross, and on it stood six enormous silver candlesticks. The smoke of many tapers burning on altars and in clusters on the walls made the atmosphere hazy, and the exclusion of daylight, effected by a sky-blue cover placed over the opening at the apex of the dome, added to the dimness of the scene. On the floor a tarpaulin was spread to deaden sounds, a necessary precaution, for the guests at the function were very ill-mannered, elbowing their way about and standing on chairs to see over one another's heads, without feeling or compunction. The choir of the Sistine Chapel sang, but unevenly, both in respect to power and ability. Queen Margherita and some ladies of her entourage occupied gilt chairs, upholstered in red velvet, in front of which stood the customary prie-dieu. A large number of diplomats in their official uniforms and many leaders of the political and military world were present.

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I spent two hours at the Camera today and had a good chance to study the ministerial bench. Sonnino is tall, erect, spare, with a well-shaped head sparsely covered with white hair, an aquiline nose, deep-set eyes, a drooping white moustache, a combative though not prominent chin, and small, capable-looking hands, brown, almost bronze in color, which he uses in the Italian way to emphasize his speech. As he sits at ease in his armchair, his legs often crossed, quiet and attentive, a man of power but not of the least pose, his appearance is that of a man fond of sport and open air. His brown business suit accentuates the contrast between him and Salandra who dresses more formally. Salandra is a short, rather thick-set man, with splendid, deep-set eyes, a long nose, a drooping moustache, and complexion of a brownish tinge. The preponderant crown and forehead of his massive head suggests great intellectual power. His very small fine hands, with which he gesticulates constantly, are as noticeable as his small feet, to which his slow, embarrassed way of walking calls attention. His low, somewhat nasal voice carries well. He betrays his southern origin by his grimaces. He is not at all attentive to the speeches of the deputies; indeed, his deportment at times is almost rude. Admiral Corsi looks like a mixture of viveur and business man, well groomed and well dressed in a formal way. Cavasola, who is between seventy and eighty years of age, resembles the men of the Risorgimento period; he has a lovely old man's face, especially in profile, with a beautifully pointed chin. Zupelli, very pale, with his few locks of hair plastered in lines over his bald head and an appearance of poor health, is not an impressive figure. Orlando's powerful, aggressive, southern face, spoiled somewhat by a very red nose, is interesting rather than fine. The other Ministers are quite average-looking men, over fifty years of age. I arrived at the Camera just as Canepa, a Reform Socialist, was finishing his speech, the speech of a man who feels that party differences ought to be forgotten at such a time as this. The very high tribute he paid to Cadorna evoked a scene of tremendous enthusiasm, during which his colleagues not only rushed to shake hands with him but engaged in a real scrimmage to kiss him on both

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cheeks. T h e scene continued too long to be spontaneous, or so, at least, it seemed to m e — b u t I do not understand the Italians. In the evening we dined with the Marchesi De Rosales, to meet D e p u t y Macchi, a R e f o r m Socialist, w h o represents Catania in the Camera. H e denies Drago's assertion of the other day that Italy lias exported sulphur to Germany. His only criticism of the gove r n m e n t is based on Salandra's apparent refusal to take Bissolati i n t o the Cabinet. If Bissolati, a strong opponent of G e r m a n y and an ardent propounder of a more extended war, were to enter the C a b i n e t in f u l l agreement with the ministerial actions and policies, the country could rest assured that the undisclosed reasons for not declaring war on Germany are very convincing indeed. Macchi told us that Sonnino, of w h o m he spoke highly, had been of the opinion that Servia should attack Bulgaria before she mobilized. His advice in this respect was not heeded, for France claimed she had the situation well in hand in Bulgaria and Greece. T h i s claim was true of Greece, b u t not of Bulgaria, and, in consequence, Millerand reaped a bitter harvest. O f the Sicilian peasant Macchi spoke enthusiastically, though he had only harsh words for the Sicilian mala vita which, with the Neapolitan, emigrates to America. H e painted for us a poetic picture of the terrible lava slopes of Etna upon which the peasants have worked patiently for centuries. O n l y after they have been crevassed by successive growths of the roots of ginestra and the stronger ones of fichi d' India can they be fashioned slowly and patiently, foot by foot, into terraces, which are filled with earth, planted with vines, and cultivated until they b r i n g forth fruit that yields great, strong wines. Some years ago Macchi, standing on the rim of Etna's crater, saw a stream of red lava coursing d o w n the mountainside, a splendor of color and power. T o d a y , this same red stream is dark and petrified. O u t of such soil as this has the Sicilian peasant, proud yet mild, fierce yet generous, grasped the fruitage of the Island K i n g d o m . MARCH 1 6

T h e C r o w n Prince of Servia, hero of many battles, arrived in R o m e this morning. T r o o p s in d o u b l e file kept open the route

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from the station to the Quirinal. As a distant bugle call rang out, two mounted Carabinieri appeared on the roadway that swings in and out of Piazza dell' Esedra in a bold, double curve. Dressed in full dress uniform, red pompons on their Napoleonic hats, red blankets strapped in front of their saddles, and white leather accoutrements on their horses, they formed a gay introduction to the Court equipages following, which were attended by liveried servants in bright scarlet coats and white trousers and escorted by mounted Italian officers, gaily plumed and smartly uniformed. T h e Prince responded militarily to the sincere and hearty cheering that greeted him on his way to the Quirinal, where a Carabiniere band played a fanfare as the procession entered the courtyard. The sun shone brightly on the Palace, part of which has been turned into a hospital. At the windows stood white-capped wounded soldiers looking down on the animated throng in the square below, among whom were a large number of university students singing their usual songs. At the Consulta and other points, platoons of Questurini and Carabinieri were stationed. T h e order was excellent; the vie\v, superb. From the sun-decked Piazza one could see a long stretch of monumental Rome, terminating at one end in Piazza di Spagna and at the other in the Altar of the Patria. From the Quirinal I went to a municipal office in Via Poli to file my certificate of residence in connection with the Ford I bought yesterday. I waited an hour in line, an hour not lacking in interest, inasmuch as all of the little incidents connected with the registration of the change of domiciles had their note of value. The line was mostly made up of women, hoping to find employment by establishing themselves in Rome. Some, not in possession of the required authorization from their husbands or fathers or police officials, were dismissed to obtain more certificates. Others, intent 011 making their title clear to Roman municipal charity, were exhibiting their certificates of poverty from other communes. A lady of high degree tripped in, expecting, evidently, to claim attention ahead of us poor devils, but she failed to achieve her purpose. Italy is improving; so much so that there are notices on the walls of this office, prohibiting the offering or acceptance of tips. Signor Cortesi of the Associated Press dined with us this eve-

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ning. I was barely in time for dinner myself on account of an interview with Aldrovandi at the Foreign Office, where I went at his request to give him what information I could about S who is seeking authorization to lecture abroad on behalf of Italy. On hearing what I had to say, he summoned an usher and asked whether the diplomatic mail for Paris had gone. "Yes," replied the man, to which Aldrovandi retorted, " B u t I would rather it had not gone—go and see." T h e usher returned witli the pouch, and Aldrovandi found and tore up the letter he had written. "Now go," he said, to the man "and find out why the mail was not dispatched at the proper time." Among some amusing journalistic incidents that Cortesi recounted to us was the fate of one of his telegrams, containing the words "Kill Margherita." It was held up by the censor, who did not know that this American newspaper jargon only directed the Associated Press in the United States to omit the Queen Dowager's name from a dispatch. Von Bülow, Germany's special envoy to Italy during the period of neutrality, whom Cortesi knows well and admires, was greatly surprised and disappointed by Italy's declaration of war. He had hoped to the very end that she would remain neutral. T h e Papacy, though not necessarily the Pope, tends naturally to be pro-German, Cortesi thinks, inasmuch as the Allies represent, on the whole, a state of opposition to the Church of Rome. In commenting on the death of Cardinal Agliardi, Cortesi spoke of how tragic it must be for anyone intensely interested in the outcome of the war to die while it is in progress. MARCH 1 7

I spent some hours in Parliament, listening to Minister Cavasola's speech. T h e President's chair was occupied by Signor Marcora, a tall, lanky, pale-faced old man with long, white side-whiskers, a statesman and a patriot who fought in his youth at Garibaldi's side. T h e tribunes were crowded, especially that of the press, whose peculiar privileges and traditions are not only respected but feared by the House. A motley and unruly crowd the newspapermen are, with a wonderfully developed critical faculty, who express their

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opinions viva voce more frankly than in print. When a deputy speaks at too great length, a soft dirgelike hum floats down from the press gallery with an unmistakable meaning. There is no partisanship among the regular reporters in the journalistic tribune. Indeed, I have heard from even the younger men fairer, franker, and more intelligent discussion of political questions than in any other equally large group of Italians. As I looked at Salandra, whose general expression is very serene, but in whose deep-set eyes there is a light indicative of possibilities, and at Sonnino, whose very brow expresses the power of his intellect, so obviously muscular are the marks of deep thought—as I looked at these two men and pondered on how they have stood at the helm for almost two years, despite the parliamentary majority against them, I thought that Italy's citizens might well be proud of their leaders. Sonnino, though unpopular in the common acceptance of that word in political life, holds his great office by the almost universal admission that he is the ablest diplomat in the kingdom. He is independent, fearless, and beyond the shadow of criticism in his long political career. His extreme reticence and silence are not merely accidental characteristics of the man but useful diplomatic tools. While Von Bülow was endeavoring to keep Italy out of the war during the period of neutrality, he often found himself at sea and not infrequently outplayed by the imperturbable silence of his Italian opponent. T h e speech of Cavasola, Minister of Agriculture, Industries and Commerce, was a quiet, urbane statement of the measures taken by the government in the industrial and commercial fields during the progress of the war. In his frank exposition of those that had succeeded and those that had failed, there was no attempt at oratory, no effort to obscure realities with statistics. In the discussion that followed severe criticisms were made of the government policies, but, at the end, all the deputies, realizing that only a superhuman prescience could have solved the manifold problems confronting the state, joined in a great ovation to this serious old man of seventy-six, an ovation emphasized by a round of cheers and handclappings from the gentlemen of the press—a real tribute to

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the qualities of directness and sincerity in political life, which are still p o w e r f u l l y convincing, though they have grown rare in legislative assemblies. MARCH

18

Enrico Ferri, an isolated figure on the extreme Left, made a speech in the C h a m b e r today, to which everyone present listened as to an intellectual treat. For clearness of statement, precision of word, and fine sense of proportion, I have seldom heard a better speaker but, despite these attributes, he was not constructive. Ciccotti, leading R e f o r m Socialist, also spoke, but not as well. T h e effect of his speech would have been spoiled anyway by the antiwar Socialists w h o made it fearfully hot for him, though they did not succeed in rattling him. A t its close they shouted, " A d d i o Cadavere," a sample of the parliamentary wit of the extreme Left! MARCH

19

It was a stirring day at the Camera, for the political vote was taken. T h e Prime Minister's speech was very poor, poor in every sense, but particularly poor in its economic content. Ca\'asola's speech of the other day, however, had so impressed the deputies, including even the followers of Bissolati, that they accorded the government a vote of confidence by a large majority. MARCH

20

T o d a y I m e t the administrator of the Bracciano estate. H e explained to m e the scope of the Usi Civici, those traditional privileges of which the R o m a n peasants take advantage to insist on the continuance of their mediaeval methods of agriculture. It w o u l d pay the large R o m a n landed proprietors, he says, to give one half of their land outright to the contadini in exchange for the privilege of improving and cultivating the other half according to the new and scientific methods of today. MARCH 22

T o d a y Florence and I drove to Ninfa, stopping for luncheon at Velletri, a hill town I should like to revisit.

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A f t e r luncheon we drove south over an open and rather uninteresting road. Finally, some black mountains loomed up ahead of us, in front of which stood a tower, marking the site of Ninfa. Leaving our Ford, we walked over the marshy approach to this dead, dead town, abandoned long ago because of its malarial situation. Within its broken wall are the ruins of eleven towers and nine churches with vestiges of frescoes 011 their vaulted walls, which serve but to emphasize their desperate plight. T h e open green space that once upon a time must have been the little village square made a special appeal to me, for the freedom of the place must always have centred here. T i m e and ruin have left it looking toward heaven and the great mountain range on the summit of which Norma stands. Norma was very clearly outlined against the sky today, though the great Castle of Sermoneta, on the lower slopes of the same range, was almost buried in clouds. T h e one well-preserved tower of the Castello at N i n f a looks down, on one side, upon a small, quiet millpond and, on the other, upon a formal garden, the plan of which is still visible in the straight paths meeting at a central fountain and terminating at ruined niches in the walls. T h i s little green enclosure, now inhabited by a delightful tame pig, was for me the best part of the deserted village, for the red and white roses clambering over its walls voiced, as it were, a hope of its resurrection. A large room in the Palazzo Comunale, with traces of architectural beauty, can still be used. All the rest of the ruins, with the exception of the Piazza, are so dead as to have no suggestion of life. T h e Piazza, at its best, speaks of men who are dead, but the garden speaks of life. As we drove away, a storm was gathering 011 the mountains, but a flood of sunlight rested 011 Ninfa, the wandering rays of which lighted up with their glory one little spot on the hills in the background. W e stopped for a few minutes at Cisterna to look at the huge Palace of the Caetani and a large fountain ornamented with grottoes and statues in the village square. As we returned to R o m e in the lowering night, the views of the city and Campagna were lovely, with the haystacks standing out sharply in a gray light.

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MARCH 24

W h i l e d r i v i n g this afternoon toward Bracciano, we gathered bunches of cyclamen and other spring flowers f r o m the high green banks on the roadside, decked with great profusion like endless green altars arranged for a springtime feast. MARCH 2 5

C o m m e n d a t o r e A n g i o l o B o n d i w h o owns Dante's villa in Florence, is staying at our hotel. H e urges m e to visit the steel works at Piombino, one of the many enterprises he is interested in. I must see while there, he says, the w o n d e r f u l Etruscan remains whence, once upon a time, came all the iron of the world. A m o n g his many interests, Bondi is especially w r a p p e d up, I understand, in the Manifattura di Signa, famed for its reproductions of works of art, though it is the only one of his investments that is inactive. A small and insignificant man Bondi is, b u t he actually seems to grow in stature and interest as his clear business vision and fondness for art are disclosed. MARCH 2 6

T h e wisteria is out and the trees are b u d d i n g . MARCH 2 7

I called on General Elia's private secretary at the Ministry of War, a huge, long modern b u i l d i n g in V i a X X Settembre, to ask about the regulations governing visits to the front. T h i s is one of the liveliest of the Ministries today, not because of its importance, for Cadorna has concentrated all power in the Supreme C o m m a n d , but because of the many persons f r e q u e n t i n g it for news of relatives in the army or for favors of one sort or another. In the m i d d l e of the waiting room is a heroic statue of a desperate woman, carrying one child in her arms and succoring another h a n g i n g on her skirts, symbolic of the horrors of war. O n the walls are prints of military engagements, both ancient and modern. T h e room was filled with anxious women, rich and poor, dealers and merchants, soldiers and sailors, all b i d i n g their time to solicit some favor or present some business proposition. Passing in and out were officers, looking busy and important; imboscati perhaps.

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In the evening Norval Richardson took Miss McGinnis, Florence, and me to see Sardou's " L e Donne Forti." We laughed greatly. T h e European conception of America in 1866 persists even today— and it has still some justification! MARCH 2 9 . CIVITA CASTELLANA

Miss McGinnis, Florence, and I drove in the Ford to this delightful place north of Rome, over a white and well-kept road winding through billows of green pastures, across which we caught occasional glimpses of the Tiber. T h e road was free of traffic most of the way except for an infrequent yoke of oxen dragging their slow freight. It runs alongside an innocuous trolley track, on which the grass grows merrily, unmindful of the occasional trains flying over it. T h e air was clear, almost crisp, as fine as that of mountain climes, and in the sky floated those great white clouds that seem as much a part of the Roman firmament as if they had been cast up by the adjacent hills and mountains. It was the first time I had seen Soracte close at hand. Up its lower slopes creep sweet, soft green meadows in respectful but loving homage to the splendid, three-peaked summit which cuts into the sky, not proudly, but with a dignity of its own, with a poise and a serenity only to be attained by a great age and a greater history. After skirting Soracte's base at a deferential distance, the road winds steeply downhill and then turns suddenly up and up to Civita Castellana. I was too busy driving and too much of a novice at the wheel to be able to see much else until we stopped at the Excelsior, the inn of the town, equipped with running water and a dining room de luxe upstairs, but a dear, rambling albergo just the same, into whose delightful and busy kitchen I penetrated to order luncheon. Afterwards we walked to the Duomo. We were not sorry to find it closed, for its interior, I understand, has been badly modernized. As it was, our pleasure in its very original exterior remains unspoiled. T h e fa9ade, which gives to the church the appearance of a House of God and makes it seem a pleasant and dignified abode for the Spirit rather than a mere shrine of a religion, made upon me one of the most pleasing and satisfying architectural impressions I have ever had. T h e great frontal arch speaks of the might of God,

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the Great Architect of Beauty, but the portico, running across the whole front of the building, with its pleasing mosaics and roof of open rafters, transforms the church, as it were, into a habitation for the Spirit, in the sense of a home, a home beautiful and serene. If, inside that door guarded by two "Lombard" lions, there was a garden, a still, silent garden of deep greens and fine broad shade, bordered by rows of cypresses, surely the human spirit in search of God could ask for no more perfect dwelling place. In fact this noble and fascinating exterior, behind which lies my imaginary garden, does not resemble the facade of a church as much as it resembles an architectural approach to a garden, a garden of prayer, of contemplation, of spiritual approach to God, or to an old formal cemetery perhaps—a walled-in garden of sleep. Under the impression of how strangely dissociated in spirit and meaning the fa$ade of the church and its interior must be, I was struck by a photograph I saw of the court of the great fortress built here by Sangallo for Pope Alexander VI. Surrounded by a twostoried portico, it has the effect of a garden enclosed by an elaborate and magnificent wall. Did Sangallo reflect consciously or unconsciously his reaction to the Duomo in his plans for this building? Did he vision the possibility of building a fortress around a magnificent garden? Did he like the idea of creating something beautiful behind these grim outer walls? On our way home we crossed the empty but not deserted Piazza, occupied by a Municipio, fountains, and an arcaded vegetable market—this last so neat and clean that it was even whitewashed or rather blue-washed—and traversed quiet but not dead streets, where the few inhabitants we met seemed possibly surprised at, but not vocally critical of our presence in this place seldom visited by strangers. T h e town is sedate rather than old, serious rather than ancient, polite rather than modern, a town that does well to be under the patronage of Santa Felicissima. At the beginning of the viaduct that connects one end of the town—opposite that at which we had entered—with the country, a great pile of stone blocks towered above us, the pentagonal citadel erected by Antonio da Sangallo. High up on its walls were the pontifical arms of Alexander VI. Its great, sloping foundations appear to be hewn out

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of the cliff upon which it stands, a cliff sloping down into jumping precipices of green pastures and rocks. From the viaduct we looked down into the former castle moat and touched war! A few prisoners, or rather men in Austrian uniforms, were turning u p the sweet, generous sod of Italy, each stroke of the spade adding some future bit of green, some future flower or fruit for man's delight. Here and there an unarmed Italian soldier, a sickle tied to a long pole in his hand, was supervising the work and occasionally taking part in it. At intervals were sentry boxes, electrically connected with some central point, and sentinels, kindly-looking Territorials in the dreadful, blue "Prince Albert" uniform of other days. On the parapets of the fortress, groups of prisoners were talking and smoking, and, at the very summit of the battlemented tower, two Austrian officers were walking in a hanging garden of their own. T h e prisoners seemed men in their prime, in good condition, clean and not unhappy in appearance, but the whole scene was strange and singular in character. T h e sun, which shone brightly, with a generous, warm touch, on this stout reddish fortress, took the grimness out of these storied stones behind which Gasparone and other bandits were held in durance vile, and nobler souls, political prisoners of the pontificate of Pius I X were confined. T h e r e was no sign of hardship, no hint of cruelty, no evidence of suffering; and yet, the whole picture was one of tragedy. T h e men never once looked up, as would have been natural, and I was impressed by a sense of shame that I seemed to detect in their averted faces, but whether it was shame for having surrendered or shame for having fought such kindly gaolers—who can tell? T h e thought of the kith and kind of these prisoners was inescapable. Their fathers and mothers, their sisters and lovers know that they are alive, perhaps, but do they know, can they know, anything of their environment? Do they dream of these great stretches of green pasture and slow moving clouds, of this billowy Campagna, of this fine air, which, here, and today, seem pregnant with unrevealed and, perhaps, unrevealable history? Their boys, their husbands look out from these great battlements upon Soracte! Wherever they look, they see history, the history of men conquering and conquered throughout the centuries. These men have seen war;

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even those working quietly with spade and scythe have been in the trenches and heard the cannon's roar before they were brought to this eagle's nest of mankind, whence on clear days they may see the great dome of the Capitol of Christendom. What do they think? What do they feel? . . . I should rather know what these great stones think, Etruscan and Papal, which have seen so much more than any of us and have heard the voices of men and of God throughout the ages. What do they say? T h a t mankind never changes, that here, from time immemorial, there have been victor and vanquished, that only the outer habiliments have changed? Perhaps! T h e magnificent lines of the fortress seemed not unlike those of a great ship, a broad galley, upon the decks of which one saw in imagination the slaves of ancient Rome, a dignified and great galley, bearing u p against the winds of the Campagna and the broad but precipitous ground swells beating against its sides. Before we left, the sun broke through the full, fast-gathering clouds, symbolizing the weathered storms through which this great historic ship, solid, staunch, and yet Italianly beautiful has passed. As we drove back, Soracte rose serenely before us in a new significance, emphasizing thought as distinct from action, thought as the finest, the strongest, and the most reliable of facts, thought that can never be imprisoned, free as it is in its very nature, thought that can never be conquered, resort as it is of the last appeal and final judgment. MARCH 30

Today the Marchesa De Viti de Marco invited us to luncheon to meet Mr. McClure, the Roman correspondent of the London Times. Tenente De Benedetti, a very simpatico officer, was also present. Marchesa De Rosales, Mrs. Jay, Miss McGinnis, and Mr. Latimer came to tea this afternoon. Mr. Latimer described very vividly scenes he witnessed in Venice at the outbreak of hostilities between Austria and Italy: the shattering of a perfect Venetian dawn on the first day of war by the terrible whir of airplanes, which he heard as he stood at his window, looking down on the reflection of the palaces in the quiet waters;

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the stripping of glorious canvases from the walls they had covered for centuries and the bare spaces remaining that testify eloquently, though mutely, to the new barbarians' threat; the lowering of the Horses from St. Mark's and their lifelike departure from the Piazza on wheeled wooden bases, which led the Venetians to exclaim smilingly, "They're going to the front." He told us, too, of the charming little ceremony held to celebrate the casting of the angel for the new Campanile, when the figure, half buried in the sand, was shown in the midst of a simple and beautiful mediaeval setting. After the collapse of the Campanile on the Piazza, nothing was left of the figure of the angel but the feet and hands clasping some lilies. In the evening Florence and I dined with Mr. Burns at the Bristol. Count Van den Steen, Minister of Belgium to Italy, was the only other guest, a tall, rather pallid-faced man, with a stooping figure, a white moustache, and white curly hair parted in the middle. As we became better acquainted, he spoke very frankly both of Italy and America. Of Belgium he said nothing. She has risen above table talk. The best Van den Steen could say of the United States was that he understood the keenness of business vision that was enabling it to acquire, through the needs of Europe, not only a large share of the trade of the world but actual metallic values 011 an enormous scale. He thought, however, that we were losing much of our prestige and reputation by allowing barbarous and unlawful acts to go unchallenged—not that we ought to act, still less that we ought to fight, but why not voice our disapproval? Of Italy he was critical also and with deeper knowledge, perhaps. He had spent long years in the Balkans, and his criticism was addressed to Italy's attitude in the Near East, where he held that Italy's prestige was seriously threatened, if not already lost, by her failure to aid Montenegro and Servia. Apart from the question of prestige, Italy's policy of hands off in the Balkans was a military mistake because a successful Montenegro would have been a constant threat to Austria. We passed an interesting evening in that quiet out-of-the-way room of the Hotel Bristol, in friendly conversation with the representative of heroic Belgium and in intimate relation with that very

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special section of the history of today, which lights up the present conflict. MARCH 3 1

Ambassador Page told me today that he thought American newspaper men had a good chance of getting to the Italian front. General Elia, he said, had mentioned my name to him. This afternoon we attended a large garden party given by the Marchesi Di Sorbello at the Hotel de Russie, and this evening we dined at the Rosales's with Count Graziadei, a brother of the Socialist deputy. APRIL 1

A quiet but curious crowd assembled this afternoon at the foot of the long flight of steps leading up to the Capitoline Hill to watch the arrival of guests at the reception for Asquith that the Municipality of Rome was holding in the Palazzo dei Conservator!. It was a warm, sunny day. The slope bordering the steps was in festive spring garb, and the trellis running up toward the church of Aracoeli was sweetly aglow with wisteria—a touch of sweetness almost too fresh and simple for the grand setting. T h e Piazza at the top of the steps was as quiet, despite the small crowd of privileged onlookers at the entrance to the Palazzo, as if it were a place especially set apart for the enjoyment of the sun—so quiet that I could hear the sound of the waters flowing in the long basin of the fountain at the foot of the Palace of the Senate. This silence, which enveloped the historic Hill while the leaders of Italy were welcoming the Prime Minister of England to the Capitol, seemed a little strange; and, yet, it created a sense of restfulness, a quiet fraught with the message, "You may think this is the biggest conflict in history, but I have seen Rome burn, and die, and live again." At the entrance to the Palazzo dei Conservatori hung a large wreath of fresh laurel, surmounted by a trophy of English, Italian, and Roman flags, and, on the walls inside were festooned silk and velvet hangings of a deep wine-red color. Municipal guards and firemen in dress uniforms and brass helmets were in attendance.

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T h e Premier of England and Prince Colonna, Mayor of Rome, received the relatively small number of guests in the Sala degli Orazi e Curiazi. T h e y stood in front of the statue of Pope Innocent X , the heroic proportions of which dwarfed them both. Asquith's head is large and somewhat square like that of a tall man, though, in fact, he is not a man of height; his face is clean shaven, his complexion highly colored, and his hair rather long and thin. It was a very democratic, informal, friendly gathering of senators, deputies, distinguished scholars, diplomats, and representatives of the press, who drew near to Asquith and Colonna as the latter introduced Rome's guest. A few feet in front of me stood Sonnino, Barzilai, Daneo, Orlando, Borsarelli, General Zupelli, and behind, Senator Marconi, dressed in the uniform of a lieutenant. Asquith spoke in English, extemporaneously, slowly, and clearly. His words were followed understandingly by the audience, who punctuated special points by shouts of "bravo" and warmly applauded him at the end of his speech. After he had finished, Sonnino and he led an informal procession from room to room of the Palace, a tour, as it were, not only through the history of Italy but through that of civilization, for we passed from gallery to gallery, replete with the record of arts and deeds achieved throughout the centuries. In one of the smaller rooms a buffet was served by lackeys in Roman livery, whose powdered hair, silk hose, and long red and yellow coats, adorned with white ruffles, added color to a scene that was further enhanced by the pleasant strains of an orchestra playing behind a high bank of azaleas. As we moved on slowly and freely, Asquith stopped to inspect an early Roman tomb and, afterwards, to study carefully the "Forma Urbis," the marble plan of Rome, executed under Septimius Severus in A.D. 205. While Asquith and the other guests proceeded upstairs, I withdrew from the cortege, captivated by the sight of a painting of a Madonna and Child in an adjoining room, a chapel, I think. T h e Madonna, of a most sweet and graciously pure countenance, robed in blue, sits in front of a red drapery, with an angel on either side of her, which serves as a decorative detail, though it is out of proportion to the Madonna. T h e Babe rests on Her maidenly but

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broad lap, fitting snugly in the soft curve of the gown between Her knees. He is very little and H e is asleep, but She does not hold Him; He just rests there, safe and sound. A happy Mother and a Child safe in Her loving care. I was fascinated beyond words. When the distinguished guests were about to depart, I heard Salandra laugh heartily. He looked happy, and the exchange took a big drop today! As Asquith took his seat in the car with Lady Rodd, the English Ambassadress, the municipal band, stationed just outside the entrance, played the English anthem, and the crowd saluted while an enthusiastic Englishman waved his hat in an attempt to indicate to the musicians the proper tempo for his national hymn. T h e n the band struck up " L ' Inno Reale," and the Italian officials and European diplomats proceeded on their way. T h e group of onlookers removed their hats as Sonnino passed, but they cheered as Van den Steen of Belgium went by. APRIL 2

I took my examination at the Genio Ferroviario today for my license to drive a car. I understand I have passed, though I haven't yet heard officially. Asquith left today. A n impressive crowd assembled near the railroad station to see his departure. Across a stretch of roadway, cleared by Carabinieri and lined by soldiers, a big white shepherd dog ran to and fro, utterly bewildered by the dead line he met at either end. Standing on a knoll, whence I commanded a fine view, I heard many approving comments on Asquith: "His speech at the Campidoglio was perfect," " H e looks the lord he is," and "His style of dress is in the best of taste." A fine middle-class Italian, with a very sweet daughter hanging on his arm, surveying the vast crowd, turned to me and said, " W e still have plenty of men for the fight," and another spectator interjected, " T h e Germans are getting themselves hated more and more—now they've sunk a hospital ship." As it began to grow dark, a boys' band passed, playing "Addio, mia bella, addio," and many in the quiet and unexcited crowd who had become merged in the dim light with the gray-green mass of soldiers holding the lines took u p the refrain, humming it in a

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low tone, in the tone of the twilight, a little sadly, I thought. T h e n the lights were turned on, and a string of motors appeared, in one of which was Asquith, bareheaded, bowing to right and left. APRIL 4

I saw Count Aldrovandi at the Consulta today, courteous, and friendly as always. He called up Baldassare's assistant at the Ministry of the Interior and asked him to be sure to have my name put on the list of American correspondents going to the Italian front. APRIL 6

Mrs. Hawes, who has been in Corfu, has returned to Rome. As the Servian camp there was in shipshape order, she decided to leave with the English Commission, fearing that later she might not be able to leave. She crossed from Italy to Corfu in a torpedo boat and returned in a mine layer, the latter being extremely slow but quite safe because it was too small to have a torpedo wasted on it. Richardson tells me that an American newspaper correspondent in Rome wired for three successive days to his New York office details of the sinking of the Sussex in the English Channel, only to receive the reply, " C u t out Sussex, no interest"! APRIL 8

T o d a y unexpectedly came a permit from the Comando Supremo to visit the front. T o Florence who was ill on the day I received permission to go to the front: E'en as a tree upon the upward sward Of some great height, from whose appointed place— Held by the law of being of its race— Looks on the mountain in its high-flung guard And thinks of storms, and glories in that sky Unseen but felt; and, trusting to the wind The seeds thus charged with ventures of its mind T o bring green life to barren rocks on high: So thou, Brave Heart, today when circumstance Ties thy soul's steeds outside the wished-for meads Of glad adventure, service, knightly deeds

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Where doing counts and danger's but a chance, Thy thoughts give wings to those who in thine eyes Read this: "Go forth, and do for me likewise!" APRIL 2 0 . FLORENCE

Giovedi Santo! Holy Thursday, the "Giorno dei Sepolcri" as the Italians call it. Throngs are out in the streets, leisurely, enjoyably meandering from church to church, from sepolcro to sepolcro, quite happy, almost gay, in the sweet sight of God these dreadful days of war. At early sundown on this cold day I walked out of the gate of our little villa and went briskly up the road that leads past the Badia to the Piazza of San Domenico. T h e road is flanked on the north by the usual high Tuscan podere wall from which hang roses, in profusion at this season, and bright green ivy of new spring growth, with stray irises rising above them in graceful dignity. From a stretch along its south side, where the embankment is only just high enough to keep one from falling into the podere below, the eyes can look toward the sweet magnificence of Florence. No doubt Fra Angelico often stepped out of the convent in the Piazza above to wander upon this road, where any poet, even one not nearly as great as he, could still dream of angels, especially in the quiet, soft light of today, a sunlight almost silvery. Little groups, sociable little groups, of men and women are walking along, knowing whither they are going and what they will see, for their ancestors have trod this road and sanctified this day in the same fashion for the past thousand years. They are visiting the sepolcri in local churches, in which the Body of Christ lies surrounded by flowers and lighted tapers. This pilgrimage they make decently and not at all irreverently, and yet, somehow, festively. Their observance of the day is not pagan, because it is too simple and not beautiful enough; but it is very sweet in its simplicity and naturalness. I see in the people no sign of religious conviction and not a trace of religious awe, but an appealing "at homeness" with the Passion of Christ. They regard it, apparently, as something quite simple and understandable, and, on the whole, Poverino, quite human. But not sad, no, not sad. I should not want to be so

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cynical as to say that they look upon it as a Passion, beautiful and piteous, but foreordained, and therefore unavoidable. "He died for us. He died for us and now we are saved," they seem to say. So they proceed with their passeggiata, happy in this thought, a thought which, after all, is not a sin. Grateful, I think, they certainly are in a homely, almost festive way to Him for suffering and dying that they may live. And surely they live, surely they grasp all that life holds out to them of direct, simple pleasure. T h e voices of matrons and girls walking up the steep hill from the Via Faentina to the Badia come gladly over the quiet air this afternoon with the tone of people perfectly satisfied. The white strip of roadway that runs precipitously down the terrific dip from Via Bolognese to Via Faentina and thence up the steep grade to the Badia and San Domenico, cutting athwart fields of young green grass and fruit trees in bloom, is like a symbol of the life of the Italian humble classes, difficult and laborious, but glad and smiling. T h e Dominicans and a host of boys from the neighborhood have decked the church in the Piazza of San Domenico with all they could find of spring. Rose vines, heavy with pink and yellow and white clusters of blossoms, trail from the organ loft, almost touching the sepolcro on the pavement below, and wisteria climbs up the sides of the pulpit, wreathing it in sweet bloom. Purple veils cover the crucifixes and the pictures, for the church, during Passion Week, is clothed in sackcloth and ashes. Although these purple symbols of sadness conceal from view the only work remaining here of Fra Angelico, they fail to hide the sweet angelic hosts he painted on its frame. It is well, for Fra Angelico could not have been sombre had he tried, and this, the church of his youth, should diffuse a little of his heavenly brightness. It does! Not his vision of heaven nor his light perhaps, but, surely, something of the simplicity of his Italian outlook, of his ever-present love of golden glows, and of his spirit, which he held on high. T h e church is stirring and alive, not dark and dead. Color and life are added even by the kerchiefs that the contadine, faithful to a custom of old, throw over their heads as they enter the doorway. T h e people pass in and out, they kneel, they pray, and the priests chant the "Tenebrae," but there is sadness nowhere. Some convalescent soldiers from the hospital in the

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adjoining convent, whose wounds do not permit them to kneel, stand in front of the sepolcro, in an attitude neither devout nor yet indifferent, just glad, as it were, not to have been killed, for it is pleasant to live. Everybody else looks glad too, even those who have brothers and sons and husbands at the front, for, surely, at this Holy Season, of all times, the Lord Christ will not allow men to suffer. All those who belong to this parish gather here, then pass on and up to Fiesole, leisurely visiting churches on the way, unworried, trustful rather than convinced, accepting their religion with a large reasonableness, with a bourgeois reliance, if you will, on God's mercy and power to take care of everybody and everything, with a faith which, if it lacks fineness and spirituality, is very strong and very adaptable to real, immediate, and everyday needs, a faith that Christ died for a Purpose—a Purpose that has made your life and mine easier and less worrisome. Therefore it seems natural and not at all irreligious or out of place for everyone, as he leaves the church, to stop in the portico and buy some of those nice looking panini always sold at this season—two for one soldo and a kind word—which they eat as they walk along quietly, chatting pleasantly. After all is said, can we deny the value and helpfulness of this Tuscan outlook on life and faith? Does not it, the light, the flowers, the hills, and the felicity of line and color that exists everywhere— in things and in men—make for placidity which is the threshold of peace? Has He not said, "My peace I give unto you," and must we not be humble also in our conception of His peace and of the manner in which we are allowed to partake of it? Must we not receive it blithely and unafraid as from a loving Father? We grant that this attitude may not denote a life of the spirit in the highest sense of the word, but it does denote a very livable communion with the humbler things of the spirit, democratic, direct rather than intimate, helpful rather than finely attuned—a real communion nevertheless. Surely God, as He looks down on this road, whereon I retrace my steps, this road which Poliziano and Brunelleschi and Cosimo de' Medici trod on their way to the Badia, as He sees the glory of

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His works in the unusually sweet array with which He has decked these hills and valleys, as He observes these simple, light-hearted people in their humble homes, satisfied with so little, believing comfortably in His goodness, surely here, if nowhere else today, may He say, "All's well with the world"! APRIL 24.

UDINE

From the out-of-the-way station at Campo di Marte in Florence I boarded the train last night for Udine, headquarters of the Italian Command. On awaking this morning I found the sun shedding a warm, gentle light upon the plains of Venetia, the outer approaches of the war zone, with nothing but the presence of sentinels at bridges and crossings and the increasing number of soldiers to remind one of its proximity. In between the peaceful hamlets clustering around the tall, thin spires of country churches were fields upon fields of well-tilled lands and endless rows of pollarded trees gracefully connected by wreathed grapevines already giving promise of a good vintage. T h e sun shone on a different world as the train turned sharply away from the road leading to Venice. In the distance, out of a strange dim sea of uncertain blackness, rose a superb array of mountain peaks, some gray, others white and silver under the rays of a sun shining on the snow and ice of the upper slopes and struggling with the clouds for the mastery of the summits. These peaks are part of the Italian front which runs in a long irregular line of nearly five hundred miles. I wish the facile critics at home and the strategists who win battles by moving pins on military maps could be here, face to face with the reality of the Italian front, so that they might gauge what it means for the Allies, as well as for Italy, to have the soldiers of Victor Emmanuel keep the fighting line on these mountains. If the Teutonic enemies cannot count this richest part of Italy among the assets they will use in bargaining for peace, it is because hundreds of thousands of brave, hardy men have carried the war up their slopes. My entry into Udine was a simple affair. After my permit from the Command was stamped at the military depot, an ancient landau

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carried me to the Albergo Croce di Malta, where I was promised a room shortly, in spite of its crowded condition. Udine presents a strange scene independently of the fact that it is the seat of the Supreme Command—charming old architectural bits are imbedded in amazing new modernities. War has had its influence too, and there are structures essentially mushroom in character and ephemeral in purpose. T h e town is very busy, as busy as if it were in the midst of a festa, and soldiers are everywhere, spending their little all on this or that trinket. All the articles on sale bear testimony to the fact that men can be soldiers and children at the same time. There is everything to fit out a man for war and everything to please the child in him: views, postcards, souvenirs, jewelry, jokes, and candies. The soldiers, who look fit and ready for any emergency, seem neither impressed nor depressed by the thought of impending drama. Although there is a certain sense of tenseness in the atmosphere, a feeling of something important going on not very far away, cheerfulness is so much the keynote of the scene that one wonders if it may not be the index of a certain nervous excitement. T h e city is heavily patrolled by Carabinieri who look very fetching in their war uniforms as they stand at the corners of porticoed streets, watchful and serious, their short muskets slung over their shoulders. Officers and soldiers come and go in plain service clothes, the officers wearing their insignia of rank on the inside of their sleeves near the wrist, or at an angle on their hats. As I went from office to office of the various sections of the Comando Supremo, all of which are quite near the Public Gardens, a captain of Carabinieri, to whom I spoke, smilingly asked me if my presence meant that Wilson was going to do something! I ended my visits at the splendid suite of rooms arranged for press correspondents on Via Manin. Captain Weillschott, a frank and courteous cavalry officer, second in command of the Press Department, talked with me for over an hour and then escorted me to the office of his chief, Colonel Vacchelli, a fine and reliable-looking man, who showed great interest in my plans and urged me to outline my work and state my wishes.

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T h e offices of the Comando Supremo are scrupulously clean and orderly, very much like those in any large office building, except that they are manned by officers instead of officials, by soldiers instead of clerks, all of whom seem more polite, more on the qui vive, more alert and willing than in civilian life, conscious as they are, like everybody else in Udine, that here is life, the life of Italy at war. This feeling pervades the whole town and lends to it a distinctive character of active participation in the war such as I have not been aware of in any other city. Venice, beautiful, delicate, graceful Venice, is defensive only in spirit, because of its fragility; it does not wish to fight, though it is ready to die heroically. After a comfortable supper at this strange but genial albergo I took a walk through the darkened streets of the town. T h e contrast between them and those of Venice constitutes a useful lesson in aesthetics, demonstrating the fact that dimness or darkness is not in itself lovely, even though it may add the fascination of mystery to a city at war. T h e beauty of darkened Venice is in great part the beauty of lighted Venice, an actual beauty of line and a loveliness of proportion, which manifests itself even in the darkness—manifests itself dimly, chastenedly, and sweetly. Returning to the hotel, I set my room in order, the stanza matrimoniale of an Italian albergo, substantially furnished with a great double bed, a green-covered lounge, and a writing table. APRIL

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T h e chattering in the streets awakened me. Opening the blinds, I saw in the narrow street below the andirivieni of women going to market and men to work. T h e house opposite is the home of poor people, but some potted geraniums on its window sills lend it a certain plain delight. At 10:45 siren rang, announcing the approach of enemy airplanes. T h e church bells followed suit, shutters closed, and people walked very leisurely under cover of the ubiquitous porticoes which afford both shelter and prospect. Italian airplanes, spreading in different directions, started out to look for the Austrian machines. They were evidently beyond the range of the local batteries, for these did not fire a shot. I heard faintly the sound of firing at a distance. Carabinieri patrolled the streets care-

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fully, ordering the people under cover. A captain accosted me and threatened to add my name to the list of persons in contraxwenzione for being out in the open. I saw no evidence of either fright or anxiety. Above the narrow, tortuous streets of the city a group of soldiers in a tower on a hill stood out against a patch of blue sky, scanning the horizon like sailors in the crow's-nest of a ship. Within fifteen minutes the bells rang to announce the end of the raid, and life resumed its natural course. After a walk I registered at the Questura, where I was received very courteously, and then went to the Ufficio Stampa. T h e colonel in charge, a gracious and delightful man, chatted with me for half an hour and read me some telegrams as they came in, including one about the attempted German landing in Ireland. At luncheon I noticed an officer sitting alone. Still and pale, resting his bandaged head on his hand, he was a sorrowful figure, piteous in the loneliness caused by physical pain. From his emaciated wrist, bordered by a very worn sleeve, hung a thin golden chain, bespeaking the gift of a fair lady and his pride and resolve on receiving it. I started at 2 P.M. with Captain Weillschott on my baptismal visit to the retrovie, the rear lines of the Italian front. T h e scene 011 the way to Palmanova was lovely from a natural point of view, and it became more and more stirring as we were drawn deeper and deeper into the meshes of the great war organization. All about us lay broad, level fields, and vineyards in an excellent state of cultivation, and, far away, to the east and southeast, rose some of those exquisitely tinted and lovely snow-topped mountains that make up the most beautiful fighting front in Europe. Against the background of these mountains, some observation balloons on motionless guard looked like great hawks with wings aslant, watchfully waiting for a chance to dart down upon some mighty prey. As we proceeded, the number of soldiers and the general vigilance increased until, at length, soldiers outnumbered civilians, and military exigencies supplanted the regular functioning of the machinery of peace. This change, however, was so gradual as to appear like many changes in the natural order of life, such as the successive alterations of traffic rules in the approach to great cities. I do not

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know anything about the organization of other armies, but what I see here impresses me as bearing the stamp of the fundamental quality of the Italian character, a large reasonablenesss manifesting itself in a discipline and an efficiency built on a very human basis. It strikes me more and more as a living organism rather than an efficient mechanism. As we drew near the old walled town of Palmanova, a frontier fort in the form of a star built by the Venetians in 1593, we passed the first barracks, not unlike those of a modern labor camp. In the old moat of the town, which follows the course of the walls, were stacks of wood, at least forty feet high and many feet broad and long, and piles of long thin metal bars, bricks, and cement slabs. A newly painted sign-post on a crossroad beyond Palmanova pointed " A Trieste," like a resolve and a symbol. It reminded me of the answer the proprietor of my inn gave yesterday to a curious guest asking whether the timetable on a wall, listing "Departures for Trieste," was an old schedule: "No, Signore," he said perfectly seriously, "it is the present one; we go as far as we can—the road is always the same." Military and Red Cross motors constantly passed us, and time and again a Bersagliere or a Granatiere with a musket slung across his back whizzed by us on his wheel, and at every culvert and crossroad stood a guard. On our way back, we stopped at Percotto to see General Pennella, Commander of the brigade of the Granatieri di Sardegna, for whom I had a letter of introduction from Captain Casardi. In the entrance hall of the modern cement villino he occupies was an amusing portrait of a lady of fashion of about 1800, I should think, in a very smart gown, a very proper person indeed. What must she think of all these tall Grenadier boys and their formality so very different from that of her more graceful days? General Pennella is a southerner with delicately shaped, strong hands, piercing black eyes, and a southern pallor of complexion, which adds a certain severity to a countenance indicative of great kindliness

A t Mestre, where we expected to dine, we had a long wait because the restaurant in the station was closed on account of Cadoma's presence. Finally, however, we procured something to eat, and Palazzoli invested in a basket luncheon, a luxurious little affair with a tiny knife and fork, for his orderly, Torna. It did not, however, stay the boy's appetite forever, and I recollect seeing him fall, like a famished dog, on a crate of hardtack at the Brizio Pass. Torna, who proved most helpful on our strenuous expedition, is a tall, lithe, fine-featured soldier, as agile as he is enduring. He calls Palazzoli "Paron," and follows him about like a big Newfoundland dog, though Palazzoli leads the boy, fond of him as he is, a hard life. While waiting in the station at Mestre, Palazzoli told us some tales of his Alpine campaigns. One night, during a nine-hour march up a steep and snowy height on Pal Grande in Carnia, he noticed a man refusing apparently to obey the order to advance; he struck him to enforce his command and found that he was dead! Several soldiers died, and a large percentage of the regimental officers collapsed on this expedition. U p on the great snow heights, Palazzoli told us, the men's skin becomes blackened from exposure—an experience I myself went through during our short stay on the Adamello. After a sleepless, endless night in a crowded train, we arrived at Brescia at the unearthly hour of 4 A.M. and went to a cafe to kill time. Finally we boarded a train on the narrow single-track road to Edolo and stretched ourselves out in a compartment to sleep. It was Sunday, and, after resting, I enjoyed watching from the window the day's quiet festivities on the shore of the Lago d'Iseo and in Val Camonica. I saw no signs of war except a trainload of A l p i n i — and they were singing! At Edolo we saw some recently captured Austrian prisoners eating their raticio with great relish. Edolo is a pleasant, clean, busy town, with some quaint buildings and a fountain capped by a stricken stag on its irregularly shaped piazza. After paying our respects to General Cavaciocchi, a quiet type of soldier in command of Val Camonica, we lunched at the Hotel Derna and then boarded a huge 50 H.P. Fiat camion for the trip to Vezza d' Oglio. It took the grades of the splendid road built in tourniquets by Italian military

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e n g i n e e r s as smoothly and easily as a roadster. T h e road,

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b y w o o d e d slopes a n d b a c k e d by snow-topped mountains, was lovely. O n t o p of the substantial c e m e n t trenches r u n n i n g t h r o u g h the valley g r e w a p r o f u s i o n of dainty w i l d flowers, i n c l u d i n g forgetme-nots and d e l i g h t f u l y e l l o w pansies. A t Vezza d' O g l i o w e w e r e i n t r o d u c e d to C o l o n e l C a r l o G i o r d a n a , C o m m a n d e r of the F o u r t h A l p i i i i , a Piedmontese snow-bronzed m o u n t a i n e e r , a m a n of few words, strenuous, insistent, and impatient w i t h half measures, somewhat hard and b r u s q u e for an Italian, b u t t h o r o u g h l y c o n v i n c i n g . In s h o w i n g us, o n the m a p of the A d a m e l l o region, the progress of the c a m p a i g n and his plans for the f u t u r e , the assurance w i t h w h i c h he spoke of the objectives he i n t e n d e d to reach w o u l d have s o u n d e d perhaps like boastfulness in any o t h e r m a n , b u t , in h i m , it only bespoke the certainty of their a t t a i n m e n t . H e is a military m a n , n o t at all sentimental a b o u t his m e n , b u t k i n d to t h e m , I understand, in m a n y ways, always standi n g b y t h e m to the last ditch if they are u n f a i r l y treated. C o l o n e l G i o r d a n a was m u c h concerned a b o u t o u r comfort. A s a j u d g e of m e n h e saw, n o d o u b t , that unless he r e d u c e d the strain of our j o u r n e y to a m i n i m u m , A l p i n e fighting in high altitudes w o u l d not b e c o m e a newspaper feature. L e a v i n g the C o l o n e l to f o l l o w us, w e started in a c a m i o n for T e m u , a little h a m l e t facing a great defile in the g r o u p of mountains that f o r m the A d a m e l l o massif. A t o n e end of T e m u lies the village cemetery; it has recently b e e n e n l a r g e d to receive the bodies of soldiers b r o u g h t d o w n o n sleds f r o m the glacier battlefields, for the Italians take great pains to b u r y their d e a d c a r e f u l l y , even w h e n they have to carry t h e m l o n g distances. T h e r e are a b o u t 2,000 mules in T e m ü , w h i c h is the b o u n d a r y line b e t w e e n m o d e r n , mechanical traction and the slow, p r i m i t i v e , b u t u n f a i l i n g methods of pack m u l e and h u m a n brawn. M o u n t e d bare back o n some splendid l o o k i n g animals, each led by a soldier, and f o l l o w e d b y a pack a n i m a l loaded w i t h o u r rucksacks, w e h e a d e d for the R i f u g i o G a r i b a l d i , the Italian A l p i n e C l u b ' s f a m o u s m o u n t a i n shelter. A s w e w o u n d u p a road r u n n i n g t h r o u g h the green pastures of a pleasant valley, past q u a i n t barns a n d occasional wayside cruci-

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fixes simply and effectively carved, Ambrosini stopped to greet a young lieutenant he recognized in a group of men coming down from the mountains. T h e recognition was mutual, though it lasted on the young man's part but a moment. Temporarily deranged by exposure and hardship, he talked wildly of the cold on the mountains until his companions led him gently away. In about two hours we reached the first teleferica, a device used by the Italians in their mountain warfare, consisting of two sets of steel cables stretching from a base in a valley to a post on a mountain or across a gorge, with the terminus generally at a much higher altitude than the point of departure. Over these steel trolleys run two counterbalancing iron baskets, each large enough to hold a couple of men lying flat on its bottom. Once accustomed to this heroic method of travel, one may enjoymountain scenery at its best, flying over superbly inaccessible spaces like a hawk on the wing. I stood my first ride very well, reclining at one end of the basket or cage, with Lieutenant Palazzoli at the other. A dizzy ride of ten minutes jacked us up some fifteen hundred feet, whence we walked along a path hewn out of a sheer mountain slope, to the second teleferica. This hoisted us up an additional two thousand feet to the third, which we found temporarily out of order; so here we confronted our first real Alpine work. It was twilight. Around us rose peak upon peak, whose snowy tops piercing crowns of soft clouds were delicately tinted by the fading rays of the sun, and out of the thick mist below sprang mountain tops like the grim heads of giants chained to invisible rocks. Ascending with short even step the path that winds and winds in its skyward course was an endless line of soldiers laden with muskets and supplies, and descending were lines of stretcher bearers, carrying the wounded and sick or dragging sleds upon which lay men in the delirium of fever or figures, strangely still, wrapped in great blankets, bound perhaps for the little field of soldiers' crosses at Temu. T h e approach of darkness and the great silence enveloping the scene added a mystic touch to the phantasmal spectacle of this slender moving line of men who anchor the encampments on peaks and glacier to their base, twelve thousand feet down and two days' journey away.

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After a climb of two hours, we reached the Rifugio Garibaldi, at an altitude of 8,258 feet. Around it is set up a little encampment of officers' shacks, barracks built in the shape of half an egg cut lengthwise to shed the snow, and heaps of supplies, covered and uncovered. It is a scene of buzzing activity, for it is the nearest organized post to the fighting lines on the Adamello. T h e officers greeted us warmly and invited us to share their mess in the kitchen of the Rifugio, but Colonel Giordana arrived shortly and asked us to dine with him in his shanty. After a very good meal by candlelight we were assigned to our sleeping quarters, Lapido and I to a room filled with Milanese gifts for the Alpini, knitted helmets, stockings, fur coats, and a quantity of blankets under the protection of which we warmly and peacefully reposed. By six the next morning I had said good-bye to a large Newfoundland pup that had fondly attached himself to me, and was off on the most difficult part of the trip. It was snowing hard! Dressed in a fur coat, white mittens, and black goggles, but stripped of everything possible in the way of luggage, I made my way through the storm with an alpenstock and Tomä's invaluable help. T h e night before, the Colonel had given orders for a corvee to meet us at the Passo di Brizio, with coffee and provisions. T h e Colonel insists he can furnish supplies to any number of mountain posts, even though a snowstorm or a glacier confronts him, provided he has enough men. He has it all carefully and mathematically worked out, as we could see with our own eyes when we joined that interminable line once more; that line, heroically patient and epically enduring, that daily carries supplies up mountain peaks and across the trail on the glacier, which only within the past few days has been freed from the menace of Austrian guns—that line that must neither break nor linger, for, hard as is the task of these men, there are men beyond the glacier whose tasks are harder. It must not break because it is the line upon which battalions and battalions of men depend. T h e y must be fed, sheltered, and kept up to fighting scratch; they must be housed, rested, medically cared for, and munitioned. Guns must be mounted on dominating heights and kept in readiness, and all parts of this icebound region must be held in constant and living connection by telephones and signaling devices. Every smallest item,

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every wheel and pulley of the huge but precarious mechanism erected on it must be carried by hand up precipitous paths, over snow-drifted passes, and across the desert wastes of the glacier. We met squads of Territorials shoveling snow and debris of avalanches off the path and corvees of soldiers, from ten to one hundred men, carrying shells roped 011 their shoulders, cases of ammunition, or gun parts; boards, windows, doors, casks of nails, or rolls of roofing; bags of bread, condensed milk, chocolate, small kegs of wine, alcohol for cooking, boots, blankets—even smoked glasses! T h e storm made the climb very laborious, but the Colonel led us—upward and on! Perhaps it was well that it hid from our view the precipice at the edge of the trail running part of the way along an indentation between two heights, on one of which the Italians have mounted a " 1 4 9 " gun, the highest piece of artillery in the world. We were very tired when we arrived at the pass, but could not rest in the refuge there because a surgeon was using it to examine sick Alpini. So, we sat for a while on some boards, under the shelter of a wide, conical-shaped tent fastened to the ice, with a number of picturesque-looking men awaiting their turn for medical inspection. Their faces, unshaven, bronzed black by the tormenta, were almost distorted from exposure, but their eyes, clear and gentle, grew keen and interested when they heard we were newspaper men come to write of their deeds. They all asked when the war would end. An oldish man uttered the only complaint, if complaint it can be called, that I heard on our long trip, "Fortunate they who died early in the war—they did not have to bear our hardships." Hospitably welcomed at length into the doctor's busy shack, we gathered up our strength, with the aid of hot coffee, for the stretch still ahead of us. A sense of sinful pride cheered us too and gave us a second wind, for now with every step forward we should be leaving the American journalists' record a pace behind, and our arrival at Lobbia Bassa would put a mighty glacier between the new and the old record and raise the correspondents' notch for perpendicular forwardness from 10,227 f e e t t o about 12,000 feet in a country where every foot counts and at a season still considered winter. Off again!—down some precipitous rocks on the farther side of

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the pass and on to the glacier! We were ordered to walk close together because the snow was covering the path and even the sticks marking it could scarcely be seen through the haze of that terrible storm, the Alpine tormenta, which cut our faces like handfuls of broken glass as we painfully pushed our way forward. The guide took a wrong turn, but, even in the midst of that impenetrable wilderness, the Colonel immediately discovered the error. At first nothing was visible, and all was silent on the vast ocean about us, an ocean without ebb or roar, but, before long, there appeared again out of the mist that slender but interminable line of men, that fantastic but incredibly stout life line, which day after day is thrown from the valleys below over huge mountain tops to the handful of brave men carving out great deeds toward whom we were heading. T h e Colonel seemed to know just when and where we should encounter this or that corvee, for the ascending and descending file of men keeps its daily schedule with almost clocklike precision. Despite the impenetrable white curtain about us, he knew just under what post or vedetta we were passing and the exact location of every telephone wire. As a mariner steers his ship on the trackless sea, so does this officer lead battalions of men on altitudes where vegetation ceases and even stout-winged birds dare not come. Suddenly we saw, through the haze and mist of the storm, close ahead of us, a group of skiatori darting noiselessly and phantasmally down a white mountain slope to meet an ascending corvee, due at this hour with newspapers and mail as well as the more substantial necessities of life. Pulcinelli they are called because of the white rubber blouses and baggy trousers they wear. Stranger than these was a single skiatore whom we could see, though he could not see us. He was trying to find his way, through the mist, up a slope of pathless whiteness. As I gazed at his lonely figure in the silence of those great spaces, I felt as if I were looking through a veil at a stirring spiritual drama, a veil sacredly guarding the final, most intimate vision. Farther along the trail the mist lifted, and we saw a line of men rounding a height above us, disappearing into some unknown corner of the world, on their way u p perhaps to that high peak from

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which an Italian gun projects shells a distance of nine kilometers into the Val di Genova. At the end of two hours, as we were drawing near to the encampment of Lobbia Bassa, the storm suddenly ceased, disclosing a scene of sublime beauty. All about us lay an undulating sea of long white billows, billows not breaking noisily like those of a restless ocean, but reposing silently against one another—a sea encircled by huge peaks robed in the ermine of the recent fall of snow. T h e sublime character of the picture came from its wondrous blending of strength and softness: masses of granite embedded in drifts of snow, inaccessible summits resting olympically against a heavenly blue, ice undissolved through the ages tinted by a touch of sun into the pink of rose petals. The officers at Lobbia Bassa, which was wrested from the Austrians only a short time ago, greeted us warmly. They are using an Austrian shanty as a mess room, and shacks erected during the last few days as sleeping quarters. Until better shelter can be provided, the soldiers are sleeping in wells gouged out of the glacier and covered with tarpaulin held in place by stacked muskets, or in dugouts hollowed out of the side of the glacier and protected by canvas curtains. After our party had been fitted out with enormous fur-lined "sentinel boots," Colonel Giordana insisted on my resting awhile in his cabin which had been warmed up by a powerful little stove. Later I joined my companions in the infirmary, a dugout roofed by a double tent top, with walls and floor of ice sheathed in matting, where, by the light of candles stuck in tin cans, they were scribbling notes of the campaign on the Adamello. At the beginning of the war, this section of mountainous country near the boundary line, little fitted for a battleground, was militarily almost a No Man's Land, though it was a favorite resort of Alpine climbers from the provinces of Brescia and Bergamo. Last winter these mountaineers patriotically organized the Compagnia Autonoma del Rifugio Garibaldi with the purpose of perfecting themselves in skiing and becoming thoroughly acquainted with the glaciers, peaks, and passes of this Alpine country. On March 21st, one hundred and fifty Alpini, many of whom

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belonged to this group, set out from their base at the R i f u g i o Garibaldi (8,258 feet), at 3 A.M. of a beautiful starry night, skied over the pathless snow to the Passo di Brizio, crossed the glacier without incident, a n d took a good look into the Austrian Val di Genova. Seeing n o signs of the enemy, they returned to the R i f u g i o Garibaldi a b o u t 5 P.M. of the same day. In the evening scouts reported that the Austrians had established posts along the boundary line on the edge of the glacier immediately after the departure of the Italians. T h e commander of the A l p i n i decided to attack as soon as he c o u l d place mountain guns on certain d o m i n a n t heights. By the aid of the sheer brawn and muscle of three hundred men he accomplished this feat without loss or injury of any kind. O n the e v e n i n g of A p r i l n t h three detachments of skiatori, dressed in white and e q u i p p e d with white-covered muskets and machine guns, started for the Brizio Pass. Overtaken by a terrible tormenta, they lost their way, and wandered about d u r i n g the night, unaware of the location of one another, for no signaling or whistling was allowed. A passing moment of light at daybreak enabled them to meet and re-form. Shortly afterwards the storm ceased, the sun shone brightly, and they saw the Austrians entrenched on a string of snowy m o u n t a i n slopes about two kilometers away. L i n i n g u p in f o u r columns spread in the shape of a fan toward the four heights held by the enemy, they made a quick dash, fired a volley, and sprinted upward. T h i s manoeuvre they repeated again and again, so quickly that, despite the machine gun fire directed against them, they succeeded in reaching and completely disorganizing the enemy. T h e Austrians surrendered, and the battle resulted in the occupation of all the heights on the edge of the glacier, the capture of fifty prisoners, two machine guns, one hundred rifles, and a large amount of a m m u n i t i o n and supplies. Incidentally I may say that at the present time one battalion of A l p i n i has eight machine guns captured f r o m the enemy, which are being put to excellent use against the former owners. O n r e t u r n i n g to the mess room, I found C o l o n e l G i o r d a n a readi n g by lamplight. A f t e r hearing that all the telephone wires w e r e in w o r k i n g order, he called up every station, picket post, and artillery battery, far and near, to inquire if food had arrived. Despite

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the storm, supplies had reached every point. T h e telephone was in charge of a young Alpino, an Americano from Wyoming, who exclaimed, "Gee!" in unmistakable American style every time an electric shock came over the storm-charged wires. T h e Colonel often answered it himself, telephoning orders on every conceivable subject as if he found it as easy to carry out his plans on a glacier as in a big city. T h e acceptance of the situation as normal gives to this Alpine command its fine character. T o every request, the Colonel had an instant, comprehensive, and unappealable reply. He required no explanation, he understood what was needed, and just how much officers and men could endure at this altitude. On receiving a report of an increase in the number of men suffering from frozen feet, he issued an order for the men in the trenches to grease their feet twice a day, and announced his intention of holding the officers personally responsible for cases of freezing. T h e Colonel looked black when an officer appeared, saluted, and informed him that two Territorials laden with rhum for the encampment had considerably lightened their burden by consuming some of it on the way up; one, indeed, had become so hopelessly intoxicated that it had been necessary to transport him the last lap of the way on a sled. After inflicting a punishment on these men respectively of fifteen and thirty days of camp jail, with two hours in chains in the snow every day, "fair or foul," he explained to me that it was necessary to make an example of these men, for a drunken man is sure to lose his way or die on the glacier. Meanwhile the cook, a tall corporal, and his assistant, were preparing dinner with the help of two alcohol stoves upon which they first melted kettlesful of snow to provide the water they needed. An excellent dinner it proved to be: antipasto, a splendid soup, boiled meat, good army bread, cheese, sparkling wine, coffee, nuts, oranges, and bars of Cailler nut chocolate, as a special treat. Afterwards, while we sat discussing politics and war with the well-known Socialist deputy, Leonida Bissolati, sixty years of age, who is serving as a sergeant of Alpini, a young and inexperienced sublieutenant came into the shack, saluted Colonel Giordana and asked whether a company of Alpini he had brought up to Lobbia Bassa could rest, for they were so tired that some had even swooned

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on the trail. The Colonel waxed wrathful and asked him in fine scorn if his men were Pappini or Alpini and ordered him to proceed at once to the trenches, where they were needed. As the young Alpino officer, embarrassed and humiliated, saluted and retired, Sergeant Bissolati rose, stood at attention, and saluted his youthful superior who had been so severely rebuked. It was an impressive little incident, for the gesture of this famous and elderly man seemed more like a proffer of sympathy to a lad young enough to be his son than an act of official etiquette. A quarter moon and stars were shining as I went to bed, turning the vast white expanse into a land of silver enchantment. The silver light had the sharp glint of steel, though it was as soft as a vapor. The sight of the moon and stars, which I recognized as belonging to the plains and valleys of life, gave me a sense of being anchored to the old earth and the old life even in this strange, rich, and phantasmal environment. I slept in a shack with a captain, my fur sleeping bag covered with three blankets and a fur overcoatl Foolishly I took off my boots. An orderly who came very early in the morning to light a small stove found them frozen. He took them away to grease and came back with them shortly, bringing me a cup of hot coffee. Meanwhile the pail of snow he had put on the stove had melted, but my peeling face was too sore to wash. T h e Colonel advised us to climb to Lobbia Alta, and see the view from the observatory there. To reach it without being exposed to the enemy's fire, we had to scale three thousand feet of almost sheer, snow-covered rock. On top of the frozen canvas roofs of the picket dugouts we walked to the observation post, built of snow in the form of a pulpit, and looked out upon a magnificent scene on which the sun shone brightly. T o our left were the glacier and the Passo di Brizio; below, the Austrian Val di Genova with the enemy's trail emerging out of some evergreens, the only plant life in sight; in the distance, Lares, Monte Fumo, Fargorida, and other peaks recently won by the Italians, and farther away, in a sea of clouds, the Bergamasque Alps. A battery on one of the Austrian summits was shelling an advance gun post of the Italians, and the solemn reverberating bolts of Italian artillery came from a peak above the Passo di Brizio. The Italian guns, mounted on dominat-

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ing heights, were very active, and the reply of the Austrian guns sounded faint in the great spaces about us. On our way back to Lobbia Bassa, we passed a detachment of Alpini ranged in double file against a snow bank. Some were being counted and equipped to go to the firing line, and others were singing the "Hymn of the Skiatori": Allora squilla il nostro riso Come squilla una fanfara. We had an excellent luncheon with the Colonel at Lobbia Bassa, a vegetable soup, tongue, scrambled eggs, fruit and wine, after which we bade him and his staff good-bye. Under a sunny sky we crossed the silent expanse of the white glacier, with the Passo di Brizio mounting smoothly in the background. Far ahead of us was the ever-moving line of soldiers who looked no bigger than dots. On reaching the Rifugio Garibaldi, we found Colonel Giordana's shanty, in which we had left some of our belongings, locked and the sergeant in charge of it away. We were all tired, tense, and irritable, and I thought there would be a battle when the captain of the day practically ordered Palazzoli under arrest for breaking into it without permission. Finally our differences were adjusted, and we started off. My heart sank when we arrived at the first teleferica and found it still out of repair, for I was now not only carrying a full rucksack, but I had no alpenstock, and my spiked boots were worn smooth. With the help, however, of Torna and an Alpino making the descent in chamoislike fashion, I reached the intermediate teleferica safely. By this and the third teleferica we were swung down to the terminus, where some mules awaited us. T h e sight of the green pastures was very restful, and I enjoyed the ride down the lovely valley of the Oglio, past mountain cataracts, lakes, shrines, wooden houses, and an infinite quantity of wild flowers, pink, blue, and yellow. At Temu, where Colonel S met us with a limousine, the reaction set in, and we acted like lunatics, laughing and singing. We consumed, like famished dogs, the Colonel's great spread at Vezza d' Oglio, which was cooked and served by an Alpino and, on

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learning afterwards at the hotel that separate rooms and real beds had been reserved for us, we showed our pleasure so wildly that the proprietress made a hasty retreat, thinking she had on her hands a houseful of madmen. T h e next morning, after a long sleep, I looked out of my window on a superb g r o u p of magnificent snowy peaks framed by a semicircle of beautiful green hills. Below were trenches and wire entanglements, with forget-me-nots and wild flowers of all kinds runn i n g u p to the cannon's mouth. T o r n a came in for instructions and I sent him to wire Florence that I was safe and sound. W e had an excellent lunch with the Colonel and a lieutenant surgeon, a Sicilian, w h o was going u p to Lobbia, though he has never climbed a hill. T h e Colonel told us that the Swiss border is carefully guarded and that the Italian military code is changed every week. A f t e r luncheon Palazzoli presented me to Cavaliere Martino, Sindaco of Vezza d' Oglio. H e showed me the spot where the Garibaldians in 1866 tried to make a stand against the Austrians w h o held all the heights. T h e y were obliged to retreat, after their commander, M a j o r Castellini, was wounded. T h e Austrians, however, frightened by a rumor that Garibaldi himself was coming, withdrew later. T h e Sindaco says that all of the Italians who emigrate from this section to Australia or America invariably return and settle down, even after an absence of twenty years. A camion took us from Vezza d' O g l i o to Edolo, where we made a stop at the A l b e r g o Derna and played boccie while Palazzoli induced the officer in command, by telling him what journalistic heroes we were, to let the camion take us all the way to Brescia. O n that heavenly ride of one hundred kilometers we passed many interesting villages and numberless painted crucifixes a n d wayside shrines, one of which was embowered in a great rosebush. W e were all q u i t e wild, enjoying the flowers, the trees, and the fresh country girls w h o waved at us. A t Lago d' Iseo, Cantalupo and Ambrosini invited Palazzoli, L a p i d o , and me to dine on the terrace of the Leon d' Oro, overlook-

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i n g the lake. T h e townspeople came to look at us, the girls waved, and the children cheered, for our fame had spread. D u r i n g d i n n e r w e had a long discussion which brought out a singular fondness for G e r m a n y and some surprising points of view. MAY 1 1

A f t e r a dreary, tiresome railroad trip we are back in U d i n e . MAY

13

Yesterday twenty-four of us correspondents gave a farewell banquet at the quaint Terrazza to Colonel Vacchelli, head of the Press Bureau, w h o has been assigned to a post in R o m e . O u r guests included his successor, Colonel Barbarich, a Slav-Italian, a quiet, polite man, very Slav in appearance, an authority on the Balkans, Colonel Clericetti, and Captain Weillschott. It was a simple, friendly gathering around a big square table amply decorated with flowers. A m o n g those present were curly-haired Fraccaroli of the Corriere della Sera; De Benedetti, caricaturist of the Giornale d' Italia; poetic looking Ratti of the Idea Nazionale; G i n o Piva, fat and hearty; Alessi of the Secolo; Ambrosini of the Stampa; C a n t a l u p o of the Mattino; Miceli of the Prensa; Lapido; Miss Baskerville of the N e w York World; and others I did not know. A t the spumante Vacchelli, so moved that his hand shook and he spilled his wine, made a sweet little speech in praise of the press. T h e n Piva spoke, stressing the duty of the press to stir u p sentiment, and Miceli followed w i t h quite a formal address, after which someone shouted, " E il formaggio?" T h i s informal demand for cheese promptly e n d e d the formalities, and Ave sat talking until a surprise visit f r o m His Excellency Celesia, Salandra's associate, his staff, and C o m m e n d a t o r e D' A d a m o called for a speech. A f t e r that we chatted awhile and then broke up. MAY 14

T o d a y the C o m m a n d invited a n u m b e r of correspondents to visit the large aviation camps at Pordenone and A v i a n o . A t Pordenone the little defensive Nieuports lying playfully on the ground, the Italian Farmans b e i n g assembled in a b i g shed, the

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gay, tricolored monoplanes and biplanes tucked away in shops and sheds, and an 80 H.P. Caudron looping the loop made me wonder whether by chance I had not dropped into a shop of toys for giants; an impression intensified by the festive air of the vast aviation field, with its tents, its rows of camions, and little houses built with the lumber of crates and boxes in which aircraft had been shipped. We visited the repair shops, the motorcycle sheds, the storerooms, and a huge warehouse filled with camion shoes. Some of the Michelins have done a year's service. At a distance from the camp are two buildings, one for storing gasoline, the other, bombs—bombs of every kind, signaling, destructive, and incendiary; also flechettes and steel cuirasses which the aviators occasionally wear. Before leaving Pordenone we met Captain Salomone, the hero of the raid on Lubiana. He was as white as a sheet and thin as a rail, sick from his wound and the shock of piloting back to Italy his plane freighted with two dead comrades. H e was a peaceful, bureaucratic officeholder before the war, I understand. T h e splendid green flying field at Aviano—a fateful name for a place destined to become a great aviation school and c a m p — flanked by huge hangars and groups of red-roofed officers' houses clustering around little gardens looks like a picture of Spotless T o w n , to which the Pre-Alps of Carnia have been added as a background. T h e r e are six squadriglie of Caproni here: powerful, offensive machines perfected by an irredento, whose name they bear. T h e y are twenty-five metres long, can carry a total weight of 1,000 chili, accommodate eight persons, and stay in the air seven hours. T h e i r equipment consists of three motors of 100 H . P . each; two machine guns, one in front of the cage and one behind which can be hoisted upon a sort of turret; and bombs attached to the under part of the machine, which are released by a clutch in the hands of the observer. On each of the machines is a targa of silver inscribed with the name of the town or colony that raised the funds to build it. One of them, injured yesterday in a gallant figSit, was having its honorable wounds patched. T h e day grew cold and misty, and we made a quick run to Udine.

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MAY 15 W h i l e Miss Baskerville, Lapido, and I were d i n i n g at the T e r razza this evening, Miceli and Ratti joined us. Ratti, a strange, pale, melancholy creature, is a Nationalist, very critical of the leaders of the Italian campaign w h i c h he thinks o u g h t to have been initiated on the other side of the Adriatic, to h e l p Servia and Montenegro. H e admits, though, that the capture of T r i e s t e w o u l d have been useless unless the altipiano in its rear could have been taken; for, without it, T r i e s t e cannot be held. H e was especially bitter a b o u t the weakness shown by Salandra in his dealings with Giolitti. Miceli thinks the latter ought to be interned in a fortress, subjected to a slow trial for treason, and finally amnestied! may 16 A t 4 a.m. the siren w o k e me. Its horrid, weird screech broke in upon my restful sleep like a nasty cruel reality, a c u t t i n g experience of life h e w i n g its way into the quiet of a dream. Its call was rendered more desperate than usual by the delay of the church bells to follow suit, because of the early h o u r probably. In the sound of these, even w h e n they signal danger, there is something both stirring and homelike, a summons to every man to gather around the hearth of the patria, but in the screech of the siren there is only the suggestion of modern, mechanical devices that rend man instead of fighting him. I dressed and went out. In between the heavy fire of the guns I heard someone shouting that there were a great many Austrian planes. I myself saw three flying very high in different directions. T h e people were interested b u t calm. A very pretty contessina w h o m I had seen last night surrounded by gay cavalry officers in the d i n i n g room of the hotel, appeared 011 the street, arrayed in a blue diaphanous dressing gown, with her red, curly hair spread like a lion's mane over her shoulders. She was not frightened, b u t at the smashing sound of falling bombs, she and most of the other guests of the hotel retired to the wine cellar, where they held a party. A young officer w h o followed them called the rest of us "fools" for remaining outside, not k n o w i n g perhaps that he was including in his remarks the H o n o r a b l e Giovanni Celesia, Under-

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Secretary of State for the Interior, who certainly did not look like an Excellency. How could he in a cut-away coat and no collar? T h e Italian machines rose quickly enough, but they remained until nearly the end of the fight below the attackers. An officer standing near me said he thought the aerial defense at Milan, where the Italian airmen generally encircle the enemy planes, was better handled than here. I could hear the machine guns in a Caproni close above my head firing constantly. T h e sound of bombs exploding was so sharp that I think some must have dropped quite near the hotel. Off to the east rose a big volume of smoke. There is a rumor that a bomb dropped near the railroad station, but there is no doubt of the bomb, aimed probably at an artillery barrack outside of Porta Venezia, that struck the ground within a few feet of the "Casa di Cura" in which the English Military Mission is housed. A missile from it tore through the door of a barroom next to the Mission, flew across the room, smashed the frame of a window, twisted the iron grating outside of it, and whizzed into a chestnut tree. T h e Mission itself is riddled with holes. Not a piece of glass as big as six inches is left in any of the window frames, and the temporary wooden divisions set up in it recently were knocked down by the shock of the explosion. On the faςade are spatterings of blood and shreds of human flesh—a finger and a hand—a child's hand! While I was asking myself whether anyone—anyone—could possibly believe that peace could be brought about by such an attack as this, an old man standing near me gave the conclusive answer, " I am going to enlist and help put an end to this madness." Reports of the number of persons killed in the raid vary from five to seven. A request to the newspaper men not to mention the raid did not mean surely that they should not speak of it to one another. They kept so "mum," however, that Miceli, when we took him to see the evidences of it, acted as if he were inspecting something in the nature of a museum rather than the havoc made by an Austrian bomb. Their strict adherence to the letter of an order—la consegna—is a trifle foolish. T h e day beginning with the screech of the siren was tense

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throughout. Something brooded over the Ufficio Stampa all the afternoon. A correspondent who had started out for Monfalcone was stopped and sent back. Lapido and I were told we couldn't go to the Carso tomorrow, and the lack of explanation was eloquent. An officer attached to the Press Bureau, worn and excited, came into the office and spoke to the army men present in an undertone. His words were passed around. Some unmounted cavalry regiments not used to trench warfare, who have been only two days in the trenches at Monfalcone, were surprised and attacked by the Austrians this morning. T h e y repulsed the Austrians, but lost a number of their officers and men. I thought immediately of the monocled cavalry officers I had seen last night paying court to the pretty contessina; of one, in particular, a young lieutenant, who appeared to be in an obstinate devil-take-it-all mood with the lady, though he acted very quietly, too quietly, as she greeted one young officer after another with a smile and a slight touch on the arm. He had come a long way in from the front to see her, I overheard him say. I wonder whether he and the other dashing fellows, whose joyous youth made my blood tingle, will see tonight's moon rise in the sky. T h e whole day has had a tragic tinge. One felt the war extremely. Yesterday the Austrian air raiders killed two persons at Cervignano, the place where Florence wants to go! MAY

17

W e are still marooned at the Ufficio Stampa because of the heavy fighting at Monfalcone. T h e r e is also some heavy fighting in the Ufficio Stampa, owing to the fact that one man made a scoop of the fight at Monfalcone and got his article off before the order prohibiting journalists from writing it up was issued. Some of the Italians were quite hot on the subject, foolishly so. T h e y called a meeting and passed resolutions setting forth their complaints. Weillschott, however, held his own in spite of A , a strong, brutally attractive man, a thoroughgoing, smooth Giolittian, who is very ready to make trouble. Lieutenant Palazzoli has been away. He has just returned, and is

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planning to take a couple of us to the Carso tomorrow; he is daring and can be trusted to take us far. MAY 18

T h i s morning Lapido and I started with Lieutenant Palazzoli at 8 A.M. for parts unknown in a heavy limousine of only 20 H.P., with a mechanic and a militarized university student at the wheel. Palazzoli had made up his mind to get to Monfalcone from which the newspaper men have been barred for three days because the azione was not considered "closed." And it wasn't! From Tapogliano onward we passed a series of splendid new entrenchments and low fortifications standing at all sorts of angles to one another; also a series of locks and canals built for the purpose of flooding the country or adding, if necessary, a defensive moat to the barbed-wire entanglements. Laborers, mostly civilians, were making a broad new road and laying over the beds of the T o r r e and Isonzo rivers flat stretches of cement with pipes inserted in them to draw off the main flow of water so that men may walk or wade across them. As we drew near to Fogliano, we saw the kind of picture evoked in one's mind by the mention in bulletins of "the struggle for the sugar factories," or "the men entrenched in a cemetery," or "the fight for the possession of the farm at X . " On reaching it, we began to feel a real battle thrill. T h e houses on one side of its triangularshaped piazza, behind which rises the Carso like a bloody background, form a frail dead angle to the artillery of the enemy, but the houses on the opposite side are rent, cracked, and full of holes. W i t h walls propped by timbers and window frames stuffed with sandbags to protect the sharpshooters inside, the town is full of fight, and the soldiers walking about it in a businesslike way prevent it from looking pitifully uninhabited like Gradisca. W e stopped to eat at the little depot of a vivandiere. T h e corporal in charge of it, upon whose sleeve was embroidered the " V " of his calling, spread a sheet of grocer's paper on top of a wooden box and placed upon it a flask of Chianti, a loaf of splendid, fresh bread, and the most delicious Swiss cheese I have ever eaten, for all of which Ave paid 2.30 lire! Now and again a patrol of Carbineers or a stray

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soldier would come into the little shop for a bite or a harmless drink and then pass out into that air surcharged with battle. In the distance was the continuous sound of guns. Refreshed by food, wine, and boiling hot coffee from my thermos, we sped south toward Monfalcone, our 20 H.P. lumbering limousine finding wings, as it were, under the impetus of the increasing rumble of artillery to which we were drawing closer and closer. Upon our left rose an interminable stretch of reddish, arid, cruellooking upland, the terrible Carso, the aspect of which seemed peculiarly hard and unfeeling after the green, restful landscape of the Isonzo plains. From what we saw as we drove into Monfalcone, it was clear that the town had been literally sprayed with projectiles. It is too big to be riddled into an unrecognizable mass, but all the houses in it have been hit, and many are gaping voids from roofs to debris-filled cellars. Courtyards were filled with heaps of battered building materials, iron gates were torn off their butts, and every pane of glass was broken. Unexploded shells were imbedded in walls, and hundreds of Austrian bullets, flattened by passing camions, were lying on the ground. Notices posted everywhere in the town prohibit soldiers from entering houses on penalty of death. The object of our visit was "Tragic X , " the hill held by the unmounted cavalry. We stopped first at the Brigade Command, located in a battered, new, ugly villino, in the rose garden of which are two massive dugouts. In an office on the ground floor was General Barattieri with two typists busily at work and staff officers and orderlies attending to business. While the General was telling us the story of the battle, a Carabiniere, helmeted and battle-worn, entered the office, saluted, presented his colonel's compliments to the General and reported that the soldiers replacing the cavalry had not found a single musket on the field, a report that greatly pleased the General, for it proved that the cavalry regiments had retained their arms, though this engagement was their baptism of fire. From the Brigade Command we went to lunch with Colonel Lanfranco of the Cavalleggieri Guide at his headquarters in the Villa delle Rose at the head of a parklike allee in the centre of the town, behind a fountain topped by the Winged Venetian Lion. T h e

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chestnut trees flanking this allee, wounded, cut, and scraped by projectiles, must once have yielded a fine shade, but now their leaves, blown off by a hurricane of missiles, are strewn on the ground. In and out of the bushes of box bordering the short path to the villa, stood helmeted members of the Cavalleggieri Guide, making preparations to follow their comrades of the Nizza and Vercelli regiments of cavalry to a rest camp two kilometers away. T h e Colonel pointed out to us, through an iron grating over a window, a big gash in the floor of his room, into which some of his personal belongings had fallen. Although the villa is fairly protected by a tall corner building, it is pock-marked with shrapnel. T h e messroom was evidently the former sitting room of the villino, for, on either side of the fireplace stood a comfortable and broad mahogany sofa, covered with red and white Chinese-figured chintz, and on the walls hung two pictures, pastorally amorous but of no value. Nearly all of the floor space was taken up by tables at which sat officers of all grades, most of them freshly shaved and all quite smartly dressed in uniforms with white collars framed in blue, or red, framed in black. But, as I looked around the room, I was impressed by the fact—a fact that struck me more deeply perhaps than all the other exciting experiences of the day—that, among these men eating and lounging, there wasn't a normal man. Over each man's face was a veil. Some of the officers looked very tired, and a couple of the younger men bowed their heads and dozed. They were almost voiceless, and, yet, I was horribly conscious that, at any moment, they might burst into derisive laughter or sobs. Most of them appeared to be in the grip of a numbness, whether of spirit or body I wasn't sure. What were these sights or sounds beyond one's ken that they were looking at and listening to? My impression was strengthened as I talked with the officers after luncheon and read in some of their faces a sense of sgomento, not fear at all, but shock —shock not in the ordinary meaning of the word but in the sense of a mental effort to adjust their recent experiences to life as they had formerly known it. We asked for an account of the battle. Captain C began it, but balked, rose, begged to be excused, and sat down in a corner of the chintz sofa, looking vacantly at the ceiling. " T h e hardest moment of all is after the battle when we count

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those who are missing," said a major, with very kindly eyes and a high, intellectual, sensitive forehead, as he looked around the room, with a pitiful moisture in his eyes. Shortly after luncheon we took our leave, anxious to visit the scene of the battle. Dashing across the open town square, we hugged the left-hand walls of the main street, turned to the left and climbed over the debris of some peasant houses, passed under a stout stone railroad viaduct guarded by a small picket of infantry and a Carabiniere, and emerged into a vast quarry, deepened at one end to extract building materials and tunneled at the other to make a large storeroom and barracks for the naval men operating guns on land. From the right-hand side of the quarry a mule road of loose, sharp stones runs u p the evergreen-covered slope to Tragic X. Every foot of this road, up which we climbed, was covered with military equipment, cartridges, water canteens, soldiers' caps, loaves of bread, and shells—exploded and intact. Among barbed wire shaken up into crazy rolls and smoldering trunks of trees were a dead mule and the saddest looking corpse of an Austrian that one could imagine, lying fully equipped, face downward, by the roadside, with his right arm thrown forward in utter abandon, lonely, pitiful, a useless sacrifice, the cause of a distant sorrow, still hoping and praying perhaps. After passing three posti di corrispondenza, rough huts protected by sandbags and baskets of vimini filled with stones, such as one sees in old battle pictures, we reached the upper edge of the wood, where a Carabiniere, a fine, serious, middle-aged Sardinian, barred our way for a moment. Then we sprinted, as never before in our lives, u p an absolutely bare stretch of sandy rock rising steeply out of the cruel Carsic heights, with neither shrub nor grass on it, until we reached a ledge of rock in which the engineers have bored three or four dugouts for the soldiers. Here we entered the Trincea Joffre, a rock-hewn trench with a brave name, shaped like a wide, irregular corkscrew, entirely uncovered and so shallow in parts that a man must bend very low to avoid being seen, and so narrow that two men meeting have to walk sideways in order to pass. It was held by the Brigata Napoli, composed mostly of southerners. Although shrapnel was bursting about them and shells were whizzing incessantly over their heads, they were a merry lot, chaff-

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ing and joking about the cavalry they had replaced, while they sprawled on the hard stones at the bottom of the trench, sheltering their faces from the heat of a terrible sun under newspapers or ledges of rock. "Where you from?" one of them called out to me, and soon I learned, as English or, rather, New Yorkese became the language of Trincea Joffre, that nearly every other man in that trench was an "Americano." T h e y have "molti conti da saldare"— a score to settle—with the enemy, their officers informed us, because of reports published by the Austrians that the Brigata Napoli had revolted and shown the white feather. Ο11 reaching the crest of the hill, an unenviable position descriptively called "poco igienico" by the Italians, we saw, through a slit in the wall of a trench, the shipyards of Monfalcone on an inlet of the Adriatic; the Castle of Duino on the shore to the south; and the lines of the Italian right wing disappearing from the stretch of green between these two landmarks into the marshy lands of the lagoon. On a knoll immediately in front of us stood a number of sentinels watchfully observing under a blistering sun the enemy on a ridge opposite, from which a ruddy slope dipped down to a little valley lying at the foot of Tragic X . On the way back I took several pictures of the men of the Brigata Napoli in front of their dugouts at the entrance to Trincea J o f f r e , including a Roman veteran of the campaign of '65, dubbed "II Papa" by his comrades, and a youthful volunteer under seventeen years of age. As we came down through the pinewoods, a double curtain of shells and bombs, Austrian and Italian, passed constantly over our heads, with a forbidding rotatory sound which seemed to say, " G o ing, going, gone." Under the railroad viaduct, where λνε waited for Palazzoli who had lingered behind, some helmeted soldiers, strange, strong figures equipped with short musket, cutlass, and revolvers, joined us. A naval maresciallo asked me to go and see his big gun and the hole made near it by an Austrian " 3 0 5 . " Lenzi Roberto was his name, a name I shall remember, for, as I knelt to take a photograph of him in the hole, an unpleasant whizz passed through the air and a shrapnel shell burst nearby, whereat we both scurried under the shelter of the viaduct, Lenzi shouting angry imprecations at the

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wretches who had fired on his gun. There we stayed for forty minutes during a bombardment in which I really saw death as it is faced in battle, waiting for better or worse. Nasty whizzing things passed us and burst; small, spent shrapnel balls dropped off the edge of the arch over our heads; and lovely white clouds of shrapnel broke in beautiful chrysanthemumlike forms, but much too near. Lapido, becoming indignant at the situation we found ourselves in, was ready to take any risk rather than remain. I thought it best to wait, though I feared access to the town might be shut off by a curtain of artillery fire. While we were discussing what we should do, an infantry major, thin, gaunt, and pale, who had taken shelter under the viaduct, advised us not to miss seeing the Rocca di Monfalcone, and a helmeted cavalry lieutenant offered to show us the way. Sprinting in Indian file across the exposed quarry immediately after a shell had burst over it, we entered an open, clean trench to the left of it, solid and deep, built by the sailors to connect their naval batteries with the command on the Rocca. Like the road at the right of the quarry, it led up through the pinewoods. As we panted u p it, mad with thirst, we met sailors cleaning it just as they clean a ship's deck and heard birds gladly singing. In about a quarter of an hour we came to the end of it. As we were picking our steps from it to the outer wall of the Rocca, an ancient gray tower of massive masonry, reputed to have been used by Archduke Rudolph as a trysting place, an officer in it shouted to us to go back. He relented, however, on learning from our guide's answering shout that we were "inviati del Comando Supremo." After climbing five wooden steps affixed to a hole in its outer wall, we crossed a small courtyard, entered the tower, and felt our way along a wall in pitch-darkness until we reached a narrow stairway. In a room on the floor above, a naval captain was standing in a recess in front of an open window, watching his batteries below, while a sergeant, crouching beneath the window sill, was transmitting orders by telephone to the gunners or receiving messages from them. Whenever the sergeant reported "Pronto," the captain's order "Fuoco!" would go over the wires, and immediately thereafter would come a rumble. On the opposite side of the room an observer with a spyglass, lying on a raised platform behind a pile of sandbags at a window facing the enemy's trenches,

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would sing out how the hit had gone, " A l t o , " "Basso," "Oltre," and call out the "differenza" and "dislivello," or announce that the shot had gone home. I found among the men here a former sailor of the United States Navy, honorably discharged. Before we left Monfalcone, Lieutenant Genovesi Quagliata, " u o m o di fegato," as his captain described him to me, drew a sketch on a page of my notebook to show the part he had played on the first night of the battle. Starting out from an advance post to carry orders to pickets who could not be reached by telephone, he was captured early in the fight by three Austrians, one of whom was shortly afterwards killed by a shell that burst near them. T h e other two Austrians and Quagliata instinctively threw themselves face downward on the ground. Quagliata rose first and profited by the situation to take French leave and deliver his message. In answer to my question as to how he had kept so cool, Quagliata replied, " I carried in my pocketbook my talismans, a postcard from my father on which he had written 'Who does not love his country cannot love his parents,' and a rose my mother picked when I said good-bye to her." Another young officer from Arezzo, who had been standing nearby while I was talking with Quagliata, joined in the conversation: "What else is there for us officers to do? We are here largely by choice. Not so the men. They, therefore, not we, are heroes in performing brave deeds. T h e least we can do is to set a good example." On our drive back to Udine, Palazzoli suggested we relax after the day's excitement by stopping at Palmanova. T h e church bells in the steeple towering over the big piazza, filled with booths and soldiers, were chiming the " A v e Maria." How peaceful they sounded! We dined at the Rosa d' Oro and drank valpolicella, part of which we spilled as a symbol of our baptism of fire. Now here is a choppy, disjointed account of the battle, as I got it in shreds during the day. T h e night of the 15th was a "bella serata," bright with starlight, though huge clouds were sailing over the skies. Throughout the day intermittent artillery duels had taken place, but there were no special signs of an approaching offensive. Shortly after nine

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o'clock the Austrians began an attack on the Italian right wing. A double curtain of artillery and machine-gun fire tore up the Italian trenches, buried a number of officers and men, and threw up great red clouds into the sky. About 9:45 an airplane appeared to take cognizance evidently of the Italian positions, for henceforth the firing became more than ever effective. The Austrians now began to use their heavy batteries at Duino on the sea, on the plateau of Doberdo to the north, and on Monte Cosich and Monte Debeli to the east in an attempt to drive the Italians back of the electric powerhouse near the Monfalcone shipyards and open the road from the sea to Monfalcone. They also threw forward an infantry regiment and sent small groups of soldiers to work their way across the marshes. The Italians fell back from their trenches into the powerhouse, where the fighting went on, body to body, until some members of the engineering corps, repairing trenches, learned of the struggle, dropped pick and shovel, grabbed the muskets slung across their backs, and took the powerhouse by assault, \vhile others of the same corps drove a small body of Austrians coming up the canal from Duino on rafts back to the sea. T h e Austrians next attempted against the Italian left wing the same sort of manoeuvre they had against their right, but the result was equally negative. Having thus camouflaged their main attack by demonstrative manoeuvres on the wings, they attempted to carry out their real project: the capture of Quota 93, or Tragic X as it is now called. They hurled their fire upon the Italian centre during the afternoon and night of the 16th, throughout the next day, and the following night. They sprayed the crest of Tragic X, they sprayed the pinewoods leading up to it, and they sprayed mercilessly and unsparingly the town of Monfalcone strung out along its foot. Colonel C , who directed operations from a dugout on the edge of the pinewoods, told me that the most terrifying effect of the battle on him personally was the subtle doubt that grew in his mind as to whether he was giving the right orders. Often the only answer he could send to requests for men, munitions, food, and water, was "Wait." T o the physical strain of the noise of the bombardment, so awful that it drove five officers mad, were added

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the cries of some wounded men who had been p u t in his dugout because they could not be carried through the hail of fire in the pineta to medicating stations. O n e of them, his right arm torn to shreds, was crying for help, for water, for his mother. T w o of the Colonel's orderlies were wounded; one of them, badly h u r t in his leg, occasionally worked his way along the floor to kiss his master's hand, a n d the other continued to carry messages until the Colonel m a d e him stop. T h e great and urgent call for help came toward the evening of the 16th from the gallant but greatly o u t n u m b e r e d cavalry in the first line trenches on Tragic X, against whom the Austrians were hurling their forces. I n one of the fierce hand-toh a n d encounters that took place an Italian sergeant, Calluso, fired his machine gun so uninterruptedly that the barrel of it became unserviceable. Ordering his men to charge with the bayonet to give h i m a respite, he replaced the worn barrel in three minutes' magic work, set the g u n going again, and fell u p o n it, mortally wounded. In another, Lieutenant Acquarone, a young m a n I met, with a nervous tic in his face, who looked more like a clerk than a soldier, sprayed a machine gun to right and left like a hose, broke through the Austrian lines, and released two young Italian captains being led away captive. Some Italians obeyed the beckoning signal of an officer standing at the other end of a trench. W h e n , as they drew near, they saw that he was an Austrian dressed in the coat and cap of an Italian cavalryman, they shot him. Papers f o u n d on his body proved he was an Austrian professor. Meanwhile the Command, aware of the fact that approximately six Austrian regiments were ranged against two Italian, called for reinforcements. T h i s call brought the answer, " H o l d the line at any cost. T h e Bersaglieri are coming." O u t flashed the message, by wire, by signal, by messenger, to every fighting unit, p u t t i n g new strength into wearied men and straightening bent b u t unbroken lines. Although often hindered by the enemy's batteries on the Carso, the Bersaglieri came along the road r u n n i n g almost parallel to it. After an eight hours' march they reached Monfalcone, climbed over the crumbling ruins to the viaduct, and, u n d e r a cover of Austrian fire, marched u p through the pinewoods in single file. Below Tragic X they joined the cavalry who had been

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ordered to feint a retreat to this point. Protected by trees and a partial dead angle, they formed in double line, clamped their bayonets to their muskets, and waited a few tense moments. " A v a n t i Savoia!" rang out the order. Back came the answer, "Savoia! Savoia!," and out of the woods came the charging lines. T h e r e was all Italy in that rushing tide of men who did not fire a shot but relied solely on bodily strength and dash, 011 what they could do at close quarters, body to body, face to face. T h e bayonet saved the day. It restored to the Italians every foot of trench and swept T r a g i c X clean of the enemy. 19 A quiet day at Udine, writing up notes and resting. At 8 P.M. last night the electric lights went out, and at 8:30 came the screech of the siren. T h a t half hour of uncertainty before the siren's signal, during which nothing could be seen or heard, was quite unbearable. At 4 A.M. we were called from our beds to face another attack. Both raids were of little account. I took lunch and dinner with Miss Baskerville and Lapido, a right good chap, full of kindly humor. MAY

20 Colonel Barbarich summoned me to his office today to say that if I should wish to come back to Udine next month—as I shall if Florence goes to Cervignano—he will be glad to make an exception to the rules governing the visits of foreign correspondents to the front. I cannot say enough in praise of the kindness and courtesy extended to me by everyone connected with the Ufficio Stampa.

MAY

I feel tired but have a great desire to run to Venice. T h e offensive of the Austrians 011 the Trentino front seems to be assuming important dimensions, especially in the section verging on Rovereto, where the Italian troops have fallen back, though Cadorna in his limousine this morning looked very calm. A n active movement of troops is visible here. I went to the station to see the Grenadiers start for the Trentino, with the intention of saying good-bye to De Bosis and De Viti de Marco. I could not find them. T h e y probably belong to the first

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regiment which had already entrained. The second regiment of these tall fellows waiting outside the depot in full equipment, with short musket and short bayonet, the machine gunners carrying padded bags for the ribbons of their guns, made a strikingly warlike picture. They looked mighty well in their helmets—and knightly. Good luck, boys! This evening I accompanied Lapido to the dingy telegraph office in the Udine Post Office, which was never meant for big business. The wires were going like artillery. A notice posted up, "No private telegrams will be accepted unless very urgent," fitted in with the growing sense about us, dimly pictured in the press, that there is a big offensive on in the Trentino. Military messengers, most of them armed with muskets, were bringing sheaves of official pink telegrams into the stuffy room which reeked with the sweat of intense administrative work. On returning to the hotel I saw several motors lined up at the curb outside. Waiting to enter one of them was a tall aristocratic lady in black, Marchesa X., lady-in-waiting to Queen Elena, whose only son lies wounded at Monfalcone, with a bullet in one of his kidneys. The Lord keep the poor mother! At the Ufficio Stampa today I saw something I did not like: a Spanish manuscript of Lapido turned over for censure to Μ , an Italian correspondent versed in Spanish, who writes for the South American press. The censure was justifiable enough, perhaps, but the Ufficio Stampa ought not to allow a man writing for the South American press to censure a fellow craftsman's work. I, too, had a censure, the first that seemed to me undeserved. Lapido said wittily, "Censurano la veritä—tutto il resto passa." Exaggerated but not wholly beside the mark. MAY 21 Quiet Sunday, getting ready to leave. Lunched *vith Lapido and later saw him off at the station, planning to drop the enormous Austrian shell he carries in his shawl strap on the toes of any custom official who tries to hold him up at the frontier. In the evening I watched the battle line from Attila's Hill. It was a sultry night, with a dumb starlit haze which took on a tone

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of indefinite smoke-black in the distance. Near the enormous black cypress at the gate leading to the summit, where I stood, was a white-bearded general, tall, spare, motionless, with his eyes fixed intently on one point of the line. Some groups of women, popolane, came up the hill, and they, like everybody else on it, walked on tiptoe and whispered as they talked; for, over us all hung the sense of tragedy investing that distant line which looked, visually, like a pyrotechnic display! Time and again illuminating bombs appeared in a hesitating line in that smokelike distance, grew brighter, and then flared out. Up and down, up and down they went over almost all of the heights within sight, especially those near Monfalcone. With their disappearance would come a ruddy flash, lasting only an instant, and then, the dull heavy sound of guns accomplishing their fatal work. Time and again the flashing light of a great reflector in the east, at Gorizia, swept high and low, searching for attackers from land or sky, while another in the west, playing among the peaks of the chain of mountains that breaks abruptly at the Tagliamento, struggled up and down in a body to body encounter with the clouds. Meanwhile the general and the women gazed in silence at the distant battle line. Upon it were his soldiers and their kin, dying perhaps; if not, in heavy travail. Udine was living its normal lifel And Italy, safe and snug in her cafis, was playing the game of criticism. MAY 22

In the Duomo this morning a priest, whose military puttees showed plainly under his cassock, was saying a Requiem Mass at a side chapel. Beside the rail knelt the tall, stately Dama di Corte I had seen two evenings' ago mounting a military motor to go to her son in Monfalcone. Here she was at a Mass for the dead, quiet, stately, tall, and white. What did it mean? In the afternoon I called on Ojetti, who was out, had several of my photographs stamped by the Censura, left P.P.C. cards on Signora Luzzatto, and stopped at the Ufficio Stampa to say goodbye to Colonel Barbarich who shook my hand cordially, saying, "It is all arranged; write when you wish to return." Palazzoli nearly tore off my hand as he said, " I can bear personal witness to

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your endurance and courage. You have done a good and useful work," words I shall remember as my reward "per merito di guerra." At six o'clock I left on the same train as Miss Baskerville, ate a sandwich supper with her in the car bound for Milan and afterwards returned to mine for Mestre. On the railroad trip from Udine to Mestre, one experiences somewhat the same feeling as on a submarine-menaced tract of ocean, an uncanny tense feeling of wishing to run to an impossible safety. At the strident and lingering hiss of the brakes dragging the train to a standstill at some out-of-the-way place between stations, one thinks of the siren announcing the arrival of the enemy in the sky, and, at the dead silence following the halt of the train, of the pause after the siren's screech that precedes the sound of anti-aircraft guns. This feeling was accentuated perhaps by the recollection of the attempt made some days ago to drop bombs on this very train, in which Queen Elena and her children were traveling. At one of the stations we drew up alongside a train filled with wounded soldiers, through which a cavalryman was passing, closing and curtaining every window as tightly as if he were making preparations for a wake. Notwithstanding the fact that the Austrian offensive is on in great style in the Trentino, and many of the trains in Venetia have been suspended or delayed to give way to military trains, we arrived at Mestre on fair schedule and were hooked on to the train for Venice. Through that memorable station where I was so carefully questioned on my last visit, I passed tonight, saluted, because of my safe-conduct from the Comando Supremo. MAY

23

T h e atmosphere when I arrived in Venice last night, a still, somewhat dreary evening, was darkly light but not bright, for the stars, though thick, were sparkless. On my way to the Danieli, I watched the tall, slightly stooping, sinewy figure of my gondolier bending and turning, as he guided his gondola through the darkness and stillness, a stillness suggestive of recent danger, for Venice had been raided the night before. I saw his white hair in the shadowed light, for he was hatless, and heard his soft speech under the dark passages of the bridges. He was one of those hard-working,

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contented, quietly brave, uncomplaining popolani of Venice, who are welded into a substance of sweetness by the wealth of loveliness around them. T h e indefinite air of deprimento hanging over the city on my arrival last night was intensified by material signs I saw today. In a narrow street behind the Danieli, the Calle delle Rasse, where sailors and popolani congregate in cheap cafes, osterie, and shops, not over savory in appearance, there are two houses wrecked in a recent raid. A couple of stores and a cheap albergo above them are still open; on the wall of the latter is posted a sign directing its patrons how to reach their rooms through the ruins. These signs of local trouble, however, did not impress me as much as those of general conditions: the number of closed shops, the lack of restraint in the cafes, and the appearance of public women on the streets which, in other days, were kept purer through a sense of danger if not of fitness. This slight falling away from high standards makes me wonder whether Venice is gradually growing used to being poor. One cannot be poor for long and keep up outward graceful forms. Possibly the coming of summer with its closeness of atmosphere and pungency of odors contributes to the impression of the slipshod and careless appearance of the city. T h e tragedy of it lies in the people's unconsciousness of what is happening to their glorious House. One impression that Venice made on me last night owes its origin, no doubt, to the strange, not wholly spiritual urge in the loveliness of the Venetian scene at night, especially in certain lights and degrees of temperature perhaps. This urge, neither subtle nor yet immediate and direct, brings to mind the thought of wondrously, sensuously beautiful women, irresistible and yet to be resisted lest the throbbing imagination find disillusionment in the flesh of life. T h e impression is to be explained, perhaps, by the Byzantine and oriental background of Venice. T h e people themselves are not a whit depressed. They do not stop to gape at workmen removing debris or covering ravages with boards and matting or masons reconstructing. T h e women go about their marketing, quite unconcerned. Any slightly dark talk there may be is connected not so much with the woes of Venice as with the new Austrian offensive in the Trentino, though,

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on the whole, everyone, except the black alarmists, seems confident of the outcome. On a recent raid two Austrian airplanes were brought down not far from Venice, and last night the play of reflectors testified to a splendid organization of defense. Throwing great flashes in every direction, they pressed the heavens stiffly and closely, like brooms of light gathering stars from the celestial vault, which fell in a fine, silver shimmer on the diaphanous surfaces of the Campanile, San Giorgio, and the cupola of Santa Maria della Salute. There they rested for a moment, and then slipped rapidly off in a gleaming shower. How magical was that play of silver light, coming and going; and yet how suggestive of the terrible game of danger involved! I called on Monsignore Apollonio, Arciprete of St. Mark's, who received me most warmly in his neat, elongated study. His clerical collar, I noticed, was made of fine embroidered white linen. A jolly, kindly, marionettelike priest from San demente, an ugly— pleasantly ugly—chap who spoke English fairly well and most bravely, broke in upon us like a whirlwind with a plan for going to the United States to gather contributions for St. Mark's by a series of illustrated lectures on "St. Mark's during the War." He will not go, however, until the summer season and the presidential election are over because, he thinks, they might interfere with a successful tour. This delay will not matter, for he is sure the war will continue two years more. At this remark Apollonio threw up his old hands and exclaimed, "Oh my St. Mark's!"; and then inquired what we knew about the rumor that the Austrians have already reached Thiene in the Trentino. Later the Monsignore and I had a talk by ourselves about the needs of St. Mark's. He passes sleepless nights over a sum that would be considered trifling in America, which he has borrowed to help ten custodians, whose wage of a lira a day from the Fabbriceria was formerly eked out by tips from the forestieri, and a number of artisans, whose labors have been brought more or less to a standstill by the war. He suggested that I might like to see the work still in progress and called from the balcony of his study to some craftsmen across the Piazzetta dei Leoni, to ask if the maestro was there—a little incident that had the flavor of guild

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days. O n learning that he was not, he made an appointment with me to visit the Basilica tomorrow. T o n i g h t at 9 P.M. the electric lights were extinguished for over an hour, a precautionary measure, I suppose, for the siren gave no warning. Some guests at the Danieli recommenced their game of bridge by candlelight, but they looked very sober. A restless, oldish cavalry Major, going nervously to and fro to see whether any light in the hotel could attract the enemy's eye, finally reported that a gleam was filtering through a shutter on the top floor. T h e popolani were splendid, not careless but absolutely unafraid. 24 I spent many hours today in the most beloved and sacred monument of the Venetian people, touching with reverent hand every part of the armor of this glorious edifice of St. M a r k — t h e gentlest knight in the lists of Europe. I cannot imagine a scene of greater tranquillity, of more age-old calm and peace than in the small mosaic laboratory behind one of the cupolas of St. Mark's, where men at their benches are patiently giving new life to the perfection of ancient days. From the nave below floated up the chant of canons and the sweet music of the organ which spread into thin waves of sound as it reached the golden domes. A n d yet the day is significant not of peace but of war, for twelve months ago today Italy cast her gauntlet in the arena, choosing her destiny for better or worse for the next century, and Austria answered the challenge by an air raid on this city of precious monuments. Only in the amazingly large and airy spaces between the domes and the roof, to which ladders and wooden steps give easy access, does one realize the care required to keep this gentle knight in all his grace of line. Here men are always at work to prevent this wondrous building from cracking and settling. Elsewhere, artisans are usually engaged in examining marbles and bronzes, for the patina that colors them must be preserved but not allowed to eat into them. And all this labor to save the loveliness of old age and at the same time avert its tragedies is affected with an absolute respect for the past, a supreme tenderness, and an infinite patience. MAY

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Old bricks, not properly set, are being carefully replaced, section by section, by new bricks of superb quality, and the weight resting on delicate capitals is being transferred to stone slabs inserted in the supporting walls, above the capitals. T h e buttresses placed years ago on either side of the great frontal arch of the Basilica to prevent it from spreading have not sufficed to hold it, as one can see from the way in which they bulge, and a new brick support has been built at the base of the arch to catch and carry the strain of its weight to two well-grounded columns. T h e large space in the arch of the great central window of the fa9ade has been strengthened by running two steel bars or beams, as big as railroad rails, perpendicularly across it; but even these are bent outward, three inches perhaps, by the weight they bear. T o see the work in progress on the left-hand corner of the Basilica, that of Sant' Alipio, I climbed up some ladders on the outside of the edifice. This angle of the building is out of plumb, and, in consequence, the covering of mosaics is cracking. T h e marble lining of the arched entrance and the columns ornamenting it have been removed; the mosaics in good condition have been covered with flat boards and left in place; and those in need of restoration have been embedded in a receiving sheet of cement and removed. All the brickwork under this precious covering of marble and mosaics that has "run," cracked, or loosened is being scraped, cleaned, and cut out, foot by foot, like the diseased substance of an old tree, and the remaining "live" tissue of perfectly plumb masonry or brickwork will be joined to the new before the outer sheath of loveliness is replaced. It is on the roof of St. Mark's that one's blood is stirred by the realization of its exposure to the perils of war and by its unconscious, unbending courage. After every aerial attack, an inspection of the roofs is made, and dates enclosed in circles are painted on spots that have been struck either by missiles or spent bullets of the defense. These examinations enable Marangoni to repair damages to the roof promptly—a most necessary thing, for rain trickling through a crevice or hole might injure the mosaics inside the Basilica. T h e golden wings and censers of the angels kneeling on the

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upper part of the central arch of the fagade are covered with a grayish-white canvas. Poor things! Of what avail, I wonder, is their pleading so near to the clouds? Of none, I fear. If the quaint grace of the delightful little lions adorning the Venetian balconies, of the red lions on Piazzetta dei Leoni, and of the even fiercer winged lions on the flagstaffs in front of the Basilica, which were meant to defend Venice by their sweetness and beauty, cannot stop the barbarians, nothing can. Never, as at that moment when I stood on the roof of St. Mark's, have I understood the simple, human feeling that prompted artists to paint or model Madonnas and Patron Saints holding some particular town, village, or church in their protecting arms. Every such picture and statue I had ever seen passed before me, over the waters, like real figures endowed with a mystic but actual power to avert danger. T o them I turned—especially to that Madonna in the Piazza at Udine, with a church in her arms—I turned almost in prayer for Venice. This city of substantial evanescences, of tangible shadows, of misty colors, of dreamlike substances looks, feels, I am sure, in need of celestial protection. No human force can protect it. Even the hand of the Lord seems too weighty to invoke in its behalf, for His hand, smiting in righteous wrath, might break this delicate structure, and His word, spoken in thunder, upset the fine balance upon which Venice rests. No, I sought to implore the Virgin, the Virgin Mother, with her soft, tender breast, for only against such a bulwark of love and guardianship can the frail beauty of Venice find refuge. And yet everything in the scene of exceptional beauty I looked out upon from the roof of St. Mark's has been built on those muddy banks and stagnant waters by human courage, hope, and faith. I, too, therefore will believe, believe that Venice has not been built in vain. Surely the barbarians cannot conquer civilization. This afternoon I spent in the Piazza. T h e crowd enjoying the extra half holiday in celebration of the entrance of Italy into the war was a "family affair," except for the presence of a few British tars and French aviators. Occasionally some man or woman glanced furtively up at the clouds fleeting across the sky, but no real anxi-

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ety or fear was apparent, for the Venetians know that soldiers on the altane are watching and searching the skies, and that Piero Foscari is in charge of aerial defense. The band, composed of a motley collection of old men, boys, and uniformed soldiers, commenced their program with the "Inno Reale." Then came the battle songs of the Risorgimento, in which the voices of the people joined. When the "Inno di Garibaldi" was played, the throng, including a number of young students and boys who had been stalking about in hopes of a demonstration, suddenly swayed and surged toward Florian's, where Lieutenant Garibaldi was sitting. He rose and said a few words to the cheering crowd. Just as the notes of "Va pensiero sull' ali dorate" from the chorus of "Nabucco" floated out, a platoon of soldiers in war outfit tramped through the Piazza and disappeared—never to see it again perhaps. A wave of gladness passed over the people as the band began the series of the national anthems of the Allies. The stirring strains of the "Marseillaise" enlarged the sympathy and strengthened the courage of all who had thought only of their own, and "God Save the King" brought cheers from those standing near some British naval officers. But when the last hymn on the program, the Belgian, was played, the men sitting at Quadri's and Florian's rose and took off their hats with sympathy, real and deep, for the light lilt of its music could not hide the tragic heroism which it represents today. While the sinking sun was touching with pink the pinnacles of St. Mark's and lighting up the mosaics in the arched entrances of the Basilica, the pigeons turned toward their sculptured nests on the fa9ade, and the people began to meander slowly homeward. I looked up at San Todaro and the fierce winged lion on their columns. What a world this is today, with the war so near and, yet, so far. The God of War help Italy! J U N E . SAN DOMENICO DI FIESOLE

I have made no entries in my diary since I left Venice, met

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Florence at Montecatini, and drove home with her in the Ford. T h e stress and strain of the front have resulted in a reaction of laziness and inactivity. In the meanwhile great events have taken place on land and sea: the pressure against Verdun, resulting in the capture of Fort Vaux, the terrific Austrian offensive in the Trentino, the battle of Jutland, which now appears to have been an English victory, and the sad end of Lord Kitchener. Lately I have been much occupied with the affairs of the American Committee for War Relief in Florence. What stories and counterstories of love and hate, of plots and counterplots I have heard1 W e are planning to go to the front, for Florence has been invited to come for two or three weeks to the English Posto di Ristoro at Cervignano, and the Military Command in Florence has telephoned her to report for her safe-conduct. May Santa Fina and all the powers of good in this world guard her! JUNE 8

On my way home today from the Municipio at Fiesole, the lovely little old building adorned with escutcheons of various podestä, I saw a company of gray-haired and clumsily dressed Territorials lining u p on the piazza, in front of the Seminary, which is now a Red Cross hospital. They were commanded by a sergeant, proud to exercise his authority in the presence of all Fiesole, for a crowd had gathered under the broiling sun to see what event the presence of these soldiers might portend. U p the hill, tooting their peculiar-sounding sirens, came two motor ambulances of the Misericordia and stopped at the gate. Several members of the Society, evidently gentlemen performing their turn of service, descended and quickly carried some young Austrians of a peasant type, pale, hairy, and still into the hospital. As the crowd strained to see them, I heard a woman say, "Let's talk softly—poor things —they are wounded men." T h e day before I had seen a young lawyer of Fiesole, whose foot had just been amputated, transferred from the Seminary to Villa Pisa at San Domenico, to make room, no doubt, for the vanquished enemy. Never had war, unavoidable

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as it apparently is at times, seemed to me so stupid a way of deciding issues as today. J U N E ΙΟ. SAN GIMIGNANO

To celebrate Florence's permission to go to the front, we came here yesterday in the Ford. We started from the villa too early— under the new daylight-conservation law—for comfort, but beyond Tavarnelle the sun became chastened and cast a wonderful light on the chain of hills ahead of us. The road, running part of the way through lovely woodland, is steep and tortuous. On dropping into Poggibonsi, we met some of the kindly urbane pigs of Italy that walk on streets and behave like little gentlemen. As we approached San Gimignano over a road we recognized, though it seemed unusually well-trimmed and well-kept, our first view of the towers of San Gimignano in a gray light reminded us of Henry James's description of them, but later, as we saw them rising, under a setting sun, against a background of faint old gold toward the skies with which they are allied, their aspect was very different. From our enormous and irregularly shaped rooms on the top floor of the Albergo Centrale we had a sweet view of the towers. After a late supper Florence and I walked around the town. Although it is filled with soldiers, its appearance is normal; but its picturesque features have been greatly spoiled by electric lights. This morning, our sleep being cut short by the vocal noises of sociable people in the Piazza della Cisterna, the chatter of swallows under the eaves, the coo of doves on the towers, and the baa of sheep going to pasture, we rose early and breakfasted upstairs, served by a talkative old general houseworker. Down in the Piazza some old women are standing around the well, twirling hemp, and a few pigeons are walking leisurely about; on the balconies and window sills of the dear, old, cracked houses pink and red geraniums are blooming; beyond the new pharmacy of Santa Fina—too new, alasl—some freshly mown hay is spread to dry outside a stallagio; and in front of one of the shops stands a butcher carving a sheep hung on the door. It is not a quiet town. The ringing bells respond to one another in all sorts of measures from tower to tower—those towers upon

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which Santa Fina's miraculous powers cause violets to bloom in January—and the noise made by ironworkers beating their anvils is almost incessant, though, in the distance, it takes on almost a silvery tone. Up the steep Via San Giovanni, which passes under a splendid arch between two towers before it reaches the Piazza, comes a company of Territoriali, and down it, under an arched doorway, are gathered a group of the aged and poor of San Gimignano, old men bent but active and old women spinning flax, waiting for the allowance due them from the community because of their poverty and old age. Quite a number of men are assembled in the shade of that architectural cave of beautiful and dignified darkness, the large vaulted loggia of the ancient Palace of the Podesta, which opens on the Piazza della Collegiata. On its walls are posted military notices: one warning citizens that recruits will practice shooting from 5 to 9 A.M.; another announcing leaves of absence for specified classes of peasant soldiers of a certain age, in whose families there are no men at home between the ages of sixteen and sixty; and another stating that a grain census will be taken and heavy fines imposed on those who fail to declare the total amount of their harvests or purchases of grain over 50 quintali in weight. On the opposite side of the piazza a bright flood of sunlight shining on the fa9ade of the Insigne Collegiata and the high flight of steps leading up to it streams through the open doorway of the church, lighting up a number of the mural paintings inside. Although the bells are clangingly calling the citizens to Mass, the church is almost empty; yet it is alive in spirit and appearance. If the people don't attend the service—what of it? Isn't the church, sheltered by the towers that it blesses, visible to them as they pass? Isn't it in the very midst of their lives? And are not all of its bells, from the big ones in the tower to the little ones on the roof, which are capped by a cross to mark them as God's, ringing and speaking to the people living within this ancient town and without it, too, on the gray-green slopes of the soft Tuscan hills? Inside the church our old acquaintance, the Proposto, vested in red and gold, is celebrating High Mass with the aid of two

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assistants. The canons in the choir behind the High Altar are chanting responses, the organ is playing fortissimo some passages meant to be chastened by a crowded church, and the incense is floating down the nave. We called on Proposto Gonnelli this afternoon in his dark palace on Piazza Pecori. Learning from his sister, who received us, that he had gone to Vespers, we followed him to church. He saw us, as he came out of the sacristy at the head of the procession, stopped to speak to us, and insisted on returning to the sacristy to take off his vestments and show us the little museum he had started, he said, after talking about textiles with Florence on her last visit to San Gimignano. Afterwards he took us home with him. The commune is getting on well, he says. There is no real shortage of hands on the poderi, for the women who had given up agricultural work before the war have taken it up again. They do not need to work as hard as they do, because many of them could manage to live on their war allowance and savings, but they prefer to make all they can. At the beginning of hostilities some of the citizens participated in anti-war riots, which had to be suppressed by firearms, but now most of them are taking the war reasonably despite the twenty-eight soldiers from San Gimignano already killed at the front. One hundred and fifty Austrian prisoners, whom the Proposto found it very difficult to confess until he procured a polyglot questionnaire on sins, are housed in the old convent of Sant' Agostino, which was transformed into a barracks some years ago. The officer in charge finds it hard to keep peace amongst them because of their racial hatreds. They may quarrel with one another, but all the Austrians would surrender, I am sure, if they knew they were going to be quartered in Civita Castellana or San Gimignano, and enjoy early morning walks under the shadow of Soracte or on the fair hills of Tuscany. After our call on the Proposto we left for Florence. As we looked back, we saw the shining bayonets of sentries, walking back and forth on the parapets of San Gimignano, rise above the old walls. From Certaldo to Barberino d'Elsa, almost to San Casciano, we had lovely views of San Gimignano—soft yet rigid on its glorious hill—in a golden haze, in a blue haze, in a gray haze, with some-

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thing more than the spirit of a place or fortress investing its stern b u t not terrifying features. JUNE 11. FLORENCE

This bright Sunday morning I accompanied Florence to the Command of the Eighth Corpo d' Armata. We were ushered into the presence of a kindly lieutenant colonel who painstakingly filled out a safe-conduct for Florence, carefully cutting her photograph to fit the space designed for a man's likeness so as to damage as little as possible the feathers on her hat. When it came to writing a description of her, he gallantly maintained that her hair was blonde, not gray, and desisted only after Florence suggested that it might be well to have the details in the Italian salvacondotto agree with those in her American passport. In the afternoon Mr. Ashburner drove with us to Pozzolatico to dine with Mr. and Mrs. Thomas in their sweet little house. Returning in the evening, we saw on the hills to the left a moving line of light, like an autumn brush fire in our woods at home, which turned out to be a procession of mourners with torches, accompanying their dead to the cemetery. As we wound down the Viale dei Colli, deserted but throbbing with loveliness, beautiful views of Florence, lighted here and dark there, emerged between the silent cypresses and evergreens of the foreground. JUNE 12

T h e news of the fall of the Salandra ministry came as a surprise to me. No doubt the partial success of the Austrian offensive in the Trentino, about which Salandra's temper and spirit of conciliation have been .none of the best—to his credit, perhaps—has had something to do with it, but there has also been some political undermining and treachery, unworthy of this great moment. All sorts of stories about the smashing results of the first week of the Austrian drive are current. T h e Italian troops held both ends of the line splendidly, but not the centre, though they rallied manfully after the shock of the first Austrian attack. One culpable general is said to have been shot, and the dismissal of Roberto Brusati from the command of the First Army and the resignation

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of his brother Ugo, aide-de-camp to the King, have undoubtedly their meaning and portent. JUNE 13

I took the most delightful walk a man could desire. From San Domenico I went up the Via Vecchia Fiesolana, a stiff bracing wind at my back pushing my steps. T h e air was clear, and white clouds, traveling fast and lovingly over the blue sky, cast great shadows on the hills and mountains surrounding the city of Florence which lay far below me, around the Cupolone. A t Fiesole I turned down the steep road running alongside the Etruscan Walls that leads to Pian di Mugnone. T h e bells were ringing wildly, and their sound reverberated over the valley, playing with the moving clouds and rejoicing in the sun and the loveliness of the red poppies and wild white roses flowering amid the deep roadside hedges. Beyond a large old villa hanging fondly to a precipitous slope, I came to the shrine of a sweet-faced Madonna. It beckoned me onward to another ancient villa, with two little chapels standing on its terrace, one at either end, like staunch buttresses of Faith and Hope. After passing an enchanted grove of cypresses, still and solemn, I saw a suggestive little lean-to of roughly hewn timbers, with a slanting roof, against the wall of a farmhouse not far from the road—the Via dell' Asinello, as I shall call it hereafter. It was as perfect a setting as could be imagined for the Presepi of all ages, from Ghirlandaio's "Adoration of the Magi" to those miniature scenes of the nativity cunningly concealed in folding Christmas cards for the delight of a generation of children not yet so old as to have forgotten their fascination. As I wound my way down to Pian di Mugnone and thence u p the steep path to Fonte Lucente, with a cool wind in my face tempering the sunshine, refreshing and resting me in a true, deep sense, I thought of the homesick donkeys that General Pennella told me last month were being sent home from the front. One of them, I feel sure, lives in this little lean-to on the Via dell' Asinello, upon the thatched roof of which the silvery ray of the evening star shines as sweetly, no doubt, as the Star in the East once shone on a haven as rustic.

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I can see his master leading him—Gigi, perhaps, by name— home from the deposito at Campo di Marte. What a donkey's scamper the hill of Fiesole must have seemed after the endless trails on the high, cold mountains of the Italian front, over which he had tramped cautiously day after day lest the portable kitchen on his back should slip off and leave the Alpini dinnerless. And how delighted he must have been to see again the old beggarwoman who had been accustomed to share with him the friendly shade under the portico of the church of San Domenico while his master stopped at the trattoria on the corner for a short drink and a long talk before beginning the pull to Fiesole. There too they rested once more, after all these months of absence, the contadino chatting with friends in the Piazza and Gigi gazing at the gaudy wares of the Fiesolian strawworkers hanging on little stands, which he always mistook for delectable straw cakes. T h e bells of the ancient Campanile in Fiesole striking the hour must have seemed like music to Gigi's ears, and he probably thought, with something of a smile on his long nose, that the harsh grinding noise of the tramcar from Florence swinging around the corner into the piazza was as naught but the crowing of a cock compared with the terrible boom of artillery at the front, where he had often longed for a shorter pair of ears. Knowing the Tuscan peasants, I can easily imagine Gigi's homecoming and the visits paid to his master that day by neighboring contadini, to ascertain, de visu, how much of the little donkey the Royal Government had returned. "Strapazzato," one of them doubtless said, as he looked at Gigi's somewhat emaciated form and unjustly blamed the government for having overworked the homesick little donkey, and "Governo cane!" another of anarchistic tendencies probably cursed, "they take our good animals and return us their carcasses." In that lean-to of happy memory, Gigi found, no doubt, the farm animals and the small, bushy-tailed carter's dog, which, owing to an agile mind and more freedom of motion than the others, got his ear first. "Yes," replied Gigi in answer to the little dog's question, " I saw a great many dogs at the front. No, not like you, more like the big shepherd dog on the next podere. T h e little

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dogs," he added, not wishing to hurt his small friend's feelings, "will be called out later." T h e n he told the home folks of his sojourn at a Blue Cross Hospital where the doctors discovered that an epidemic of stomach-ache among the somarelli was caused by metal filings mixed, by agents of the enemy probably, with the oats that came from America; and he repeated to their astonished ears part of the beautiful "Horse's Prayer," hung on the wall of the hospital: "As I cannot tell thee when I am thirsty, please give me often water, fresh and clean, to drink . . . Speak to me, Master! I can understand thy voice more readily and clearly than the language of the whip and reins . . . Pat me frequently so that I may learn to love thee at my best." He described the ear muffs and black eyeglasses, like those of the professors at the seminary in Fiesole, that he wore at the front to prevent the glare from blinding him, and he recounted the expedition upon which he and five other somarelli were sent to carry water and food to a company of Alpini who had gamely but imprudently pushed too far forward from their base. "They've signaled for food and water," Gigi heard a captain say to the sergeant in command of the relief expedition, "and it's up to you to get supplies to them. It's no easy job, with Austrians on three sides of them and a precipitous slope on the fourth side up which runs a narrow trail exposed the last part of the way to the enemy's artillery. Your orders, sergeant, are to lead your donkeys up to the peak on which the soldiers are marooned as quickly and quietly as possible—remember you have only four hours before sunrise. At the point where the path swings around the mountain and is exposed to the enemy's guns, you will send the donkeys off, one at a time, with a man crawling on his stomach behind each of them. Now be off and good luck to you." " T h e wind in our faces," Gigi continued, "kept us back, and the sun was coming up when we reached the stretch of road open to the enemy's fire. 'Boys,' said the sergeant, 'we'll have to run the gauntlet as best we can. Those who get through will remember the families of those who don't.' Then the sergeant took a medal of St. Anthony Abbott with his pig out of his pocket, tied it around

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my neck, and said aloud so that the men could hear, 'With the help of good St. Anthony we'll get there. Via, Gigi, and Viva I' Italia!' Off I went and the next thing I remember was an awful bang-bang, followed by the sergeant's voice, faint-like, 'Run, Gigi, run, and good-bye!' I never stopped until I heard a great cheer from a dozen Alpini who threw their arms around my neck and shouted, 'Bravo, bravo!' and 'Viva il somarello!' " T h i s afternoon Miss Francesca Amari, who is nursing in a military hospital, told us some stories about soldiers almost as simple as Gigi in their outlook. A wounded infantryman, a great admirer of the Alpini, who had evidently been pondering over the fact that the hats of the Bersaglieri are adorned by a great many feathers and those of the Alpini by only one, burst out enthusiastically to a comrade \vith whom he was discussing the relative merits of these two branches of the service, " T h e Bersaglieri are good soldiers but think what the Alpini do con una penna sola!"—with only one feather! Another soldier, while undergoing a minor operation without the aid of an anaesthetic, which the peasant soldiers seldom take, called out to his surgeon, "Be careful, Signor Capitano, you're not cutting just paper." T h e Sardinians, Miss Amari says, were not enthusiastic about the war until they were told that the object of it was to get back for their King lands taken from him by the Austrians. Since then they have fought gallantly. JUNE 1 8 . T O THE WAR!

Florence and I started in our Ford from Villa Torricella at half past nine this fine, warm morning for Udine, headquarters of the army, and Cervignano. Our little machine, foreign, and pacifist beyond any possibility of doubt if one but glimpsed its name, was weighted down with extra tires, reserve cans of gasoline, valises, baskets, and, tied on behind, a large pack of gifts for soldiers, donated by Lady Rodger, our neighbor. While Florence and I were saying good-bye to Alessandro Franchetti, who had come to wish us Godspeed, Palmira, the maid, and Tonino, the gardener, assisted in the final preparations for our departure, though they scarcely attempted to hide their disapproval of what seemed to their realistic minds the initiation of a crazy adventure.

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With safe-conducts in our possession that read like roving commissions, we had decided to go to the front by way of Ravenna so that we might see for ourselves the damage sustained by Sant* Apollinare Nuovo from Austrian bombs. After a stop in town to complete our outfit, we drove to Pontassieve and thence pursued our way along the emerald-tinted Sieve, through charming countryside, to Dicomano, where we lunched and rested during the hot midday hours. T h e Apennines looked very high as our little car began the long climb of twenty kilometers to the Pass of San Godenzo. Halfway up is the sweet little town of the same name, where Dante went to plot against the Guelphs—a nice out-of-the-way place it must have been in his day! My main interest in it, I confess, was to find the public pump and cool the fever heat of the Ford, for the thumping of its much tried engine seemed to presage an early demise. Finding that it was quieted by half an hour's rest and cooling drinks, we treated it henceforth like a willing but overburdened horse, slaking its thirst frequently at roadside springs and walking to lighten its burden. Thus we climbed up and up until we were three thousand feet nearer the sky. Just before we reached the Muraglione—a high curved wall erected to break the force of wind and snow at the top of this splendid road built in 1836 by Grand Duke Leopold II—we saw two sentinels silhouetted against the blue sky. A few paces farther on some Territorial soldiers barred the passage of our car in friendly fashion. "Are you afraid of an invasion?" I asked the sergeant in command, pointing to the silver sheen of the Adriatic miles and miles below us on the other side of the pass. " T h e r e are air-lines as well as roadways that need picketing," he replied, obviously glad of the opportunity of a little conversation. "This is a sort of gate in the long Apennine range, through which a sky raider might sneak, if it were not guarded." " B u t your handful of brave Territoriali could not possibly check him," I observed, and, as I spoke, I heard the ring of a telephone. "That's our ally," answered the sergeant, ordering one of his

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men to attend to the call. "As soon as we spot something suspicious in the sky, we telephone headquarters." "And then?" I pressed. He hesitated a moment, evidently trying to find an answer sociably courteous and at the same time in accord with his sense of military discipline. At length he smiled broadly, "An enemy plane would discover that Etna is not the only volcano in the Apennine range." "And he no go home to tell the boss," suddenly interrupted one of the soldiers who had been standing nearby, spellbound apparently by admiration for our car. "Are you from America?" I asked, turning quickly toward him. "Yes," he replied. He had been a shepherd all his life, he said, first in the Abruzzi, and afterwards in Minnesota, where tending sheep is quite another matter. "You put them on the train, ring the telephone, and tell the boss they are coming." "Going back after the war?" I queried. "Shure," came the response in a tone that conveyed as affectionate an expression of loyalty to our country as I have ever heard. Beyond the Muraglione, we descended slowly on the other side of the pass in a cool and quiet twilight. After we passed the little villages of San Benedetto, Portico, and Rocca San Casciano, it began to grow dark, and we sped fast to Castrocaro where we stopped for the night at the Albergo della Posta, a neat inn, whose beds are spread with linen odorous of soap and lavender. Next morning, after we had breakfasted in the "bar" of this very modern hostelry, I took a walk through the town, from which a round tower, spoiled by the addition of a late brick lantern, stands up boldly. T h e interesting Porta di San Nicolo is ornamented by an escutcheon and a sundial. The modern and lower portion of the town is built against the walls of the old Castle of Castrocaro, sung of by Dante, which played an important part in the wars of Romagnolo feudalism. The Arcipretale Church is a peculiar structure: its pews, painted blue, are evidently assigned to the use of certain families of the parish, for on the backs are coats of arms, and on the reverse sides,

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proper names. Standing on the floor beside the lighted altar of the Madonna was a large basket, in which I gather, from what I saw, that the faithful deposit gifts of silk cocoons to be sold for the benefit of the church or used in weaving a new celestial dress for the Virgin. Over one of the altars is a painting, by Marco Palmezzani, " T h e Madonna, Enthroned," with The Infant at her breast, suckling like a glutton. We left Castrocaro at ten-thirty and proceeded along a road offering no great interest beyond Terra del Sole where we saw a magnificent looking citadel. At Forli we were not challenged even by the local octroi, though we were now in what is known as the Zone of Maritime Defense, a region strictly regulated but not as rigidly policed as the "Zona di Guerra" which lies nearer the fighting line. It was market day and the big sunny piazza was lively and astir with barter. We reached Ravenna without having seen any signs of war, and drove through its almost deserted streets to the Grand Hotel Byron. T h e "royal rooms," offered us by the proprietor at four lire a day apiece, were not worth even that sum, for they were furnished with broken furniture and covered with dust. Florence and I took a turn around the town in the late afternoon, the time of day when the population of an Italian city is usually on view, but there was little animation in the streets. Perhaps nowhere as in Ravenna does one feel the essential savagery of war. It is a city whose dignity is almost sombre because it bespeaks a nobility that has certainly ceased flowering, though it is not quite dead. Standing apart from the world, it has no reason for existing except to guard the loveliness and the history immortalized in its stones. Its austerity and its beauty remain as they were in the fifth and sixth centuries, for its great history has not passed over it but has become fixed, as it were, in it. Visually, it makes the impression of a city stricken and stilled, which never again grew and prospered, reminding one in this respect of Pom· pei; and the sensation aroused in one by the damage it has sustained in the war is much the same as one would feel on hearing that a precious collection of ancient and illuminated manuscripts had been put to fire and sword.

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Why the Austrians drop bombs on Ravenna must remain one of the inexplicable puzzles of Teuton psychology. There is nothing martial about the aspect of the city, not even the crowd of soldiers one sees in other towns. The only signs of war are the vivid red, white, and green circles painted over the portals of substantially built dwellings that call attention to the vaulted cellars within, affording safe refuge from aerial attack. As one comes upon Sant' Apollinare Nuovo, one reddens with shame at the thought that humanity rather than an architectural treasure has been injured. "Stricken on its brow," to quote the words of Corrado Ricci, Director General of Fine Arts, "stricken on its brow by the nations who pretended until yesterday to be leaders of civilization, after it had come unscathed through the struggles of hordes of barbarians who, for 1,500 years, had fought fiercely time and again in the streets adjoining it." T h e bomb that struck it demolished the upper corner of the fa9ade, pierced the roof, and exploded in the nave of the Basilica, not far from the main portal, ruining the celebrated seventeenth-century ceiling, but happily damaging only a minor portion of the great series of mosaics on the walls of the nave. Laborers on scaffolds are making repairs to the church, which is open to the public except for a space reserved for the work of restoration, marked off by a dead line. Beside the High Altar hangs the flag of Italy draped with a black sash in commemoration of the fallen, and, in front of it, every Sunday morning, a Soldiers' Mass is celebrated by a chaplain who faces, as he turns toward his congregation, the great wound in this House of God. What a Hall of Judgment this venerable, stricken Basilica would make for the day of reckoning at the end of the war! From the pile of debris in front of the church men are rescuing precious bits of carved marble, which will be assembled and put back in their former places or used as models for reproduction; and workmen are opening up the brick windows of the stately round campanile, as the Director of Fine Arts has decided to restore it to its pristine loveliness. In a room of Theodoric's palace, adjoining the church, skillful hands are piecing together shattered mosaics, and, in the sunny

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gardenlike cloisters, artisans are sawing and carving pieces of wood. T h e sacristan's wife leaves her washing and comes to speak to us. She hasn't seen forestieri for ever so long, not since "Judgment Day," as she descriptively calls February 12th, the day when the Austrians dropped fire and death on the city. She had just left the church, after sweeping it, when the bomb fell. Her cousin who had remained in the church to complete her work escaped without injury. "When the Austrians came again," she continued, "the Byzantine Madonna saved our churches from harm, for the shells fell but did not explode . . . At any rate," she added with the relief of anti-climax, " I now have my trench." " A trench?" we asked. "Yes," she explained, smilingly, "under my bed; that is where I go when the air raiders come." A woman of stouter heart was acting custodian of the mausoleum of Galla Placidia, the interior of which, covered by mosaics as blue and transparent as a soft, tremulous sea, is like a jewel, complete and magnificent, upon which a god, who was both an artist and a gentleman, had labored to express in material form the high thought he entertained for some splendid, great lady. While I was looking at the blue and gold of the mosaics, wondering at the strength and endurance of their colors, this whitehaired woman pointed with a simple pathos to the tiny, unglazed window openings. "You should have seen the mosaics with the sun shining upon them through the alabaster panes." These, she explained, had been removed not only to save them from harm but to make an outlet for the currents of air that, in case of an explosion, might cause a great deal of damage by concussion. " W e have taken them away," she added, with a fine gleam of courage in her old eyes, "and given up our children. Now we deserve to win." I thought of her words as I stood in the late evening on the Via Guido da Polenta, at the end of which rises the tomb of his immortal Guest, the poverty of its artistic conception dignified by the sandbags partially covering it. Its white, mistlike cupola, soar-

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i n g above the pallid light of the b l u e street lamps into the starry darkness of the night, brought to my m i n d the stirring invocation of the poet of Italy w h o , today, in the sternness of battle, has risen above himself: For the oak and the laurel and for flaming sword For victory, glory, and joy, and for thy sacred hopes Ο T h o u , who hast tasted of hatred and seest and knowest— Dante, High Custodian of our Destinies, W e await Thee. JUNE 20

T h i s m o r n i n g I drove o u t to the Pineta. W h o a m o n g the famous m e n of the world has not spoken of it? A gale of dust, however, kept m e from e n j o y i n g it. O n the way I stopped at Sant' Apollinare in Classe, one of the finest creations of architecture, one of the most dignified expressions of art I have ever seen. T h e broad flight of steps leading u p to the altar from the nave is a fitting approach to the glory of mosaics covering the vast wall of the apse. T h e colonnades dividi n g the interior into a nave and two aisles, the sarcophagi standing in the aisles, and the small ancient marble altar in the m i d d l e of the nave are all truly noble, as is everything in the B a s i l i c a — e v e n the supremely simple bronze grating over the w i n d o w in the crypt. T h e explanation of a w o m a n custodian about the repairs b e i n g made to one of the large columns in the nave had a touch of Italian thrift. T h e plan to strengthen it by a base of lead and cement at a cost of 6,000 lire has been abandoned on account of the expense involved in the restoration of Sant' A p o l l i n a r e N u o v o , and iron hoops will b e used instead. T h e d i n i n g room of the A l b e r g o Centrale where we lunched was filled with y o u n g officers resting after service at the front. " M a d o n n a ! " w e overheard one of them say, "This is a rest. A s soon as I get leave I am g o i n g to the railroad station to board the first train out, no matter w h e r e it goes. N o t h i n g can be as dead as this town." A n o t h e r said jestingly to one of his comrades w h o had been w o u n d e d three times in f o u r days. " W e all thought y o u were dead and rejoiced at the honor your heroic end had b r o u g h t us."

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A casual discussion ensued about a major they knew. Was he dead or a prisoner? "I told his family," said a Genoese lieutenant, "that I thought he had been made a prisoner, but I really think a baldheaded officer I saw hanging on a barbed-wire entanglement, his head down and his revolver in hand, was him." Before we had finished luncheon, two detectives, dressed as for a theatrical performance, entered and walked up to our table. "Are you strangers?" "Yes." "Did you come in a motor?" "Yes." "Have you passports?" "Of course." "Will you kindly report to the Questura this afternoon?" "With pleasure." On reporting at Police Headquarters, an officer catechized us and raised several objections to our not having taken the shortest route to the front where we are bound. He then disappeared, to refer the question, I suppose, to his superiors. Meanwhile I talked with a "plain-clothes man" who said with a smile, when he learned we were Americans, that he had formerly lived in Rochester. With a wistful note in his voice for the Land of the Free, he told us of the difficulties of policemen's lives in Italy. "We cannot even go into a shop for a drink, and as for taking money . . . " a Neapolitan wave of the hand betokened the absolute Impossible! T h e delegate came back and made handsome apologies. We were right and he was wrong. Of course! What can a mere Questura do confronted with the military safe-conduct of an American woman going, as the general of the Eighth Army Corps states upon its face, "on a noble mission for our soldiers in Automobile Numero 55-4281'Ί Florence and I had a lovely quiet afternoon. First we visited the Baptistery of the Orthodox, a noble edifice of great dignity bespeaking high thoughts, though it is not at all forbidding. Baptism here by a Saint, not merely good but great—for no ordinary priest should function in it—would mean consecration to a faith of fine thoughts and noble aims.

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Then we drove out of town toward the sea, alongside a canal in which lay some boats, empty and silent, waiting for peace to come and make the seas free again. On our return to town we rummaged in a darkened "Antichitä," the shutters of which were being closed, as we entered, by the proprietor, who was making ready to go to the suburb where he had established his family after the bombardments in the city. Florence spotted a lovely little mosaic, blue and green and white, like the mosaics in the churches here, and secured it for me; and I bought a little strip of ruggine embroidery for her. The atmosphere of the city is certainly triste. While we were sitting before dinner at a cafe in the Piazza, some Italian airplanes flew above us, dropping signals of soft white smoke to the land batteries. Every move was watched by the people with great interest, but not with the gay spensieratezza of the citizens of their sister city, Venice. From tables near at hand I heard voices saying, " I wonder what it means?" "Are you sure they're our own?" " I get goose flesh every time I hear the rumble of a motor." Even the lively tunes played by a band of Territorial soldiers, which were echoed by the of the old houses facing the square as if they were the walls of a half-empty hall, drew only a small crowd. After playing three or four pieces, they marched off through the gathering darkness while the lingering light tinged the red-porticoed building at a corner of the piazza with a golden, mellow orange —warm and rich. A few old women in mourning turned their heads slightly to look at the musicians—and that was all.

JUNE 21. FERRARA

By nine this morning we should have started for Ferrara, if Garibaldi Durante, our chauffeur, weren't such a fool or knave or both. The result of hiring a real mechanic and giving him two days to put everything shipshape was that the Ford wouldn't go. We limped as far as Porta Andriana and stopped. I made some necessary and obvious changes, and then said, "I shall drive," said it with some trepidation, for I knew if I couldn't make the machine go after saying it only needed proper handling, my authority would be gone. But the little car seemed to feel that the master's

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reputation was at stake and started off wonderfully, but, alas! I soon discovered that it wouldn't stop. Garibaldi coolly informed me that the foot brake wasn't working. What homilies, curses, pleadings, and maledictions I poured on his head in my effort to get him to fix itl Oh Tuscany! thy name is Obstinacy. After we were once more on our way, a Territoriale and a Carabiniere suddenly sprang out of some bushes alongside the road and signaled us to stop. W e did, or rather tried to, for we couldn't stop neatly, even on a Carabiniere's order in the war zone, with the brake out of order. W e showed our safe-conducts. " G o on," said the Carabiniere after reading them, though he evidently gleaned little from their perusal, for he shyly asked us, as he looked at the pack on the back of the car, "Are you furnishers of soldiers' supplies?" T h i s challenge by a Carabiniere was the gate, as it were, to the war zone, in which our safe-conducts stood us in good stead, lowering bayonets, swinging open bridges, and securing even gasoline and lodgings. In it we were to feel the life of Italy today, of Italy at war, a life permeated by a Latin determination to perform the necessary civil and military tasks of an abnormal epoch in as normal a manner as possible. In this region, through which we were passing, turbulent outbreaks had taken place in the spring of 1914, and even now a sense of instability seems to permeate it, though my knowledge of the events that occurred here may perhaps have lent wings to my imagination. While crossing a river on a toll ferry, a primitive flat raft, I asked the lad running it what had happened to the bridge that formerly spanned it, and he replied indifferently, "It was burned down during Red Week." W e made fair time over a road more or less uninteresting and established ourselves in Ferrara, at the Stella d' Oro on the piazza. T h e loveliness of the great Castello of the Este family is wholly external, for within there is little of beauty. Its custode, who is eighty-seven years of age, fought the Austrians in his youth and hopes to live long enough to store away "Checco Beppe" in the dungeon in which Parisina and Ugo were confined. He hates the Pope because he remembers the rule of his legates over Ferrara.

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T h e faςade of the Duomo, with its interesting figures and animals, is striking; halfway up is a figure of the Madonna, which is lighted at night by two oil lanterns. T h e interior of the edifice is not particularly attractive except for the dignity of its lines. Its environment is very picturesque. Opposite the principal fa9ade is the Volta del Cavallo under which one passes into the Piazzetta Municipale, the former courtyard of an early residence of the Dukes of Ferrara, now the Palazzo Comunale, with a very fine exterior flight of steps ascending to its second story; opposite the southern fa$ade is the ancient Palazzo della Ragione, still housing the courts of justice; and clustering around it are attractive shops and market stalls, besieged by lively crowds. Throughout the ancient quarters of the town are charming, low, plain, shuttered brick buildings. They would be quite reminiscent of old New York, if it were not for the friezes on the faςades and the decorations on the doors. Ariosto's House, with its arched doorway flanked by marble seats, is almost colonial in type. The palace built for Lodovico il Moro, a brick building of noble proportions running partially around a courtyard it was originally designed to enclose, is architecturally set off by two rows of arcades, one above the other. It is in a piteous state of ruin. Inhabited by twenty-three families living in squalid poverty, it is the finest and most pathetic tenement in the world. The custodian of the gallery in the Palazzo dei Diamanti told us that the commune bought this building in 1836 for less than $10,000, and the Castello in a better state of preservation than now for $20,000! T o procure gasoline for the car, I sought the office of the Command in a room in an old convent. T o reach it, I passed through an anteroom where some fifty young men, stripped naked, were being examined for the army, an unexpected scene that almost took my breath away. A very kind but incapable looking old southern Colonel said " N o " to my request, but went, nevertheless, to consult a cavalry major who, he reported, said " N o " also, very positively indeed, I inferred. The major, however, finally agreed to talk with me, and, after a little patient play on my part,

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he offered to telephone a local dealer to let me have two cam of gasoline at 21 lire apiece. JUNE

22

W e left Ferrara this sunny afternoon on a road running along the top of a dyke skirting the Po, which flows through a countryside studded by low Dutch-like houses. W e stopped for a few minutes in the attractive, quiet little town of Rovigo and then went on to Monselice. Leaving our car in the Piazza, we walked about its quiet, almost deserted streets. Through an iron-grilled gate at the end of one of them we saw a small white house with a sloping roof, decked by straight rows of hollyhocks, flanked by green shrubbery, and guarded by still trees, beside the open door of which sat an old man dozing, his head bent forward, his white hands whiter even than the white cuffs edging his black coat sleeves— a picture of sweetness and grace, charming and soothing almost to the point of tears. A t Padua, which we reached about 7 P.M., we were not held up, though it is in the war zone, except at the octroi, where the officer on duty asked, "Ei de passajo?" a question I answered in the same Venetian twang. In one of the squares on the outskirts of the town, under the shelter of trees, were parked a great many camions, with drivers and mechanics apparently ready to go off at a moment's notice. T h i s city, which is not far from the scene of the great Austrian drive in the Trentino, is the centre of the shuttlecock automobile service by which Cadorna transports forces east and west. T h e middle of the town, crowded with officers and soldiers, is gay, gayer even than Udine. T h e large dining hall of the Storione, at which we are staying, presents a delightful picture at the dinner hour, with its golden ceiling, its colorful frescoes, and its long tables filled with smart-looking officers eating and chatting. Very different is the scene later in the evening at Pedrocchi's famous coffeehouse, where a sociable crowd of civilians and officers sip coffee and converse in utter darkness around little tables that flow out from the cafe and fringe the street—a scene fetchingly characteristic of Italian life in the war, for Italians refuse to permit aerial attacks to modify their age-old customs more

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than is absolutely necessary. A b o u t nine o'clock newsboys appear with copies of the "Bollettino," Cadorna's report of the day's military operations, which are eagerly bought up by the habituds of the cafe and read by those possessing blue pocket lamps to the men and women at neighboring tables not so well provided. JUNF. 2 3 . PADUA

A t the end of the thirteenth century an impenitent usurer lived 111 Padua, who amassed a fortune and hoped, no doubt, that his descendants, inspired by the light of his example, would add to it. Instead, his son, Lo Scrovegno, used his inheritance to build on the outskirts of Padua in the year of our Lord 1303 an expiatory chapel which he dedicated to the Virgin. Today we should know nothing, perhaps, of the sinful father or the saintly son, had not the latter employed such worthy masters of art as Giotto and Giovanni Pisano to adorn it. Entering the Madonna dell' Arena from the sunny public gardens outside, rich in flowers at this season—entering it with difficulty for the door resists efforts to open it—one beholds a picture apocalyptic in its strangeness, yet of such charm and softness of line and color that one's spirit leaps instantly on high. T h e walls of this narrow oblong building, soft with the lambent light of Giotto's brush, spring like a soft rainbow out of a mass of sand, edged by steppingstones of sandbags and piled at irregular intervals into heaps swept up by an unknown sea, as it were. Half way u p the nave two little altars topped with reading desks rise out of the sand like mariners' signals, and from the side walls long wooden benches jut out like wreckage on a beach. T h e experts charged with the defense of art, who believe the roof of this chapel is so fragile that a bomb will pierce it without detonating and bury itself harmlessly in the three feet of sand on the floor, are responsible for this unique and beautiful picture. It evokes, strange to say, not a sense of horror in anticipation of a possible outrage, but of pleasure at the sight of an unwonted softness of line and color added to this almost perfect Giottesque jewel. T h e air, the light, the sky in these lovely conceptions of Giotto seem as if they had been captured from nature rather than

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achieved by a study of it. I thought, as I looked at them, of a rainbow, to which they seem related, but I thought also of Christ rising like a spirit from the waters and walking upon them. T h e satisfaction I derived from the individual frescoes came later, satisfaction, for instance, in the "Kiss of J u d a s , " which appealed to me more than any of the others, so visible is the tragedy of his treachery not only in the faces and postures of all the individuals in the crowd pressing around the figures of Christ and Judas, but in the atmosphere, in the color of the background, and in the torches and spears held askew at all sorts of angles. On the wall, behind the High Altar, lies the peaceful figure of L o Scrovegno in white state on his sarcophagus, his head on a cushion, his hands crossed, and his eyes closed, all unconscious of the three layers of protecting sandbags above him and of the glass removed, as a precautionary measure, from the little rosette window in the vaulting. T o the left of the tribune a small door leads into a little sacristy, where many of the chapel's precious possessions, such as Pisano's "Madonna and Angels" and Giotto's last work for the chapel, "Christ on the Cross," are now housed because the sandbags filling the space between the vaulted ceiling and roof afford far greater protection than the frail roof of the chapel. As we entered the sacristy, the sunlight was falling through an open barred window upon a statue of L o Scrovegno in a blue-tinted niche opposite. T h e severe and primitive folds of his tunic are relieved by a short tasseled cape, and the peak of his cap falls over the left side of his head in a flat fold, lessening the austerity of his appearance, though "austerity" is not perhaps the right word to use in describing him, for his somewhat ascetic features and his hands pressed together in prayer—in prayer for his chapel today—express both life and fervor. L i f e certainly characterizes the little figure of the Pig Rampant, the stemma of L o Scrovegno's family, romping, as it were, in the tympanum of the niche! While Florence and I were lingering in this improvised little museum, enjoying not only its great treasures but also such delightful little features as the bronze faucet of the lavabo, cast in the shape of a pig, we heard suddenly the dry sound of blank can-

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non shot. This signal announcing the arrival of Austrian air raiders was followed by the screech of the siren and wildly r u n g church bells. T h e n came a period of complete silence, during which the sense of tragedy loomed large, for at any moment the great frescoes on the frail walls of the chapel might become mere remembrance! And all we could do was to wait and wait and hope! Florence and I looked at each other in wonder. What an experience, alone in this little room with Lo Scrovegno, his eyes fixed on the heavens, Iiis hands placed together in prayer—an experience beautiful as well as tragic, elusively beautiful, for it lacked the stamp of reality. Florence's baptism of fire! in an environment so noble that, however close she may come in touch with the destructive, bloody, and cruel aspect of war, she will never again have so perfect an opportunity as this of picturing it solely as a concept of the mind. During the silences that intervened between the booming of the guns, the birds sang, and, throughout the attack, the sun shone, the Pig Rampant played, and Lo Scrovegno prayed. In the afternoon we drove to "II Santo," the church of Sant' Antonio. It contains the tombs of Gattamelata and his son, Giovanni da Narni, both of which I like very much. T h e High Altar is enclosed in a wall made of alternate rows of hollow and solid bricks, on top of which sandbags are piled. Donatello's statue of Gattamelata in the piazza outside is completely and unattractively covered by a peaked roof of wood, resting on a stout underpinning of timbers through which the hoofs of the horse are visible. From "II Santo" we walked to the Orto Botanico, along a street of the same name and across a brick bridge spanning an arm of the Bacchiglione. After ringing a tinkling bell at the gate, we were admitted by a gardener into a little piazza, at one end of which is the dwelling of the director and at the other are the houses of the custodians. From there we stepped into a refreshing park and wandered over well-raked paths between trees and bushes, some very old and impressive, and all neatly but not offensively tagged. Standing on the ground under the trees or hanging from their branches are potted plants requiring shade or moisture.

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T h e Orto Botanico was founded in 1545. Its most interesting section, the herb garden, is enclosed by a high circular wall on top of which busts of famous botanists are placed at regular intervals. T h i s garden is divided into quadrants by intersecting paths terminating at openings in the wall, through which you see niches of green, with a statue or fountain in each. T h e quadrants are enclosed by low picket fences of simple design and subdivided by moss-covered stone copings into geometrically shaped plots surrounded by paths to facilitate the examination of the plants growing in them. At the centre of each quadrant rises a trickling fountain made of metal in the form of a plant, a simple but not unattractive conceit. Although I saw every kind of plant, from a dozen varieties of onions to a hundred of goldenrod, their happy arrangement produces the effect, not of an erudite botanical exhibition, but of a neatly kept old garden. Delicate plants are ranged against the inner side of the wall, along a stretch exposed to the south. Among these, carefully protected from storm and cold by a roof, is Goethe's palm, so-called because he wrote of it after a visit to the Orto Botanico. JUNE 24

T h i s morning I went to see the Palazzo della Ragione. Ascending its fine external staircase, I entered the great hall, more impressive for its spaciousness than for any of its other features, a spaciousness emphasized by the huge wooden reproduction of the Gattamelata horse standing at one end of it, made for a giostra in the fifteenth century. T h e innumerable patches of frescoes on its walls, especially those relating to the history of Padua, add much to the general effect. On the floor where Carnival balls were formerly held, benches removed from schools converted into barracks are stacked. From the loggie extending along both sides of the hall are delightful views of the two squares between which the Palazzo stands, Piazza dei Frutti and Piazza delle Erbe, and of the long irregular streets, partially porticoed and lined by innumerable little shops, running off from them in every direction. Late in the afternoon we left Padua for Treviso. A t every crossroad our motor was challenged; at the first, by a red flag run u p

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above a shady hedge of shrubbery by two highly bored Territoriali, who looked at our papers and took our automobile number; at the second, by some Americani who entered into conversation, "We are tired, dead tired of doing this kind of thing: we've been at it for eight months"; at the third, by a pleasant corporal with whom we chatted on and off while the Ford took a drink at a cool fountain; and at crossroads beyond, by Carabinieri and artillerymen. We stopped to see a long stately mansion in the middle of a podere, built at least a hundred years ago on a lavish scale, as forty-nine marble columns attest. In its halls hay is now stored, and on its walls scurrilous English phrases have been scrawled by the American reservists who are occupying it and letting it go to the dogs. Farther on we met a little procession outside a small village. First came some young girls dressed in white, with flowers and wreaths in their white-gloved hands, next a group of contadini bearing the body of a child on a stretcher behind which walked a priest carrying a lighted candle, and then some more young girls in white. We slowed up and bowed to this sad, sweet little procession of youth bearing a youth to his last resting place. What shall I say of Noale, upon which we came as a beautiful discovery late in the afternoon when we drove into the soothing shadows of its irregularly shaped piazza? A double line of ancient walls with fine gates still extant, a municipio of delicate Venetian workmanship, an allee of old trees bordered by a singing stream, a piazza surrounded by old buildings out of which peep a cartoleria, better stocked with toys apparently than stationery, a happylooking caße decked with potted geraniums, and an albergo out of the Golden Age of Ancient Inns—such is Noale. I don't know why we didn't stop for the night or forever. Instead we sped on to Treviso and put up at the Hotel Baglioni and Roma, a modern, too modern, hostelry. JUNE 25

This morning I visited the Duomo of Xreviso but was prevented from inspecting it carefully by a ceremonious procession.

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In front of a bishop carrying the Host under a canopy, borne by canons arrayed in purple, were bearers with red and gold standards and heavy flambeaux and behind, a long line of old men and women dressed in black, carrying large lighted tapers. From Treviso we drove through an uninteresting stretch of country to Pordenone and Codroipo, where we decided, somewhat late in the evening, to keep on to Udine. With sidelights but no headlights, in compliance with the law of the war zone, we flew over a long stretch of road, so white that it helped the eye to steer. O n reaching the dark viale heavily flanked by trees that leads to Porta Venezia in Udine, we slowed u p and were accosted by a Carabiniere who approved our papers, but said he doubted whether we should be allowed to enter the city at night. T h e guard at Porta Venezia, which towered above us very mediaevally in the dim, blue light of the sentry's pocket lamp, scrutinized our passes and gave us the choice of waiting outside the gate until daylight or finding our way through the city in the dark, for no lighted vehicles are allowed to circulate in it at night. W e put out our lights, passed through the gate, and felt our way through a succession of dark, narrow, tortuous streets, wrapped in silence except for the occasional measured tread of the night watch, to the Croce di Malta. Every room in it was occupied but one in the garret, which looked as if it had just been shifted from a stage set for " L a Boheme," where we went to sleep happily in the thought of our safe arrival. J U N E 2 6 . UDINE

Greeted very kindly by Colonel Barbarich and Captain Weillschott at the Uflkio Stampa, I felt very much at home as I talked over my plans and arranged to go to Vicenza, with a letter of introduction to Colonel Clerici, Sotto Capo di Stato Maggiore of the Command. Word came, while I was in the office, of the Italian victory at Monte Cengio and Asiago, and shortly afterwards a news vendor, a well-known character in Udine, went through the streets shouting "Grande Imponente Vittoria Italiana. Fuori Ie Bandiere!" In a few minutes Udine was ablaze with the tricolor. Cantalupo, with tears in his eyes, told me a very sad story.

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Colonel S , whose good food we had consumed at Vezza d' Oglio, is dead. He died gloriously in the Trentino, leading his Alpini against the enemy. We had rated him rather lightly as a soldier for no other reason than the desire he expressed to be with his family in Milan. And Giordana—that splendid, strong, inflexible soldier who led us safely and unhesitatingly through the storm across the glacier—he, too, is dead. He was last seen leading his Alpini on Monte Cucco delle Mandrielle, north of Asiago. A glorious peace to them both, to these makers and forgers of a stronger and better Italy. Florence and I have been moved into very pleasant rooms overlooking a courtyard covered by wisteria. We spent part of the day wandering about the streets of the city, enjoying every minute. JUNE 2 7

We lunched today with the prefect and his wife, Signor and Signora Luzzatto, in the old palace in which they reside, the other guests being Father Gemelli and Signora Gotti-Buonaparte, both interesting persons. At four o'clock we left for Cervignano on the usual road out of Porta Aquileia, which I had heretofore covered with such speed that I had missed many of its points of interest. Today, owing to the number of troops transferred to the Trentino, the great baraccamenti stretching for miles along it are unoccupied, the weeds in the soldiers' gardens are winning their battle with the flowers, and transplanted evergreens are dying for lack of care. Sentry boxes are untenanted, mess sheds bare, shacks for autos and horses empty, and narrow channels of water marked "Not Drinkable" or "Polluted" run undisturbed beneath the tangle of wild bushes bordering the road. We went on unchallenged until we neared the gate of Palmanova, which is so buried in the town's staunch fortifications that it cannot be seen from the tortuous road leading to it. We stopped at a caf£ in the large piazza in Palmanova. While we were sitting at a table on the sidewalk outside, a Royal Lancer, with a fluttering banderuola at the tip of his lance, rode up and ordered us to proceed with our motor, but, seeing us engaged in

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such an Italian occupation as sipping coffee, he added, "You may wait a few minutes." On we moved, however, toward the gate at the opposite end of the town and joined a long line of camions and carts loaded with ammunition and dynamite, as flying red flags indicated, waiting to proceed out of town as soon as the incoming traffic permitted. As we drew near to Cervignano, the throb of battle grew apace, the activity and watchfulness of sentinels and the number of camions and ambulances presenting a remarkable picture of the mechanism of war. This former Austrian town oil the railroad line between Venice and Trieste is now an important Italian centre where all troops, ammunition, and supplies for the lower Isonzo front are delivered. A pleasant Captain escorted us past a bayoneted sentry to the Posto di Ristoro, a small shack, surrounded by a cane fence, inside the railroad precinct. Here we found Mrs. Watkins, a pale, delicate-faced woman of quiet force, I should judge, together with Miss Hulton, her assistant, and a young, pretty English girl. They spend their days in this shack, which boasts a garden and a bombproof retreat, preparing gallons of cooling drinks and packages of sweets and cigarettes for the sick and wounded who are brought from first- and second-line hospitals to be put on the hospital trains that start from this station for the interior of Italy. They pass their nights in a small villino just outside the station precinct, which is also provided with a dugout, for this busy centre is often bombed. A room engaged for Florence by Mrs. Watkins had been unexpectedly commandeered by the military authorities. We searched in vain for lodgings. We even appealed to Colonel Mazzucchelli at the Quartier Generale, with whom we had a pleasant chat while one of his aides undertook to find out if there were any vacant rooms in the town. None! The only accommodation available within a radius of two miles was a single bed in a room with six other tenants. Finally we compromised on a safe-conduct back to Udine. Armed with it, we returned to the Posto di Ristoro to take leave of Mrs. Watkins and accepted an invitation to dine with her be-

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fore starting for Udine. Dinner was served in the garden by a soldier cook whose white cap was not unlike caps occasionally seen in old pictures. With the fruit, the Austrians arrived! T h e siren blew, the guns roared, and white flakes of shrapnel drove us into the dugout. Owing to this interruption we left Cervignano much later than we had intended, though we started before the end of the raid. The weather was threatening and we drove fast, hoping to reach Udine ahead of the storm. T h e blue lights on the dark streets of Palmanova, disappearing into the blackness ahead, called u p visions of ancient days, convincing, but not exactly cheering. Beyond Palmanova we encountered a darkness even greater, but the not unmusical buzz of the telegraph wires singing above us assured us we were on the right road. O u r lights went out. We relit them and went on. Before long we heard the rumble of cannon and saw on our right a strange irregular line of faint lights: the lights of illuminating bombs floating over the front-line trenches, close, clear, and exciting, which burned silvery and bright before they dissolved in the low-lying mist. Presently the skies split open, and a torrent of rain poured upon us. Everything went black, a blackness occasionally rent by flashes of lightning disclosing some such unexpected sight as a steeple silvered by the rain. Suddenly there Avas a terrific crash which seemed to rend the earth, and our lights blew out again. We swerved, jerked, and stopped. One wheel of the Ford was in a ditch, through which a flood of water was rushing, with the noise of an angry river. T h e rain beat heavily upon us, for the top of the car, at the angle at which it lay, offered little protection, but we finally succeeded in putting up our curtains, though not until after the car was flooded. An interminable time, an hour or more I should think, passed, during which we took frequent sips from my flask to ward off dire consequences, for we were wet to the skin. T h e n the rain moderated, and the flaming bombs played again over that fateful line on the front, blazing, paling, fading. Lighting a candle, we saw the hopelessness of our situation, but happily heard before long the sound of lumbering wheels and caught a glimpse of a swinging light near the ground—that of a lantern we were sure—at which we

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gazed as at a star of hope. Nearer and nearer it drew, and our hail brought a prompt and cheery response from a couple of carters accustomed, they said, to pulling camions and autos out of ditches. T h e y hitched a couple of horses to the Ford, and out of the ditch it came with a will, but on being suddenly released it rebounded into the ditch farther even than before, its rear wheels in the water and its fore ones gyrating in the air! T h e carters, who had never seen a car as light as the Ford, stared at it in amazement. T h e y agreed to pull it out again, but said they could not guarantee that it would be undamaged. Of course not. How could they? It looked like a heap of junk. T h e y hitched only one horse to it this time. It came—he came, I might almost say, so lovingly did we look at it as we saw it move, rise, and stand on all fours. W e released the horse and tried the engine—an anxious moment. It went! Alleluia! I gave the men a fabulous sum, making them as happy as I was, and off we went on our own power. A Carabiniere guarding a railroad gate on the outskirts of Udine, to whom we showed our pass, said he had no authority to raise it; so I sought and tipped the railroad guard who let us pass. It was after 2 A.M. when we reached the Croce di Malta. As usual there were no vacant rooms, but we thankfully accepted a makeshift bed and a sofa in the guardaroba. JUNE

29

A t a quarter before six today the siren woke us. Florence rose and dressed as quickly as if early morning hours were her specialty, and we betook ourselves to the wine cellar. Guns fired and bombs dropped, one of which, we heard later, hit the Civil Hospital, killing two women and injuring another who had just undergone an operation. Colonel Clericetti told me in confidence today of a striking event maturing in the zone of the Tofana. T h e Italians, it seems, have been drilling for months a mine tunnel under "II Castelletto," a spur of Tofana Prima. By setting off 35 tons of explosive in it, they hope to blow off the summit of the mountain and destroy the Austrian battery on top of it, commanding the road to Cortina.

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I learned, too, that Cadorna is planning, now that the Austrians have been driven back in the Trentino, to press against the enemy on the lower Isonzo. By taking advantage of the railroad communications working like shuttles between the two wings of the Italian front, he can transport a large number of troops to the eastern front very quickly. June 30 Florence left early this morning for Cervignano, a room in the villino being now free. Miceli of the Prensa and I set out later in a hired car for Monfalcone, where the Italians have taken the offensive and made over 600 prisoners. We stopped, foolishly enough, at Cervignano to ask for instructions and were told we could not proceed because of a new kind of offensive weapon the Austrians were using. We were both sore at this interdiction, though I was glad of the opportunity it gave me of seeing Florence and finding out how she was settled. At the Posto di Ristoro an English Red Cross ambulance driver was sleeping on a couch, and Mrs. Watkins and Florence were preparing comforts for the wounded. Florence had just lunched with an officer from the Trentino, who vouches for the fact that a culpable general was shot in the presence of his troops. On the way back to Udine, Miceli told me that, strategically, the Italian military authorities ought to have withdrawn their troops in the Trentino and allowed the Austrians to drive through to the Venetian plains, where huge contingents of cavalry had been concentrated to give battle, but they feared to take this course because of its moral effect on the country. They decided, therefore, to hold the wings of the line strongly and move them forward as quickly as possible in an encircling movement. One thousand camions, going to and fro continuously, transported 100,000 men within a few days from the Isonzo to the Trentino front, and the trains carried immense numbers, of course. Tomorrow I plan to start for Vicenza with the smallest amount of luggage on record, a rucksack and a couple of overcoats.

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J U L Y 1. VICENZA

T h e journey from Udine to Vicenza, via Treviso, was hot and interminable, but interesting, for the innumerable trains filled with troops, horses, batteries, rolls of barbed wire, and pontoon boats, to which mud was still sticking, and the long lines of hospital and supply cars immaculately swept, ready to receive and carry, gave me a very clear idea of what it means to possess an easily handled line of communications along the front. The movement was visibly from west to east, that is from the Trentino to the Isonzo. T h e soldiers grouped under the fresh green branches screening the big open doorways of the freight cars in which they were traveling seemed quite unconcerned and happy, singing and taking graciously whatever the ladies at the stations along the route offered them. Some of the roadbeds and all of the stations in Venetia were heavily guarded. These latter contrast strangely with the neat little stations on the Vicentine plain, with their sweet, stiff rows of hollyhocks and trumpet vines tempering their sunbaked walls. Arriving at Vicenza an hour late, I found a hot but quiet room in the Albergo Roma, a nice old-fashioned hostelry of good class, much like the city itself. I don't know whether my impression of Vicenza as a fine old lady leaning on a gallant's arm is evoked by the thought of the grave perils from which she has recently been saved by the Italian troops. At all events it is a gracious, "good family" town, very individual in character. The lovely aristocratic Venetian palaces visibly in decay, but unbending, that stand shoulder to shoulder with plain, humble houses lend a special grace and sweetness to the city. I went at once to the Command. Two blocks away from the palace in which it is housed, a Carabiniere stopped my cab, no vehicles being allowed in its vicinity. Colonel Ambrogio Clerici, who received me immediately, decided I should see everything to be seen on the Trentino front, and assigned Captain De Guidi, a Piedmontese, as my guide for tomorrow. Afterwards I crossed the Retrone on a quaint stone bridge and walked about the town. Atop the needlelike steeple of the T o r r e dell' Orologio, in the Piazza de' Signori, the tricolor was floating.

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T h e fa$ade of one of the Venetian palaces in the Corso, bearing traces of mural decoration, is so finely yet delicately worn by time and so untouched except by the patina of age that it is as soft as a lovely worn carpet of silk. I have never seen such beautifully worn stone and mortar. A n Alpino general was dining some foreign officers at the hotel this evening—several Englishmen and a Frenchman, young, martial, and adventurous looking, dressed in fine, almost studied neglige. He and one of the Englishmen were studying the directions on a box of Zampironi's antimosquito incense! JULY 2

I was up at six and started at 7:30 for a trip to the Trentino front with Captain De Guidi, an officer wounded in this and the Libyan War. As we left, the siren blew a warning, and I had a fine view of a shining Austrian airplane flying very high in the heavens toward some unknown objective in Italy. Before long, driving became difficult, owing to the steep tourniquets on the road which was very martial in aspect, with its heavy traffic of autos, camions, carts laden with casks of water, and ambulances filled with tired and wounded men. T h e police and sentries were numerous, and the number of civilian laborers repairing and enlarging the road was legion. As we rose and rose, we had a superb view of the green Vicentine plains cut by the great lazy lines of the Brenta and a smaller river. W e entered some dense pinewoods peopled with men engaged in all kinds of work, from blacksmithing to giving first aid to the wounded. In moss-covered gorges were small and large encampments, and, under the shelter of rocks and caves, there were camp shops, deposits of ammunition, and great casks of water covered with greens. A t regular intervals all along the road relief camions and tractors were stationed for the purpose of rescuing unlucky motors and wagons. Occasionally we passed trenches and wire entanglements and, here and there, in a quiet nook, crosses inscribed with names of fallen soldiers. I had no idea the Austrians had swept so far south. As a matter of fact, beyond Lusiana, where we stopped to ask the colonel in

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command for leave to proceed, we went over roads recently trod by Austrian heels. After covering rapidly a stretch of road still beaten by the enemy, on which we passed a completely gutted house in charge of a Carabiniere, we stopped at the Osteria del Turcio. On a knoll to the left was a gay pink villa with its head literally blown off. Here we left the car and walked down a mule path, skirting the pinewoods, until we came upon some engineers and artillerymen building green shelters for a battery of "102's." They showed us the way through some hastily constructed Austrian trenches, abandoned by the enemy on their retreat, to the observatory we were seeking, which was in charge of a young Milanese artillery captain. From there I saw the battlefield of Asiago, a vast undulating valley backed by hills of varying heights, more or less covered by evergreens, and cut by a winding, white road—exposed to the sun and to the enemy. T h e road touched, as a river might touch, a hamlet or a white house here and there before it was lost to sight among the hills. By the aid of the captain's glass I entered, you might say, Asiago, situated on one of the green billows of this peaceful valley. Its bright red-roofed houses, tall, trim, and ugly, bespeak an unpretentious family summer resort. T h e tall gray steeple of its church has been sliced in half, and the silver dome shows the effect of a heavy blow, but the other buildings in the town appeared, from this distance at least, externally sound, though they all have black marks of fire around their windows and doors. This malevolent form of destruction gives the picture a special pathos, such as attaches to a civilian injured in the war, whose appeal to one's sympathy is quite different from that of an injured soldier. Beyond Asiago, on a rising stretch of green, were the Italian trenches and "holes" of approach, superficial, hasty excavations dug in irregular lines by the soldiers as they move forward to attack, and behind these, the front line trenches of the enemy. Upon the billowy stretch of green immediately in front of us, with houses and hamlets devastated by bombardment and fields torn by explosions, the sun beat and silence reigned except for the sound of Italian artillery firing at some old fortifications used by the Austrians as barracks. T h e enemy, for the most part,

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is keeping very quiet now, though they tried a counteroffensive last night. We walked back with the captain of the battery through the shell-marked woodland to a comfortable little frame house in a pine-wooded ravine, furnished with loot from Asiago by the Austrians, where he is now living. After drinking a vermouth to his battery, we took our leave and lunched on the way back to our car in as shady and picniclike a nook as one could wish to find. On reaching the main road, we saw some soldiers run forward and come quickly to "attention." T h e King, accompanied by a general and a colonel, was passing on foot. With all the respect I feel for His Majesty, I cannot think him a kingly figure. Small, almost badly shaped, dressed in a general's field uniform, he was walking along the dusty road, carrying a camera that seemed too big for him. Meeting a camion that had just come through from Asiago, he stopped the driver and asked the men in it a number of questions as to what they had seen and the severity of the Austrian shelling. After giving them some cigars and cigarettes, which he ordered his chauffeur to bring him, he drove off, and we followed, dropping behind to escape the dust from his car. At Lusiana we stopped at the Command and thence proceeded by a dangerous but lovely road to Marostica, a town on a plain, enclosed by a battlemented wall which takes in the top of the high hill behind it. A dusty drive through Sandrigo took us to Vicenza. In the afternoon I called at the Command and saw Colonel Clerici, who arranged another trip for me tomorrow. Afterwards I went to the Ufficio Stampa in Palazzo Piovene, in the quiet Contrada San Faustino, and had a chat with the officer in charge, Lieutenant Colonel Pompilio Schiarini, a kindly man, recalled from long civilian retirement, a student of geography, more borghese than soldier, who has been both judge advocate and censor during the war. An embroidered basket of flowers in an old frame, hanging on the wall over his head, made me feel quite homesickl On my way back to the hotel I visited San Lorenzo and admired its lovely Gothic faςade. T h e interior of it, despite its noble lines and the tomb of Montagna, is evidently used as a storehouse.

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T h e goal of today's trip was Mt. Lisser and the battlefield of the Marcesina. I was up at 5:30 but, owing to objections raised about the trip by Mrs. W of the London Times, we did not start until 7:30 when we left in a comfortable motor, driven by a most expert chauffeur, with Captain Accame, a cavalry officer, as guide. W e went first to Marostica, which has become such a busy depot of army supplies that the Austrians drop bombs—dropped them yesterday in fact—within its delightfully ancient but useless walls, and then to Bassano, which we entered by a picturesque, covered bridge whence we had a charming view of the Brenta and its banks. T h e little I saw of Bassano is quaint and attractive; its pleasing features, I imagine, would be more enhanced by the normal and quiet setting of peace than by that of war. Beyond Bassano the road winds along the Brenta through a cleft, widening here and there, between high and lovely but not imposing mountains. T h e aspect of this Canale di Brenta is, in a minor key, not unlike the valley of the Tagliamento in Carnia. T h e running green waters lend a sense of coolness to the comfortable appearance of the hamlets strung out along it. W e met the Brigata Rovigo returning from the front, a complete fighting unit composed of young men, bronzed, hardened, and fully equipped. Bivouacking at the edge of the road, ready for a smile and a pleasantry, they were enjoying their rest, but at the same time keeping a certain order so as to march off without confusion. Some were good-naturedly taking a small wayside osteria by assault, and others were being "watered" at peasant houses. Bringing up the rear were carts filled with officers' baggage and field supplies, Red Cross and Sanita ambulances, and a long line of Sanita soldiers. This picture of men coming back from the battle line had its counterpart in a unit of Bersaglieri whom we saw toward the end of the day going up to it. T h e y were riding, fifteen to a camion, as comfortably as they could, their attitudes expressing not so much relaxation as tempered vigor. Not so young as the men in the Brigata Rovigo, they were in the prime of robustness, ideal fighting men who left one in no doubt as to the meaning of

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the term "seasoned troops." An indescribable something in their bronzed faces, in the turn of their closely cropped heads, in the pose of their bodies, would speedily have convinced any leader of men that these were soldiers upon whom he could depend, soldiers for whom fighting had become the natural business of life. Here I may record an account I heard today of the tactics employed by the Alpini in capturing a plateau held by Austrian sharpshooters hidden behind huge boulders. Marching forward in groups of three, single file, the leaders offered themselves as targets in order that the men behind them might have time to rush upon the Austrians and finish them with bayonets. Captain Accame praised the southern troops. They dislike work, love to warm their stomachs in the sun, and are easily discouraged by defeat, but they are absolutely insuperable because of their indifference to death, which, in their simple philosophy, is unavoidable and not worth taking too great pains to escape. Their humorous nature breaks out even in their superstitious practices. When firing becomes lively, they loudly invoke St. Gennaro and the Madonna del Carmine, with whose pictures they paper their trench posts. They even make offerings of a few soldi: "These are for you if you save us from the Tedeschi." But if the trenches are blown up, they turn upon their saints, "Che fesseria 'sto San Gennaro," pick up their votive money and spend it on red wine. Just before crossing the river Cismon at its confluence with the Brenta, we stopped to look at a Reparto Forni, set up on a green field alongside the road, fifty iron bread ovens, tipo Weiss, manufactured in Italy, which are mounted on wheels so that they may be hitched to horses and bake in transit if necessary. These, however, were ranged in a line under commodious tents, out of the tops of which their locomotivelike funnels emerged. They are divided into long compartments fitted with drawers to hold loaves of dough kneaded in small cloth-lined baskets to a uniform size and shape. From time to time the drawers are shifted with skillful rapidity to other compartments of graduated heat until the baking process is completed. Afterwards the loaves are packed closely and neatly in crates, like eggs in a box, and loaded on wagons for transportation to this or that post. One hundred thousand pa-

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gnotte are turned out a day, crisp, light and delicious, as we found on sampling them. This side of Primolano we crossed the Brenta and began the ascent to Enego over a road that, for boldness of curves, is a marvel. T h e heights upon which Enego is situated look almost inaccessible, but you discover, as you wind up and up, that Italians can build roads anywhere. Enego is, I believe, a sweet town, but its military aspect prevented me from noticing any of its normal features except the remains of an old tower upon which I saw a ladder, the arms of the Scaligeri. After lunching at the Angiolo d' Oro, a primitive inn, on some very fair steak, we drove over a road leading obviously to the battle lines. We passed motor lorries noisily pulling long-range guns, camions piled with ammunition, ambulances empty going up and full coming down, "sangue che va e sangue che viene," numberless motorcycles, mounted men, and Carabinieri "keeping the peace." Alongside the road were small encampments and depots of ammunition and supplies under guard. We stopped for a few moments at the foot of the road ascending to the fortress on top of Mt. Lisser, built according to the most modern and scientific theories in 1912 at a cost, I understand, of five million lire, but so useless today against "305's" and "420's" that the Italians have withdrawn their great guns from it, though they still use mobile batteries on it. Beyond this point the road dips and winds in such dangerous curves as to necessitate the careful regulation of the stream of camions, gun carriages, trattrici, and wagons passing over it. On one of the worst curves, where the road is being widened, we were not allowed to proceed until a telephone operator at the other end of it announced that the way was clear. Hundreds of civilians were working feverishly on all parts of the road, except those beaten by the enemy's guns; on these, soldiers of the engineering corps were engaged. We finally came into the Marcesina plain, the end of the Italian right wing, against which the Austrians advanced but were driven back after a fortnight. T h e peculiar sombreness of this gloomy, brooding, undulating valley is emphasized by the pine-covered hills surrounding it and the numberless boulders scattered over it. From one end of it, between wooded heights, peeps the white top of Fort

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Lisser. T h e only buildings on it, w i t h the exception of a few w o o d e n huts, are the Cappella della Marcesina and the osteria of the same name. T h e s e stand on a rise of ground within a white-walled obl o n g enclosure, not unlike a N e w England pasture, the rear line of which, I understand, marks the boundary between Austria and Italy. T h e chapel, a tiny country church topped by a belfry, has been battered by artillery fire, and the osteria is fearfully gutted and burnt, though on its p i n k wall still linger traces of the sign, "Sale e T a b a c c h i , " coupled as usual with the Royal A r m s for the purpose of calling attention to the monopoly exercised over these commodities by the state. B e h i n d these buildings the valley makes a salient into the pinewoods where the wings of the Austrian troops rested while the central body forced their way across the plain and threw u p trenches. O n b e g i n n i n g their counteroffensive, the Italians met so fierce a resistance that they would have been obliged to retreat if reinforcements had not come to their aid. In fact the situation was so grave on the most critical day of the struggle that the Italian C o m m a n d deemed it unwise to wait until the cover of night to b r i n g u p troops, and decided on the brave but costly manoeuvre of t h r o w i n g the 139th R e g i m e n t , composed mostly of southerners, across the plain in midday. U n d e r the protection of M t . Lisser and the shelter of a fair-sized hillock, they advanced to the osteria, whence they marched in the open in "superb formation, k e e p i n g flank to flank contact" under a hail of Austrian shells. T h e y sustained heavy losses, but reached their hard-pressed comrades and aided them in driving the Austrians out of their trenches and over the hill of Mandrielle. General Pecori-Giraldi, I am told, played a great part in the critical hours of this battle. A f t e r looking over the plain, dented by recent shells and crisscrossed by entanglements of wire and chevaux-de-frise, we explored the former Austrian trenches, strewn with a m m u n i t i o n and numberless empty sardine cans marked " N o r v e g e n . " T h e y are well-built, reinforced with quantities of bags filled w i t h sand or stones, connected with reserve trenches in the woods, and provided with emplacements for guns which were supported by Austrian artillery mounted on neighboring heights captured by the Austrians. Evidently the Austrians expected to hold o u t here in-

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definitely, for, b e h i n d the second-line trenches, gardenlike steps in the pinewoods lead to a village of huts lined with bark and covered w i t h p i n e branches, b u i l t for the C o m m a n d . I n f r o n t of this village, n e a r the road, is a space leveled by the Austrians, on w h i c h they h a d b u i l t with haste, solidity, and respect, a small cemetery. A r o u n d a substantial pedestal of white stone blocks, s u p p o r t i n g a \vooden cross covered with fronde of pine, are ranged rows of i n d i v i d u a l graves made of sod, each designated by a small cross inscribed with the name, grade, and date of death of the fallen soldier. U n d e r a pine tree at one side of this cemetery are the graves of officers, decorated with wreaths of evergreen. T h e g r a v e of a captain of Bersaglieri, w h o lies between two Austrian officers, has been covered by the Italians with a p r o f u s i o n of plants a n d flowers. T h e treatment of the dead by the Austrians seems to reflect the great ethnic diversity in the A u s t r i a n E m p i r e , f o r it varies, I am told, f r o m a fine reverence, such as shown in this cemetery, to a barbarous d e n u d i n g of the Italian dead. A n o t h e r little A u s t r i a n cemetery on the edge of the camp of the 1 3 9 t h R e g i m e n t , seems, strangely enough, to fit in with the busy, almost joyous l i f e of these Sicilians. T h e h u m of their activities and the lilt of their songs appear neither irreligious nor inappropriate, f o r the reason, n o doubt, that a cemetery is a comp o n e n t part of life-at-war which is always in close touch with death. S o m e of the dead b u r i e d in it were evidently M o h a m m e d a n s , f o r q u i t e a n u m b e r of graves are marked, not by crosses, b u t by p e c u l i a r l y shaped c o l u m n s hastily carved out of pine, into which A r a b i c inscriptions a r e b u r n t . T h e top of a shell sticking o u t of the earth settling a r o u n d one of these graves led to the discovery that the Austrians had b u r i e d a m m u n i t i o n in it. T h e Austrians must have retreated hastily, j u d g i n g by the amm u n i t i o n and e q u i p m e n t l e f t in their trenches and d r o p p e d 011 their trail, which is easily f o l l o w e d by blazed trees. " I n the w a k e of an A u s t r i a n r e t r e a t , " an officer said to me, " y o u can pick u p e v e r y t h i n g except b r e a d . " W o u n d e d Austrian prisoners ask m o r e eagerly f o r bread than attention to their wounds. O n some points

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of the fighting line, where hatred does not run high and trenches are close, the adversaries throw "delicacies" across to one another, Austrian tobacco, for example, in exchange for Italian bread. An officer of the 139th Regiment, who accompanied us up the Mandrielle, was evidently worried about our safety. T h e road, pock-marked by shells and lined by fallen trees, looks as if a tornado had passed over it. Certain points are so exposed to the enemy's fire that 1,200 shells landed on it yesterday, killing eight men and twelve mules; and yet muleteers were calmly driving their animals over it today instead of over a sheltered mule path near at hand. When, at length, we came to a halt, got out of our car, and began , who had insisted on to walk through a dense thicket, Mrs. W going as far forward as possible to see Mt. Colombarone and Mt. Zingarella, for which the Italians and Austrians are now contending, reprimanded the officers accompanying us for leading her over an impossible trail. Impossible, indeed, for her high-heeled slippers! I am in favor of opening every field of endeavor to women, but I find them often unreasonable. Mrs. W 's well-turned ankles do not excuse her from wearing boots such as every other war correspondent wears. We were obliged to return to Enego. On the way we drove up to the top of Mt. Lisser. I can hardly imagine anything more ludicrous in appearance than the fortress on top of it. This mighty structure of masonry and steel cupolas would be difficult to sell to a junk dealer today. Shots from a " 3 0 5 " have clipped it, and a better aim by a "420" would have finished it. From here we had a glorious view of Val Sugana to the north, of Arsie and Feltre 011 the plain to the east with Mt. Roncone in between, of Mt. Castelgomberto to the southwest, so near that the former Austrian trenches on its slopes are visible to the naked eye, and of mountains in the dimness of the west, already cleared of the enemy, far away as they are. On Mt. Castelgomberto, a battalion of Italians, or rather the survivors of a battalion whose officers had all been killed or wounded, were led against the Austrians by a priest chaplain

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who fell, mortally wounded, on the third and successful attempt. T h e general opinion in the Trentino is that the Italians have now learned to fight; that is, they have grasped the fact that if they wish to attain definite objectives, they cannot economize either in men or materials. jui.Y 4

A dreary Independence Day, away from Florence and with nothing American about me. Walking around Vicenza, I caught a glimpse of the Giardino Quirini Dalle Ore from the arched entrance to it in the palace on the Contrada San Marco. A long viale flanked by trees and heroic-sized statues leads to an artificial mound surmounted by a Greek tempietto, with a fine view, I imagine, of the mountains rising to the north of Vicenza, which I saw from a side entrance to the garden. T h e glimpses one gets of green and flowered loveliness in little gardens tucked away in nooks along the Bacchiglione and Retrone rivers are enhanced by the perfume of oleanders floating over their Avails. On the Bacchiglione, beyond a bridge near which a long line of women washing clothes made a pretty picture, beyond some mills merrily turning in the river, beyond some men fishing, I saw an old Venetian house of exquisite proportions, with charming carvings, which retains its primitive loveliness. T h e attraction of the city is due on the whole more to its appearance of gracefully attained old age than to its remains of ancient greatness. Imagine a city in whose ancient coffeehouses old men bow to one another with a formal dignity of earlier times, a city that clings to such names for its narrow tortuous streets as "Via of the Little Carnation" or the "Contrada of the Moon," and takes special pride in a tiny house—an architectural fancy embroidered in stone—on the facade of which is carved, "II n'est rose sans espine"! At one end of an arcaded street, with arches supported by columns, some of which are old and carved, I came across a baroque house ornamented by a bust of a knight who, it appears, intro-

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duced the Persian method of making silk in Vicenza, for beneath it is inscribed: II primo forte che reco dai Persi II far drappi di seta in queste parti. I stopped for a moment in the church of St. Filippo Neri; it was empty, still, and deliciously cool. In a pew at the back an Alpino, a real mountain boy, had fallen asleep, overcome by the cool and quiet atmosphere of the church into which he had stepped, no doubt, to pray. His blanket rolled in military fashion and his worldly goods tied in a pitiful red kerchief lay on the floor beside him, and his feathered hat, on the seat in front. In him I saw the substance and stuff out of which the huge Italian army has been created: men enduring and brave, ready to die for their mothers, homes, and native land, but not warriors or conquerors. With civilization too bred in the bone to allow them to love war, success will not intoxicate them or turn the nation into a militaristic state. When this terrible war is over, they will return—to their vineyards and shops, to their loquacious cafis and osterie, where good honest wine can be had—the same simple, bright, kindly people they have always been. July 5 T h e recent combat in the Trentino has been likened to a struggle between two men on a stair landing, during which one (the Italian) is forced step by step to the foot of the stairs, but there turns and fights his way up again. A glance at the map will show that the landing is represented by the mountainous region between the Brenta River and Cima Undici, north of the Italian frontier, which was Arrested by the Italians from the Austrians early in the war; and the steps, by the mountains south of the Italian border, which gradually decrease in altitude, as they approach the rich level plains of Venetia. By the middle of May the Austrians had assembled in this region 400,000 men, mostly from the Russian front, and 2,000 guns, half of medium calibre, including twenty batteries of "305," four of "380," and four of "420." With this formidable array of men and

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artillery they succeeded in crashing their way down almost to the foot of the mountain stairway before the Italians turned and drove them u p again. On my splendid trip today to Arsiero and Mt. Novegno, I saw what a superb fight the Italians have put up at the foot of the Altipiani. We went to Arsiero by way of Thiene, a busy interesting town. In the centre of it is a very attractive old battlemented castle with paintings of horses and knights on its walls. Beyond Thiene and Piovene we saw signs of the enemy's invasion and at Rocchette the havoc left in its wake. Not only are the railroad station and adjacent houses damaged, but the neighboring Rossi woolen mills are wrecked. Beyond Rocchette, the road, bordered by trenches and barbed-wire entanglements, winds in sweet curves along the fertile valley of the Posina-Astico, with Mt. Summano rising on the left and the green slopes of the Chiuppano heights on the right. As we reached the point in the valley where the road divides—one branch going to Arsiero by the left bank of the Astico and the other by the right, along the foot of Mt. Cengio—the Austrians began to fire shrapnel on the lower part of Arsiero. T h e white puffs exploded too high in the air to do any damage, but, as we were about to pass through the section of the town on which they were concentrating their fire, our chauffeur drove at top speed. Few houses at Arsiero are unscathed, though none are quite as crumbled as those at Monfalcone. Walking around the town, we stopped to speak with some Carabinieri and Guardie di Finanza. They told us that forty Italians had recently attempted to scale a peak of Mt. Cimone, the great mountain just north of the town, from which, while we talked, came the incessant noise of Austrian guns. Prevented from firing on the Italians by the dead angles formed by projecting rocks on its slopes, the Austrians rolled down rocks and boulders on them. T h e expedition failed; only four out of the forty returned. "So-and-so must have died," said one of the Carabinieri, as a group of Sanitä soldiers drew near, bearing a stretcher on which lay the body of a man under a blanket. Preceded by a corporal carrying a large wooden cross inscribed with a name, and followed

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by an officer, a soldier priest with a red cross on his breast, the little procession passed quietly by, as if conscious of the fact that death is the usual order of today. Following a number of Territorial soldiers down some winding steps to the lower part of Arsiero where they were going to repair a bridge over the Posina, we heard one of them say philosophically, as he turned to look at a house with a shattered roof, "No ghe xe mal"—his house it was! From the banks of the river, near the Cartiera, one of the largest paper mills in Europe before the Austrian artillery wrecked it, we saw the flash of Italian batteries on a spur of Mt. Cengio countering the Austrian fire on Mt. Cimone. Ordering our motor to meet us at Velo d' Astico, we crossed the river on a military bridge and walked over an umbrageous mule path, through lovely country, to Seghe. Beside the path flowed a stream, half hidden in the masses of forget-me-nots that sweetened its low banks, which sang softly of life until it came out in the open at an old moss-covered mill and poured noisily over its broken spillway. All else was still. The cool, shaded road was cut into holes by shells, and the trees and shrubbery bordering it were ravaged by war. We passed many Austrian trenches and remains of encampments, very inferior in workmanship and cleanliness to those on the Marcesina plain. The campanile in the village of Seghe is so badly shattered as to make passage under it dangerous. T h e Scuola Comunale, the Municipio, the osteria are empty and rent, and all the houses are damaged; and yet, on their window sills, stand pots of geraniums catching the brightness of the sun. The path from Seghe to Velo d' Astico, most of which is under the direct range of the guns on Mt. Cimone, is quite dangerous. We took off our hats and walked in a ditch beside it, under a screen of shrubbery clipped by the enemy's fire just where men would naturally seek its protection. From one place where there are dugouts filled with abandoned arms and equipment, I saw Mt. Cimone and Mt. Priaforä, the "eye of the enemy," a castellated peak with a natural foro or opening in it, used by the Austrians to spy on the movements of the Italians in the Vicentine plains.

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We reached Velo and breathed more easily. T h e town is badly mangled. The Austrians deserted it in haste, as a table set for a meal and a ledger open at the last account testify. Everywhere in the town soldiers were busy, repairing equipment in well-stocked shops, listing articles of value, and collecting Austrian ammunition. From one of them I obtained a copper circlet, "fresh from the bözzolo," which he was removing from an Austrian shell, to make into a bracelet for Florence. Motoring from Velo d' Astico to Schio, we stopped outside the industrial town of Rocchette and sat awhile on a rise of ground, to study the lay of the land. At this point it slopes gently down into the valley of the Astico and thence upward to the abrupt heights of Mt. Cengio, bearing on its green bosom, farms, vineyards, and hamlets set off by little steeples. U p the precipitous sides of Mt. Cengio run the snakelike front-line and supporting trenches of the Italians, zigzagging fantastically and incredibly over spots fit, perhaps, for eagles' nests, but not for men. And yet here had the Grenadiers dared and endured, even after the Austrians captured the summit of the mountain. Of the 6,ooo Grenadiers engaged in this struggle, only 700 emerged unscathed. At Schio, a busy, independent-looking, industrial and agricultural centre, capped by a colossal church, adorned by parks and statues, and dedicated to the cause of social service—as many of the names on its institutions bear witness—we lunched at the Albergo Due Spade and fell into conversation with two young Territorial officers who had just finished overseeing the terrible task of collecting, spraying with kerosene, and burning numberless bodies of Austrian soldiers that had lain inaccessible for ten days on the mountain slopes. T h e men engaged in this piteous task retire to a distance after they light the funeral pyres, for the cartridges in the belts of the Austrian uniforms often explode. " I t would be terrible indeed," exclaimed one of the young officers, "to be killed by a dead Austrian!" Having attended to the burial of the remains, the young officers were about to return to their encampment on the summit of Mt. Novegno. That being our objective too, we offered to give them a lift in our car, an

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invitation they promptly accepted, for it saved them a six-hour walk. As we wound up an endless military road flanked by beautiful vigneti, simple contadino houses, and lovely trees, the view of the Vicentine plains became wider and wider. On our left was the great fortezza di sbarramento imbedded in the summit of Mt. Enna, against which, the Austrian artillery has proved impotent. The road up Mt. Novegno, steeper than that up Mt. Lisser, is not so well built, but it is a marvel of engineering; at moments, indeed, as we hung over precipices to give the right of way to camions, I wondered if our end had not come. This mountain is so huge that the camions on it look like toys, and the men, like ants crawling over a wicked sleeping giant that they are about to make prisoner. In front of a colorless encampment of tents and huts, gripping dead angles in the jagged heights of the crest of Mt. Novegno, we stepped out of our car and were introduced to the officer in command, General Petitti, a tall, oldish man, "full of go," with kindly eyes and a simple manner, who told us proudly that Mt. Seluggio had just been captured. The ground between the camp and the summit of the mountain, whipped of its surface soil by big guns, looks as if it had been played upon by a huge geyser of boulders. Skirting the remains of an impressive looking cement ammunition depot on top of the mountain, crumpled by a concentrated fire of "305's," we followed a narrow precipitous footpath to the artillery observation post. With our feet braced against a parapet of rocks and a cold, mountain wind beating all about us, we looked out upon the most superb battlefield imaginable, not barring even that of the Adamello: the Trentino, that convulsed bit of God's earth, that colossal stairway of mountains down which the Italians had been driven (Heaven knows why they were so unpreparedl) and up which they are now struggling step by step, with epic ardor and dash. The towns of Arsiero near by and of Asiago in the distance are but incidents, human incidents, in the great battle. Mountains fighting mountains—these are the real protagonists! Stripped of

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trees a n d scarred by gnarled ruts, they are nothing but gray skeletons of their former selves. O n the slopes were found heaps of enemy dead, Austrian soldiers who had pushed hastily forward, convinced that the Italians, deprived of nearly all their mountain supports, could not make a stand. T h e Austrians had Priaforä, the rock-ribbed eye of the battlefield, whence they could see not only the desired plains of Vicenza, b u t Padua, and even the Campanile of San Marco in Venice. T h e y had the town of Arsiero, and behind it, on the north, the mountains of Seluggio, T o r m e n o , and Tonezzo, rising one above the other. T h e y had the valley of the Posina a n d Mt. Majo on which they had located heavy artillery. They had the great mountain, Cimone, with a clean, fine road r u n n i n g back of it to the north, and they had all of Mt. Cengio b u t its southern slopes. And above all, they had the inspiration afforded by a great victorious drive against an enemy who had kept them a year on the defensive, and the promise of great booty and gallant adventures in the Venetian plains, as attested by the GermanItalian phrase-books found a m o n g the soldiers' effects, containing such expressions as, " W h e r e do you live?" "Where is your mother?" "Leave the door of your house open tonight." Cadorna, it is true, was developing his encircling movement on the heights and had formed a huge, new army, rich in cavalry, to give drawn battle to the Austrians if they reached the plains. But think of Venetia invaded, think of the effect on the nation, of the anxiety as to the issue, of the humiliation! No wonder the Italians made a desperate, a glorious stand. T h e encircling strategy, the Russian pressure on the Austrian front in Galicia, the new army on the plains—these helped, n o doubt, to stop the enemy's offensive; b u t what really stopped it was the determination of the Italians to drive the Austrians u p the hills down which they had swept. " W e set our teeth," explained Captain Jung, General Petitti's aid, speaking in English to drive his words home. Under a storm of artillery that gnashed mountain sides, destroyed forests, and threw boulders hundreds of feet into the air, the soldiers held the line, the artillerymen fed the guns, and the rincalzi rushed to relieve their brothers in the trenches. T h e patriotism and calmness of the

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generals and officers penetrated to the ranks and held the men, held them unto death, held them that Italy might live. As we looked out on that great battlefield, more fitted for struggles between gods than men, the wind, blowing hard against our faces, lapped the bloody broken peaks of many great mountains, lost and won again. Seluggio, in front of us, had been won this very day. Its low exposed sides will have to be held at great sacrifice, but they will be held; of that there can be no doubt. Mt. Priaforä, Mt. Cogolo, Mt. Majo, and Mt. Cengio are Italian again. Arsiero and Asiago are free. Mt. Cimone is still Austrian, but Italy is ready to pay the price in blood that will be required to wrench it from the enemy. Coming down the mountain, we met a number of profughi, mostly men and women advanced in years, sitting on cartloads of household goods and leading extra beasts of burden, or walking and occasionally pushing loaded wheelbarrows. Although many of them will find heaps of ruins instead of homes, they seemed calm and glad at the thought of returning to their land and vineyards; for the ineradicable sense of ownership remains. One family group was imploring a black and white pig, which had settled in a lovely, shaded ditch of tempting looking whitish mud, to follow them, but he only grunted as if to say, "We are at war. We have had to run. Now I am going to rest." In the afternoon I took a walk through Vicenza with Alessi of the Secolo. Italy, he said, had stupidly gone on the theory that Austria would not take half a million men and a quantity of artillery from the Russian front to make a drive into Italy. T h e invasion came, therefore, as a surprise. Fortunately Cadorna had been able to check it by the rapid transportation of men from the eastern to the western front. At the Ufficio Stampa I heard this story of the retreat in the Trentino. A major of artillery, whom Colonel Schiarini remembers as a quiet, modest student at the War College, had been ordered to stay at his post on Mt. Magnaboschi. Later came the command to abandon it. He refused—refused three times, but on the last occasion he sent to the rear all the survivors who wished

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to go, two pieces of batteries, which were still serviceable, and his will. H e was killed, of course. J U L Y 7 - 1 1 . UDINE

Since my return from Vicenza I have been very quiet, partly because I need rest and partly because of the present military stasis of which the Italians are taking advantage to prepare for future events. I take this opportunity, therefore, to put down some stray notes. During a discussion of the difficulties that spies masquerading as newspapermen might encounter, Captain A told me that his brother, a naval officer who speaks English perfectly, spent some time in Vienna after the outbreak of Italo-Austrian hostilities as an American newspaper correspondent. In answer to my look of inquiry, he grinned and replied, "Oh! yes, his credentials were perfectly regular." I am getting on quite friendly terms with the Italian correspondents, though they are a queer lot and becoming queerer, for some of the better type have been called to the colors. Ratti, the poetic-looking correspondent of the Idea Nationale, looks paler and frailer than ever; he says he will never again be the man he was before he witnessed the Italian retreat in the Trentino. Baccio Bacci, a big, tall, young man, with a genial, clean-shaven face writes for the Petit Parisien and comically counts up, at 50 centimes a line, the amount he will get for his articles. Dr. Miceli, a southern journalist of the old school, formal, precise, and grave, has fought seven duels and reported six wars; he is, despite his heaviness, a good fellow at heart. A favorite topic of discussion at the Ufficio Stampa is, of course, the length of the war. Captain Weillschott seems to think the end is in sight. O n the other hand Dillon of the London Daily Mail says Germany has a new reserve army of 2,000,000 men. In answer to this the Daily Mail artist, a stout Englishman who drinks like a fish, says, "Damn you, Dillon has always been a pessimist." Hilaire Belloc predicted, I understand, when he was here, four more years of war, but the French writers, including Paul Adam, a goodlooking man, with a square, short black beard, dressed to kill in

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blue serge, leggings, and a Russian military cap, thinks the war will not last more than eighteen months. Colonel Repington did not leave a good impression in Udine, either as a war prophet or as a man, particular and fussy as he was, especially about choice wines ordered for him, which he often tasted and refused. Captain Weillschott points out that the tactics of the present British offensive in France are new. Instead of sacrificing infantry as the Germans did at Verdun, the British are hammering the enemy day after day with artillery—a slower but less costly process. Captain Weillschott has given me a photograph of one of the heavy maces topped by iron spikes that the Austrians used in their recent gas attack on the Isonzo for braining the stupefied Italians. I have been following the Italian plans for blowing up the Castelletto, a peak of the Tofane, over 10,000 feet high. Although I have been informed day by day of the progress in blasting, the accumulation of explosive material, and even the last "touches" to the job, I was almost shocked when bang came the announcement in the official bulletin today that the deed was done. I had, indeed, somewhat the same sense of guilt as I should have had in times of peace when knowledge of such a plot as this would constitute conspiracy to murder of the blackest kind. Florence suddenly turned up in Udine in search of a transmission rod for the Ford, which broke while the car was ploughing through a sandy road near Belvedere. We are sending to T u r i n for it by the procaccia espresso. Her stay in Cervignano is nearly at an end, but not her stay in the war zone if she desires to visit other points, for greatly to our surprise and gratification she has been offered a Comando Supremo safe-conduct for the Retrovie for a month, the highest safe-conduct available, a rare privilege granted to few. JULY

12

I drove Florence to Cervignano and left her there for a couple of days. From Cervignano I went on to Aquileia to attend a special

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service in the Basilica in honor of its first bishop, St. Ermagora. T h e audience of soldiers and civilians assembled in the beautiful edifice, although quite large, seemed lost in its vast space. The High Mass, celebrated in the tribune before the High Altar, was most effective, and the procession coming down the steps to the nave, a fine colpo d' occhio, with the darkness of the crypt underneath lighted by red oil lamps symbolizing the eternity of life. During the elevation of the Host, a terrific storm broke, hail struck the roof, and the noise of the wind swept through the open portal like the loud voice of a giant enemy demanding surrender. At the close of the service, I walked around the church, which I like better, I believe, than any Basilica of the kind I have ever seen. I have been reading Sir Rennell Rodd's translations of Greek lyrics in Love, Death and Worship, copies of which he sent to the Ufficio Stampa. One of them I transcribe as a token to J : F R O M PF.RSES ( 4 T H C E N T U R Y B.C.)

A Rustic Shrine I am the God of the little things In whom you will surely find, If you call upon me in season, A little god who is kind. You must not ask of me great things, But what is in my control, I, Tychon, god of the humble, May grant to a simple soul. JULY

13

I wish I could read the pastoral addresses of Italian priests to Austrian prisoners, written in the Slav language, that have been distributed at the Ufficio Stampa. A small prayer book, Con Dio per la Patria, by Contessa Rosa di San Marco is a brave attempt to make of the Italian both a patriot and a Christian. It is the most up-to-date prayer book that a soldier could desire! Its text, laying emphasis on patriotic Christianity rather than on dogma, reminds the soldiers of the noble traditions of Latin gentility, which should deter them from being

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cruel to their enemies, insulting prisoners, or showing disrespect to women. Some of the prayers in it are extremely interesting adaptations of old sentiments to modern needs. T h e aviator's prayer deserves translation in full: Over the great spaces of the ether I spread my wings and go forth to discover where the enemy hideth. Oh, Lord! who didst teach the birds their flight, send Thou Thine Angelic Hosts to protect me in this perilous aircraft. If, in carrying out the orders of my superiors, my hand should become the unconscious instrument of Thy Justice, save it from being the cause of making the innocent pay for the sins of the guilty. Help me, I pray, to spread terror rather than death. T h e prayer of the sentinel asks God's aid in helping him to carry out the order he has sworn to obey, "Di qui non si passa"; and that of the scout begs for the help of the star that led the shepherds to Nazareth. A prayer to be used by men in the trenches beseeches God to give them patience to endure the discomforts they suffer and begs Him to turn the trenches not into graves for the dead but sepulchres for the living who will rise gloriously to victory. A litany "Per la Patria" is as stirring as a roll-call of Italian history. All of the special prayers of these days depict a struggle in which the supreme and moving sentiment is aroused more by the thought of the Patria than the Deity. Here, for instance, is the Sailor's Prayer, written by Antonio Fogazzaro, which is read on all the ships of the Italian Navy at sundown: To Thee, great and everlasting God, Lord of Heaven and of the abysses of the sea, to whom the winds and the waves bend in obedience, we, men of the sea and of war, officers and sailors of Italy, lift up our hearts from this sacred ship which our Country has armed for battle. Save and exalt in its faith our Nation, Oh, Lord. Save and exalt our King. Give just glory and power to the flag of our Country. Command the waves and tempests to serve Her, and smite the hearts of the enemy with the fear of Her. So order it in Thy wisdom that She be ever defended by hearts stronger even than the armor that protects this ship and give Her victory always. Bless Thou, Oh Lord, our distant homes and our loved ones; and during the coming night bless Thou the repose of the people. And bless us also, who, for them, are guarding the seas.

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Has the war made the Italians more religious? Hardly, I think, in any deep sense. Attendance at church has greatly increased, and there is a noticeable "lifting up of the mind to God" by certain individuals of the intellectual classes; but I believe, on the whole, that war will leave the mass of men as it found them, except in so far as their intelligence and interest may have been quickened by experience and travel. T h e risks of war have, however, emphasized the reliance of the Italians on fate, a tendency so characteristic that it explains, probably, the fact, noted by many observers at the front, that fear among the soldiers is far rarer than most people imagine. JULY

14

A story is going the rounds of Udine about one of the Corriere della Sera men, an imboscato, who, on being called to the colors, shirked the duties of a soldier and stooped to becoming a military chauffeur. T h e other evening while walking around Udine with his wife, who had come to spend a few days with him, he was arrested by a couple of Carabinieri for being out after 9 P.M., an hour when the rank and file of men must be in their barracks. O n being asked to give his generalitä, he replied insultingly that he wished to know first that of his interlocutors. T o this they replied that they would give theirs in the report of his arrest; and, forthwith, they escorted the lady to her hotel and the journalist to jail. T h e Italian officers with whom I have talked give no explanation of the Italian retreat in the Trentino, though they all agree it should not have happened. One explanation I have heard is that the Austrians, after Cadorna's advance into Val Sugana last year, purposely left the Italians unmolested with the result that the Italians failed to fortify their new positions, a characteristic Latin example of "letting well enough alone." Nothing could have been more discordant than the views of parliament and nation during the trying days of the Austrian offensive in the Trentino. Salandra's fall, if it had any effect, added to the popular dissatisfaction with the Chamber. The new "Ministerione" or national ministry elicits no real enthusiasm; it is "good enough" and "will do"—such are the comments. It should

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be noted, however, that the new government represents a continuity of military and foreign policies, for General Morrone remains as Minister of War, Rear Admiral Corsi as Minister of the Navy, and Baron Sonnino as Minister of Foreign Affairs. Among the new ministers of ability and undoubted patriotism there is no better example, of course, than the Prime Minister, Paolo Boselli. In General Cadorna, however, if not in their political leaders, the Italians have had faith from the moment of his appointment to the Supreme Command. This faith has been justified by results, though it is not, at first sight, easy to explain, because the Italian Commander is a man not cast in the popular mold; he is a disciplinarian, a studious, thoughtful individual of deep religious convictions, a man of few words and simple tastes, to whom contact with the public is not a pleasure. JULY

15

I was up at six this morning and started early for Cervignano. Florence and I are leaving the front today for Venice, having decided to use her Comando Supremo salvacondotto for a month's visit there. After bidding good-bye to Miss Brooke, who is to take charge of the Baracca during Mrs. Watkins' vacation, and to the piantone, who hopes to go back soon to "Frisco" whence he hails, Florence and I drove to Miss Ammon's ospedale da campo. It is located in a schoolbuilding on former Austrian soil, which was captured by the Italians early in the war and so hastily turned into a hospital that it was provided with only one drinking glass for nine hundred men. Now it is a good field hospital with twelve wards and an operating room. Miss Ammon is the only woman nurse. On our way to the wards we saw in an anteroom a pale-faced mother waiting to see her son, an officer, paralyzed from chest to feet. Florence distributed chocolate and fans among the men, fans being in high favor with the soldiers, who prize them as much for their quality of signorilitä as for their usefulness in keeping off flies. One pitiful, bloodless-looking, blond boy, his head swathed in bandages, his left arm gone, and his legs hopelessly crushed, was smiling and anxious to talk.

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Florence has found the wounded not only grateful for little attentions but very uncomplaining, even in the terribly hot hospital trains. A chaplain on one of these gave her a small medal of S. Nicolö di Bari, like those of various saints that officers and soldiers attach to their wrist watches or, sometimes, in southern fashion to their hats. Over a pleasant winding road we reached Portogruaro, a town on the border of the lagoon, with which it is connected by the river Lemene. It has a very martial aspect, not because of its Municipio with a battlemented fa9ade, which stands on the Piazza, but because of its porticoes that have been converted into trinceroni by filling the openings with bricks or sandbags. On the ground floors of some of the buildings are shelters made of sandbags, for there are no cellars in Portogruaro and it is frequently bombed, as it is the seat of command of the T h i r d Army. There was one of these shelters in a restaurant where we stopped for a cooling drink. Beyond Portogruaro a heavy storm broke. We took refuge in a peasant house and were cordially welcomed by the wide-awake old father of the family, a returned emigrant to Argentina. His household is made up of countless children and several strong, intelligent-looking women, who, no doubt, are running the farm, as women throughout Italy are doing. T h e women I have seen engaged in agricultural work show no effect of the extra strain; indeed, they all look unusually happy in the absence of their spouses—possibly Italian husbands are not always a source of joy! This family has six boys under arms. From one of them they have received no news for fourteen months, a fact they announced not unfeelingly, but resignedly, with a sensible—almost too sensible— acceptance of the fate imposed by the vicissitudes of war, though one of the women was quite violent in her condemnation of war in general. As to this war, she thinks women ought to be allowed to join the ranks to augment the number of combatants and end the conflict as speedily as possible. We dined in the station at Mestre and afterwards entrained for Venice, where we had no trouble about admittance, of course, with our good credentials. T h e officers on duty recognized me, "II solito Signor Speranza," and made only a few notes. T h e n we

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stepped into a gondola and were off on the smooth, sweet, restful breast of Venice. J U L Y L6. V E N I C E

We passed a quiet day in our comfortable quarters in Casa Biondetti, going out only for a short walk. We had planned another by moonlight, but at ten o'clock the electric lights were extinguished, and firing began. For an hour we listened to antiaircraft guns and the rat-tat-tat of machine guns, and watched the soldiers lined up in an altana across the Grand Canal, but we heard no bomb strike. Venice was otherwise very still and silent in the soft moonlight. JULY

17

Florence and I stopped at Florian's this morning and heard (you hear everything there) that last night's raider, while flying very low over Motta in an attempt to damage a bridge, was captured by some Territorial soldiers. On the way back to Casa Biondetti we passed a delightful hour in the Farmacia al San Teodoro in Campo Francesco Morosini. The clerk, who ran a successful pharmacy in Stanton Street, New York, until he lost all his savings in Pad's bank failure, showed us some splendid old majolica jars and ancient mortars and stills in which special preparations are made even today. One of these, a recipe over four hundred years old, is sold with the addition of alcohol as Fernet Branca, and another is used by "antiquarians" to give an aspect of great age to new iron. We also saw a collection of herbals, prints, caricatures of physicians and pharmacists dressed in costumes of former days, and a history of Venetian pharmacists delightfully illustrated, compiled by the proprietor of this shop. JULY

18

Soldiers in the altane on the housetops learning to aim at airplanes, with their faces turned toward the sky, and throngs of bandaged soldiers at the windows and on the balconies of the hospitals in the former "Grand" hotels are memorable sights in Venice today.

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T o the eyes of the passer-by at least, Venice is no whit depressed. Florence and I walked to the Frari this morning, in and out of little streets on which the popolino was in full sight, and all seemed well. The church of the Frari does not impress me. I am growing too fastidious, perhaps. I like a great church to speak of God and His glory, and of man's devotion to Him. In this hall of fame of the Venetian dead the older tombs are truly part of the great church, for the dead buried in them seem to rest in the Lord, but the later ones bespeak more concern with the material than the spiritual aspects of life. J U L Y 19

Florence and I visited the church of Santi Giovanni e Paolo this morning. Although our visit was marred by the hammering of workmen on scaffolds, the great lines of its interior always give pleasure. I like very much the pink, or rather rose, light reflected from the new brick used in repairing the choir. Its warmth of color does not cheapen the aspect of the interior, as often happens in Italian churches with introduction of color less subtle than this. The Chapel of the Rosary, built to commemorate the victory of Lepanto in 1571, was destroyed some fifty years ago by fire through the carelessness of a cleric in placing a candle in a draft. After remaining roofless for years, it is now being restored under the direction of a committee headed by Molmenti, largely for the purpose of giving work to Venetian artisans. The chapel is not very interesting, but the process of restoration is; at least, we found it so, with the light of a bright, sunny day shedding a cheerful sense of achievement over the laborers pursuing their tasks with that infinite patience characteristic of Italian artisans. Architectural pieces that are missing will be replaced, but those that remain will be set up, as they are, damaged or not, in their original positions. In the afternoon we called on Mr. and Mrs. Carroll. He revealed himself more than ever as a character, a grown-up Huckleberry Finn. During his wife's absence in America he indulged in a perfect orgy of buying gifts for her, one a week, he says, but actual inspection discloses, I should say, one a day. Besides tablecloths

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too large for any earthly banquet table, his purchases include everything imaginable from a large silver tea set and a necklace of baroque pearls to laces, prints, glassware, and leather boxes. I can see him at twenty, a lawyer, marrying his college sweetheart, with no prospects ahead but a joyous and glorious optimism, next turning to his father's calling and becoming a Baptist minister, the cowboy preacher of Texas, afterwards taking a course at Chicago University, from which he switched to the University of Berlin, where, by sheer resolve and "go," he completed a five years' course in eighteen months. After returning home he became dissatisfied with his life as a preacher and started The Stylus, a model magazine for the South, which he kept going a year at a loss of four thousand dollars and into which he would have put four thousand more if he had had it. And here he is, Consul—a fine consul too—charmed by the loveliness of Venice, mad to buy it up, mad to give it to his girl, mad to possess it. This evening we saw D'Annunzio, dressed in white, in his garden across the Grand Canal, composing, I judge, by the way he was walking up and down in the gathering darkness; a poem on Battisti perhaps, the irredentist of Trent. Captured by the Austrians on Mt. Corno which he was holding with a handful of Alpini during the drive in the Trentino, Battisti was hanged less than two weeks ago in the uniform of an Italian officer on the gallows in the fortress of Trent. A man of action and of strong, even violent eloquence, a dauntless and uncompromising assertor of the rights of Italians in the unredeemed provinces, Battisti exercised a great deal of influence over the people in Trent, who elected him as their representative to the Austrian parliament. His spare time he devoted to exploring the mountain passes on the Italo-Austrian frontier. At the outbreak of the European war, fearing to be interned by Austria, as many irredenti were, he crossed over the border into Italy. When the Italians entered the lists he volunteered to join the Alpine forces. Although aware of the fate awaiting him if he fell into the hands of the Austrians, who had offered a reward of 20,000 kronen for his capture, he asked to be relieved of desk duty as adviser on Alpine problems and sent to the front. He declined to have his name changed on his officer's identification card or to

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shave off his goatee, a characteristic feature of his appearance. "If they get me," he said, " I shall offer myself as an example both to Austria and Italy." This tragic event has made a great impression on the Italians. I say great because I cannot say deep. Their way of taking it is an example of how they look at a tragedy such as this. They are moved by the circumstances attending it rather than by its personal significance. It presents to their minds a perfect picture of their conception of Austria as il boja—the hangman. They are almost glad, indeed, of this new proof that their hatred of the old-time oppressor, the old-time usurper, the old-time boja is justified for they don't like to hate illogically, they like to hate classically. T o their minds, Battisti is a symbol, a martyr, whose life and death emphasize their reasons for feeling a personal hatred of Austria, but his fate has not touched them otherwise; it has made no appeal to their hearts. This attitude of the Italians toward Austria is just the opposite of their attitude toward Germany. That is another matter. Hatred does not enter into it; there is no historic background, no "visualization" of a casus belli. Florence and I passed the evening in our gondola—hours of enchantment, of dreams come true. JULY 21 W e went for a day's trip with the Carrolls, our Marco passing to the Consular gondola as second remo to Domenico. Through a channel marked by piles, bunched like giant stalks of asparagus, we crossed a long, long stretch of lagoons and "hove in sight" of a lovely lowland emerging from the gray sea, over which hung a low haze of lavender that proved to be a profusion of strange wild flowers. At Burano half of the population assembled on the quay to look at us. After a lengthy luncheon served by a practical-looking, bearded host in the yard of the Leone Coronato, where the "wash" was being sunned and dried, we visited the Scuola dei Merletti; it is turning out tons of cheap filet instead of the lovely needlework for which it was renowned a few years ago.

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T h e n off we pushed for a happier, sweeter, older isle—the Island of Torcello. As you approach it by a canaletto backed by lovely hedges and bordered by fresh green banks inviting the gray sea to flow into it, you fall under a spell. Gliding noiselessly past houses through the windows of which comes the gleam of shining copper kettles and brass plates, the gondola draws up at the loveliest of landings in dreamland; pictureland, perhaps I should say, for, though this is a land of dreamlike beauty, it is stable and real. On the left is a little bridge, and on the right, a trattoria, with some bushes around its door, which are almost imbedded in its walls. Nearby are some women drying hemp. Right in front is the "piazzetta," flanked by bases of ancient columns and trees, in the shade of which sit little family groups, with an occasional soldier in their midst. And the peace of God is over them all. T h e green piazzetta seems alive with spirits, not dead, sad spirits, but spirits of those departed so long ago that they have had time to return to this place they love. Here, clear-sighted as they are now, they will dwell forever in pure content, simply, without ceremony or ambitions or great plans, just immensely and purely happy to be in this spot where formerly they prayed and struggled and fought and built. Their happiness is based mainly on memory; for memory, with but a few remains of other days and the sight of some living—human—beings, ever finds a joyful task in reconstructing the lovely atmosphere of the past. T h e architecture of the octagonal church of Santa Fosca is impressive, and the simplicity of its interior would have great dignity if the restorations it has undergone were not so apparent. In the basilicalike interior of the Duomo of Santa Maria Assunta, one is conscious, even if in lesser degree, of the same convincing effect of a living faith as in the Basilica of Aquileia. T h e figures in the mosaics of the apse have been "blotted out" by a coat of plaster or cement as a measure of defense, but their golden backgrounds are uncovered. T h e lower mosaics on the entrance wall are also covered, but the brown and white mosaic above them, " T h e Last Judgment," is still exposed to view. Dignity distinguishes the circular stalls of the church, the episcopal throne, and

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the pulpit from which the perspective of the interior stands out in enchanting light and line. T h e campanile, despite its iron reinforcements, rises in security and strength out of the little cemetery at the rear of the Duomo, with an air of vigorous age, of venerable rather than aged experience. Of all the ancient ruins I have seen, those of Torcello are the least dead. If I were to live here, I should acquire, I am sure, some, at least, of the dignity, fine religious feeling, and quiet, restrained strength that appears to me to rest "sure-footed" and "large-breasted" on every bit of this sweet, strong corner of the earth. W e visited one of the two museums. Many of the objects in its small but interesting collection serve to intensify the sense of continuity between past and present characteristic of the atmosphere of this island. I was fascinated by a painted wooden statue of a woman, a round-faced saint or nun on her knees, praying, her head hooded and her figure covered with a tunic draped in folds of great dignity. Her face, neither intelligent nor in the least beautiful, was a picture, not of the wrapt ecstasy of a saint, or the easy unqualified adoration of a willing believer, but of the reverent raccoglimento of one thinking only of God. We left this blessed, noble spot for a more modern, noisy, and busy island, Murano. At the entrance of a wide canal we showed our papers to an artilleryman. T h e n we glided on and stopped at Toso's glass factory. After we had seen the red-hot furnaces heated by wood fires and crucibles filled with boiling white sand and soda, a glass blower showed us how he rolled the bubbles of hot glass on the end of his blowing iron over colored beads until they assumed the variegated appearance pleasing to German eyes. T h e n he blew a bubble into a large round form and skillfully turned it into a pitcher by drawing one end of it through a pair of pincers, to make a neck, and by shaping a bit of glass dropped on it by an assistant into a handle. In the evening Florence and I had a wonderful walk to the Piazza, where the campanile was standing guard over the loveliest

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things ever made by mortal hands. At Florian's we were served some delicious ices by a waiter who looked more than a century old. JULY

22

Mrs. Carroll invited us to the Consulate tonight for a delicious American dinner, including fried chicken and angel cake made of some precious white flour presented to her by an officer on a passing naval ship. The Duchessa della Grazia and Miss Macy were present. We rowed slowly home in a great, silent darkness, passing on the Zattere some torpedo boats, asleep and still. From the little balcony outside of our rooms we looked out on the Grand Canal, silent and deserted. A tiny blue light on a gondola moored near D' Annunzio's house was tingeing slightly the soft black shadows of the neighboring palaces drifting on the surface of the waters. The sound of a splash of oars, which might have come from a gondola gliding through the waters for centuries, woke the stillness, or rather whispered into it, and then expanded into a regular, rhythmic beat as the gondola drew near. Splash, splash, it passed in the darkness, leaving in its wake a widening trail of motion on the waters, which agitated the floating shadows. Silence again until the hourly call of the aerial guards on the housetops, "Per 1' aria . . . Buona Guardia" rang out faintly, at first, in the distance, and then more and more loudly as it was passed on from altana to altana until it reached the one opposite us when it drifted away and grew faint again, mingling with the hourly strokes of the clocks. Silence again, except for the lapping of the waters and the occasional sound of the tread of feet, coming and going. The tide ebbed, and the darkness grew intense, though it could not blot out the light of the profuse stars shining dimly in a sky cut by the great lane of the Milky Way. JULY

23

Florence and I spent a delightful morning walking to the Castello quarter of the city through busy streets bordered by the

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houses of plain, poor people. In one of them we saw a wonderful kitchen, bright with copper, where a man was preparing his bath in a stone sink! JULY 2 4

Let me mention only three or four charming sights in a procession of sweet experiences: A Gothic portal and stretch of broken wall adjoining the old abbey of the Servi, so nobly crowned by a mass of superb, darkgreen, lustrous ivy as to make out of these two creations of man and nature one perfect picture. Heart, mind, and spirit not only rejoiced at the sight but were satisfied by it. T h e primitive Madonna dei Miracoli, in her jewel of a church of encrusted marble, looking down from her gorgeous frame above the High Altar upon a couple of men sweeping up sand that had dribbled out of the burlap bags covering Lombardo's precious carvings, which have begun to disintegrate in the dampness. A strange sight for our Lady, but these are strange days when even the priest who officiates here comes but once a week to celebrate Mass, on account of his duties as a soldier. T h e loveliest of doors in Palazzo Van Axel that we happened to be admiring when Florence's star brought home the Signora who kindly invited us in. T h e outer portion of the courtyard is covered by a decorative structure, with ornamented ceiling and walls and painted wooden benches. T h e walls of the inner and uncovered portion of the courtyard are decorated with fragments of sculpture and a beautiful Byzantine frieze which runs around them. From a tall, carved wellhead in the rear of the courtyard rises an iron rod used, until recently, for drawing up buckets of water to the upper stories of the house. A huge, precipitous stone stairway, with one turn in it, ascends to the main entrance which gives access to a large hall hung with old paintings, including a delightful one of a boy dressed in a ruffled costume, a Flemish ancestor of the family. T h e former cloister of the Madonna dell' Orto, with a carving over the door of St. Martin on horseback, cutting his cloak in halves. T h i s cloister, used as a lumberyard, is empty at present.

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for the government has need of every timber it can muster today. T h e sweep of this spacious ruin in its fine nudity suggests to the mind a new conception of a broad cloistered life. A whole world could live in this cloister, spacious and fine as it is, and noble, too, for no less an adjective than that fits the outline which, as one looks up, cuts the sky, or, as one looks out, the lagoon. JULY

25

T o d a y we walked through the district between Casa Biondetti and the Rialto, passing in Campo San Torna the lovely door of the Shoemakers' Guild, adorned by a colored relief of its patron saint, Aniano, and quaint carvings of shoes. Not far away, near Ponte San Torna, is Goldoni's house, squalid and sad in its decadence and loneliness. Traces of carvings and sculptures, sold or, more likely, stolen, are clearly visible. A jolly drunkard, born in the house, showed us the picturesque stairway, partly covered by a wooden-beamed roof, that leads u p from a small courtyard to the portal on the second floor; also an interesting statuette of a lion crouching over a lioness and striking out in her defense. JULY 26

Sansovino in his history of Venice says in describing a column: piü una gioia che una pietra"—It is more a jewel than a stone. How true is this of all Venice! JULY 27

W e discovered this morning an abandoned jewel of a palace, early in period, sitting well back from the Grand Canal, between the Ca d' Oro and the Rialto. There are beautiful carvings over its doors and windows and a flight of architecturally imposing arcaded steps, on which bags of cement are stored. T o save it and make a little garden in front of it would be a service of beauty to Venice. JULY 2 8

T h i s gray day we took a walk of such exquisite loveliness, of such melody and tonality, of such charm of form, color, and view

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that to think of it gives me a sense akin to nostalgia, and the memory of it is so delicate and gentle as to partake of a spiritual experience impossible to set down in a record like this. JULY 29

T h i s afternoon I saw an old cleanly dressed man in Piazzetta Goldoni, feeding the contents of a carefully folded little package, which he took out of his pocket, to the pigeons that gathered around him as if he were a well-known friend. A Venetian who lived in Trieste before the war, he had been sent from there at its outbreak, with other old and sick folk, to Switzerland and thence made his way to Venice. In Trieste he was able to give the pigeons plenty of grain, but here he is obliged to beg from restaurants the stray bits of bread and cheese that he feeds his pets twice a day. T h i s afternoon he was reserving one little package to use "in the morning," lest he should not find overnight a new supply. JULY 3 1

T h e Gazzetta di Venezia has the significant statement today that attacks other than aerial are to be signaled by intermittent mortar shots—an item which fits in with the report I have heard that the foggy mornings we are having now may induce the Austrians to attempt a naval raid. AUGUST •

Florence and I went shopping in the Merceria for fans for the wounded soldiers in whom Mr. Latimer is interested, and finally secured one hundred. W h i l e we were waiting to have them tied u p — d o i n g up packages takes time in Italy!—we noticed a certain quickening in the movements of people outside the shop. T h e siren, it seemed, had given a signal of warning, which we, strange to say, had not heard. W e hurried with our packages to the Rialto where Marco had gone with the gondola to meet us. W i t h i n half an hour an interrupted screech of the siren announced that all was well. Later we learned that an observer at the L i d o had mistaken an Italian plane flying high in the air for an Austrian and turned in a false alarm.

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Marco has been telling me about the associations of gondoliers attached to the traghetti in Venice. Over each of them presides a gastaldo, assisted by four bancali who see to the cleanliness and seaworthiness of the gondolas, the rotation in service of the gondoliers, and their observance of regulations, especially those governing the tariff. Marco, who is a bancale himself, laughed when I said that he and his brother officers must be kept busy dealing with infringements of this last rule. T h e gardens in Venice are small with the exception of the Papadopoli, the Eden, and one or two others; but large and formal gardens existed in early times, especially on the Giudecca, as old maps in the Stampalia Library show. Sansovino mentions a great many gardens in Venice, including a notable one on a roof. This is the season of oleanders and trumpet vines. Their bright colors lead one to detect unsuspected little gardens in corners and crannies of which you catch unforgettable glimpses as you glide in a gondola past the iron grilles guarding them or walk by the doors opening into them. There are a number of old trees and a profusion of trumpet and wisteria vines in the garden of the Casa Dimezzata, where the Veniers once kept a lion; from the little terrace in front of it a flight of white steps descends to the Grand Canal. I love the mossy steps, lapped by waters, that lead to this and other Venetian gardens. War is a strange mixture of commonplace incidents and tragedy. While we were dining tonight at Montin's on the Fondamenta delle Eremite, two slight youths dressed in the white trousers and blue coats of the French aviation service came into the restaurant. They seemed very much at home as they "nosed" around the kitchen and pantry, scrutinizing the dishes and deciding what to order. Later we heard that they and a number of Italian aviators had dropped bombs this morning on the military factories and deposits north of Fiume. The special function of the soldiers on the altana opposite us, the highest of the Venetian aerial posts, is to watch for the exposure of lights after curfew and for signals displayed by agents of the enemy. It is connected by telephone with all the Carabinieri 'stations.

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T h e r e are t w o p i c t u r e s in V e n i c e today, the e n j o y m e n t of w h i c h , d e e p , d i r e c t , a n d p o e t i c , w i l l pass w i t h the war, for they o w e their b e a u t y a n d c h a r m to the darkness that e n v e l o p s the city at nightf a l l . O n e is the ferro—the

b e a k — o f a g o n d o l a , as it sweeps w i t h

s l o w c a d e n c e a r o u n d the c o r n e r of a c a n a l in the late t w i l i g h t . S u r e of its steps, t h o u g h closely h e m m e d in, its lordly, slow m o v e m e n t s , d i r e c t e d a p p a r e n t l y b y an u n s e e n p o w e r , h e r a l d the a p p r o a c h of s o m e t h i n g very fine. " I a m h i s t o r y , " it seems to say, " P a s t H i s t o r y , l i v i n g t h r o u g h the b e a u t y of my f o r m a n d the c h a r m of m y mot i o n ; a n d these b e a u t i f u l w a t e r w a y s are my roads a n d h i g h w a y s . W a r surges a b o u t me, b u t I l i v e i n b e a u t y a n d d i g n i t y , t r u e to m y s e l f , t r u e to V e n i c e . " A n o t h e r is a t r e m b l i n g , t w i s t i n g l i n e of diaphanous

light, not unlike

an

exquisite,

fanciful

thread

of

V e n e t i a n glass, floating slowly a n d mysteriously across t h e waters. A s y o u w a t c h it o n a d a r k n i g h t d r i f t i n g across an o p e n stretch of w a t e r s , b e t w e e n the Piazzetta a n d the w o n d r o u s b l a c k mass of S a n G i o r g i o perhaps, a n d see in its w a k e s o m e t h i n g d a r k e r e v e n t h a n t h e waters, y o u realize that this f r a g i l e line of b e a u t y is the r e f l e c t i o n of t h e tiny b l u e l i g h t o n a g o n d o l a , the o n l y l i g h t n o w p e r m i t t e d . A s y o u w a t c h it

floating

across a canal, y o u

become

a w a r e of a strange sense of e x p e c t a n c y . W i l l it n o t b r e a t h e w o r d s of f a n c y b u t of great m e a n i n g i n t o y o u r heart? Y o u i n s t i n c t i v e l y p r e p a r e y o u r spirit to receive this p r e c i o u s message, b u t the b l a c k p h a n t o m of t h e g o n d o l a , w i t h its b l u e t r e m b l i n g soul,

passes

s i l e n t l y b y , l e a v i n g y o u in the m i d s t of a great silent loneliness, p a r t e d , as it w e r e , forever f r o m t h e w o r d s of b e a u t y a n d c o u n s e l y o u had craved. SAN MARCO! T o d a y F l o r e n c e a n d I p a i d a visit to the g e n t l e s t K n i g h t of E u r o p e in the illustrious c o m p a n y of M o n s i g n o r A p o l lonio and Signor Marangoni. I l i k e to t h i n k of these t w o m e n as the sweet, loyal S q u i r e s of t h e K n i g h t , the M o n s i g n o r e p r a y i n g to the V i r g i n a n d r e l y i n g o n St. M a r k ' s l o v i n g a f f e c t i o n for V e n i c e to k e e p his v e n e r a b l e M a s t e r f r o m h a r m , a n d M a r a n g o n i , a r c h i t e c t of the Basilica, a r m e d w i t h t h e s w o r d a n d s h i e l d of science, s t r i v i n g to g u a r d t h e " g l o r i o u s inv a l i d , " as h e calls St. M a r k ' s , f r o m t h e perils of w a r a n d the m o n sters of " w e i g h t " a n d "resistance," o n w h o s e sides are e n l i s t e d the

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static laws. Indeed a tragic phrase in the report of the Committee on Restorations states that the age of the Basilica "non ammette e non ammettera riposo piii mai." Both the Monsignore and Marangoni are men of faith, neither of whom undervalues the belief of the other, different though their tenets be. T h e priest and architect are not in agreement, of course, about the material protection of the treasures of St. Mark's. One is moved by the feeling that to hide even the smallest arabesque on his Knight's helmet is to do him an injury, and the other by his tragic sense of responsibility for guarding the Knight's perilously frail and delicate body. T h e Monsignore, trusting in God, the Virgin Nicopeia, and St. Mark, wishes to unswathe the Saints, uncover the pulpits, and replace the Horses. H e is annoyed at the appearance of his church, "You can't see how beautiful it is, how perfect in every way." H e is even ferocious about the pigeons. "I would kill every one of them," says this sweet-faced priest, as he looks mournfully at the exquisite marble sculptures of the fa9ade, defaced by the nestling pigeons. Although Marangoni sympathizes with the displeasure of the Monsignore at the measures taken to protect the treasures of the Basilica, he continues to strengthen weak spots with brick supports and cover immovable works of art with sandbags. T o offset this extra weight, a burden the gentle Knight cannot well bear, Marangoni has had to throw off the sacred ballast— "la Sacra Zavorra," as he beautifully terms the Bronze Horses— and every other removable object. Signor Marangoni is a tall, very spare man, about forty-five years of age, with a pallid countenance, frank expression, upturned moustache, broad forehead, and small, fine expressive hands, a gentleman without pose, who loves his work but wears no label of his affection. We had an appointment to meet the Monsignore and Marangoni in the small director's room in the workshop on the Piazzetta dei Leoni, opposite the north side of the Basilica. Marangoni showed us a photograph of the monuments in Rheims Cathedral protected by sandbags and explained that Italy has adopted this French method of shielding treasures of art. Since the bags disintegrate very quickly in the damp climate of Venice, they are laid on scaf-

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folds built around the monuments, in order to sectionize them and facilitate their removal and renewal. Crossing the Piazzetta, we went u p to the small museum room in the Basilica. Carpets had been spread on the floor, and a yellow silk cover on the long designer's table, upon which Marangoni laid the maps and photographs he had brought with him to illustrate his explanation of the repairs to the Basilica. H e went very fully into the details of the work on the corner known as that of Sant' Alipio, but the official report tells the story far better than I can. T h e government and the commune have divided the expense of this restoration which is now almost finished. During the process of driving new piles under the corner, a number of human bones were found. This discovery was not a surprise because the existence of an ancient cemetery within the precincts of the Basilica was known. The Patriarch ordered a Christian burial for them in the cemetery on the island of San Michele, but afterwards acceded to Marangoni's request that they be reinterred under the foundations of St. Mark's where they had laid these many years, in a plain but worthy sepulchre he would build for them. T h e sagging of the arches of the Paradiso and Apocalisse over the principal entrance to the Basilica, due to the weakness of their lateral supports and the lack of robust buttressing in early days, has terribly shaken the vaulting in the front part of the church. T h e wound in it is eighteen metres long. According to static laws, it should have collapsed long ago. T h e fact that it has not confirms, of course, the faith of the Monsignore! Its restoration has been authorized, but no appropriation of money has been made for the expense involved and none will be, now, on account of the war. It would cost about two hundred thousand lire and take three years to complete. Marangoni is trying to relieve temporarily the strain on the lateral walls by building a large truss of timbers and iron bars to catch the weight of the front dome. In order to strengthen them permanently it will be necessary to build a new robust inner vaulting and bind this to the ancient mosaic-covered vaulting by filling the narrow space between them with cement.

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Much of the vaulting in the Basilica, on which Venice encrusted the rich booty she brought from Byzantium, was defective from its inception, owing to the general decadence of workmanship in the eleventh century, which was aggravated by the current belief in the approach of Judgment Day. Florence came up to the roof with us. Marangoni and I left her and the Monsignore sitting and talking in one of the "lights" of the front cupola, from where they had a splendid view of the mosaics in the Basilica. We made our way, through a space, crisscrossed by timbers, between the inner dome and the roof, somewhat like a ship's hold in appearance, to the top of the Central Cupola, in which Marangoni opened the door of a little "eye." This was formerly used to adjust the huge chain, supporting the great chandelier of the Basilica, that hangs from a crossbeam in the upper part of the central dome. Through it I looked down, much as a bird might look through a hole in the roof, upon the interior of St. Mark's. Then we climbed out on the leaden roof and into the cupolino above the cupola. From here not only all Venice but all Venetia was visible, and the defenders of the city in their aerial posts seemed within reach of an affectionate handshake. Marangoni pointed out some old woodwork on the roof, the work of arsenalotti, well cut and well set, a fine protection against the elements, breathing a strength, nobility, and even love of its own for this great master centre of the affections of men. Throughout these days of peril four men are nightly on guard at St. Mark's, two in the interior and two, by turns, on the roof. Marangoni thinks the men he has trained to guard St. Mark's will be more efficient in handling fire or injury resulting from the explosion of bombs than the firemen upon whom St. Mark's would otherwise have to depend. What a glorious watch is theirs! During the long and interesting talk we had about the needs of Venice—needs I prefer to record in my heart rather than on paper—Marangoni and I became friends. AUGUST 3

Today the Carrolls took us to the Lido. Having seen it, I am not

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ashamed to say that never before have I taken the trouble to visit it. On our way back to Venice we stopped at the Armenian Monastery on the island of San Lazzaro, founded early in the eighteenth century by Mekhitar who fled with some Armenian monks from the Turkish invasion of Morea. He was welcomed by the Venetians and allowed to choose a site for his monastery on the lagoons. After visiting the museum of the monastery, the printing-press room, and the library in which there are souvenirs of Byron's daily visits while he was studying the Armenian language, we partook of some rose-leaf conserve hospitably offered us by these strange, bearded monks. I wish I understood the true, inward life of these men; they impress one as being neither devout nor yet irreligious. They seem like serious-minded members of a club, mentally comfortable in it, who do not wish to be disturbed by the daily trifles of borghese life. AUGUST 3

A fearfully hot scirocco day. We called on Miss Macy and inspected some of her manifold activities in Palazzo Vendramin: a cooperative grocery store, a little theatre, and a small collection of works by artists and artisans, which she sells for their benefit. Some wooden statuettes, full of feeling and life, were carved by a professor of Gemona. Miss Macy is certainly a dear "vagabond," happy in her struggles to help her neighbors and proteges. If she suddenly came into the possession of a million, she would, no doubt, give it away the very first day and struggle on again. I hear that the Prince of Wales is engaged to Princess Iolanda. She is almost sixteen years of age and he, twenty-two. Her conversion to Protestantism would probably not be opposed by her parents, as the Queen is herself a convert. Besides, the King is said to be a mangiaprete and the Queen a mangia-due-preti. After a lovely walk in the late evening around the gray and shadowy Piazza, Florence and I stopped at Florian's for ices such as one can find nowhere else.

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AUGUST 4

A visit to the Ca d' Oro confirms the unfortunate impression made by its appearance. No wonder Baron Franchetti presented it in despair to the government! Tucked away in a corner on the top floor is a small stone statuette of St. Anthony Abbot, a big bell at his girdle and a little pig at his side, affectionately nosing his habit. While walking today, we came across a low building in the Campiello della Fenice, built in 1869 and now advertised for rent; it is adorned with cannon balls dropped on the city in 1849 by the Austrians, a bronze portrait of Manin, and a replica of the medal of "Resistance at Any Price," cast in memory of the decree of April 2, 1849. In the Piazza we saw three men renewing the khaki uniform of the angel on top of the Campanile, which has suffered from wind and time. T h e lovely cloisters of San Gregorio, not far from Santa Maria della Salute, make a sweet impression despite the litter of workmen restoring and altering them. Their flat roof of painted beams rests on slightly carved wooden supports upheld by columns with sculptured capitals, which spring from a low brick wall bearing traces of beautiful sculptures. Again Signor Marangoni was our cicerone on a visit to the Baptistery of St. Mark's. An opening has been left in the scaffold on which the sandbags covering the font are piled, so as to give access to it. The mosaic pavement of the Baptistery has been beautifully restored by cutting out the cement in the gaps between the mosaics and replacing it by pieces of oriental marbles cut byhand and set, not, as recently, on marble slabs, but, as formerly, on the surface of the ground with a pastella made of powdered brick, identical with that found under very ancient fragments of pavement in the Basilica. This method allows new portions of the pavement to adapt themselves easily to the wavelike surface of the floor, caused by the condition of the foundation. In front of the exquisite tomb of Andrea Dandolo, Marangoni waxed enthusiastic over the appearance of St. Mark's Square as he visualizes it before the erection of the new Procuratie, with noble processions passing over its herringbone brick pavement.

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In the cupola over the altar of the Baptistery, which consists of a block of granite whereon our Lord is said to have stood while preaching to His followers, are wonderfully lustrous mosaics, and on the pendentives, mosaic portraits of the four Latin Fathers of the Church, San Gregorio being distinguished by a bird, the symbol of Gregorian music. Behind each of them is an angel whispering words of wisdom, together with a house representing worldliness, a reading desk, contemplation, and a tree, nature. In the Studio del Mosaico we met the white-bearded, sweetfaced gentleman who has had charge of it for forty years. At his bidding, a couple of artisans showed us the technique of removing old mosaics from their setting, of piecing, cleaning, and joining new ones together, and the tools employed in these processes. New to me were the calchi. These impressions on cloth of mosaic pictures, usually made before the originals are taken down for repair, are obtained by placing cloths, properly treated and moistened, over the mosaics, beating them gently until the outline of the designs underneath are reproduced upon them, and coloring them like the originals. Formerly these calchi were sold, but now they are filed for study and reference. Among the many we saw was a splendid old one in brown and gold of a mosaic portrait of St. Francis, executed, according to legend, before the birth of the Saint by one of the faithful upon whom the vision of his coming had exerted a potent impression. Interesting, too, was a beautiful study for a mosaic likeness of San Gimignano, a luminous painting in gray-blue and gold. Both in the studio and Marangoni's office a detailed, daily record is kept of the progress of work in the Basilica and of every warp, injury, and crack discovered. In a room adjoining the studio, where glass and other materials are stored, Marangoni showed us some very ancient brickwork, so fragile that it crumbles at a touch, which was blackened by a fire occurring hundreds of years ago in St. Mark's. As we lingered awhile on the balcony of the Horses, Marangoni quoted some of the numberless inscriptions on the walls of St. Mark's, containing not only many interesting references to the history and legends of the Basilica but many tributes of affection

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to it. What on other buildings is usually nothing but a vulgar penciling turns into a poetic record on the walls of St. Mark's, though I must say the only inscription we saw, clearly scratched in bad Italian on the fa$ade back of the balcony, was a very gory description of the quartering of a servant of Count Marcello for the murder of two women. The inscriptions of the Armenians, who in ancient times erected stands for their wares around the flag poles in front of St. Mark's, are, it seems, a study in themselves. Before we left, Marangoni told us how the Doge turned the tables on the Genoese ambassador just before the break in relations between the Genoese and Venetians that culminated in the War of Chioggia. During a procession of state to the Basilica, the ambassador pointed to a white banner with a red cross on it—the device of St. George and Genoa—in the mosaic of the Resurrection on the fa9ade of St. Mark's and said loudly enough for the Doge to hear, "It looks as if the Lord is on the side of the Genoese." T h e Doge, facendo orecchia da mercante, pretended not to hear, but as soon as he entered St. Mark's, he sent peremptory orders to the master of the mosaicists to eliminate the red cross from the mosaic before the end of the service. On the return of the procession to the Square, the Doge turned to the Genoese ambassador and said gently, "Selenza, El Signor l'ha volta la bandiera"—Excellency, the Lord has changed flags—whereupon the Ambassador looked up at the mosaic on the fa9ade and could hardly believe his eyes when he saw the white banner without the red cross. This evening we picnicked with the Carrolls in a gondola tied swayingly in the lee of Mr. Eden's garden, which we visited some days ago. Near the entrance are two old and inviting contadino houses covered with masses of jasmine, trumpet vine, and wisteria. The parterres of flowers are edged by brick or boxwood and bordered by vine-trellised paths. AUGUST 5

Marangoni and I had a long and friendly talk today at the Caff£ Chioggia on the Piazzetta. The administrative committee in charge of St. Mark's, the Fabbriceria, is composed of five men appointed for life, a priest, a technical expert, and three other citizens who

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elect one of themselves as chairman. D u r i n g the Austrian domination of Venice, the Emperor bestowed upon the Basilica a yearly income of 51,000 lire, or rather its equivalent in Austrian currency. A f t e r the union of Venetia and Italy, the Italian National G o v e r n m e n t assumed the obligation of paying this sum which suffices for the ordinary upkeep of the b u i l d i n g and the r u n n i n g expenses of organ, choir, priesthood, and Masses. Receipts f r o m the sale of tickets for the privilege of visiting special treasures in St. Mark's, a m o u n t i n g in normal times to a sum averaging about 5,000 lire a month, are deposited in the fund for restorations. Outside of these two sources the Basilica has no means of support except the rents of one or two buildings, which yield very little. T h e Basilica possesses in Marangoni not only an intelligent physician but a loving and devoted f r i e n d — l o v e r , one m i g h t more truly say. H e smiles sadly as he speaks of the Basilica. "She is a gran Signora decaduta. She will not accept alms, though she m i g h t perhaps a gift of love, graciously offered. T h e r e is really no sweeter experience than to forget self in one's affection for her; to g i v e and ask nothing in return; to know that one's little offerings and the work of one's mind and hands have gone into the noble pile. Sometime I shall tell you of the intimate experiences of my labor of love for her." AUGUST

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I made a farewell call on Captain Costa, the officer at the Arsenal in charge of passports, and had a friendly chat with him. In extenuation of the strict policy maintained of keeping visitors o u t of Venice, " D o not forget," said he, "that the naval authorities have the anxious task of defending a city of sixty thousand inhabitants connected with the mainland only by a frail viaduct w h i c h could easily be cut. T h i n k what it w o u l d mean if the p o p u l a t i o n had to be removed 1" T h e middle class of the bureaucracy, who are usually overworked during the tourist season, though they gain nothing by this extra work, are really benefiting, he said, by the absence of foreigners, since they now have a chance to go to the Lido and enjoy themselves—a new side light on the life of Venice at war!

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AUGUST 7 . VERONA

Yesterday, while Florence and I were out in Venice saying goodbye to the Carrolls and other friends, Ave saw flags being put out to celebrate the news of the fall of Gorizia, though up to the present it is a rumor not substantiated. On one humble house the Italian tricolor and the red and gold standard of St. Mark's were flying side by side. We sailed to the station in a glory of moonlight. At the landing stage, Marco Manfrin, our gondolier, took Florence's and then my hand in both of his and kissed them loyally. T h u s did humble Venice say, "A rivederci." T h e trip from Venice to Verona was uneventful except for our conversation with a very pale, emaciated sottotenente of infantry, who climbed painfully into our compartment and began talking almost immediately. He was wounded on Mt. San Michele by a missile which grazed and opened his stomach. His intestines would have slipped out, if he had not had the presence of mind to hold them in. With the help of surgical aid and his own fine physical condition, he was out of the hospital in twenty days. He was now on his way to Padova for an examination as to his fitness for duty. Physically he seemed fit for nothing, but, spiritually, for anything. "When my regiment went to the front early in the war," he said, "I was left behind to train reserves. I ran away and was declared a deserter. My colonel telegraphed that I was in the trenches with him; if that was desertion to make the best of it. I shall desert again if they assign me to a job in the rear." His eyes shone and sparkled as if with fever. A Brescian himself, he said it Avas difficult to arouse the anger of the Brescians, but once aroused they become bestie. "My Brescian orderly ran a bayonet through an Austrian officer and jumped on his body in blind anger because the officer fired a shot at me after he had surrendered with seven men, all of whom threw up their hands and cried, 'Buoni Italiani.' " There are twenty-five men of this young officer's family under arms, including eight of his brothers. His father ran away to join Garibaldi in his youth, and his grandfather fought with Victor Emmanuel at San Martino.

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This war [he argued] is often referred to among Italians as one for the redemption of the Italian provinces in Austria, but it is really a clash of civilizations. Germany held us Europeans in thrall—us Italians especially. T h e conflict in its major lines is between Germany and England, the rest of us being mere subordinates. We Italians have done our share, particularly for the French who now appeal to the Latin tie that binds us, though they never allowed it to influence them on our behalf in Tunis or the Libyan War. They owe us gratitude, at least, for saving them at the beginning of the conflict by our neutrality. Italian soldiers fight well. Feed them, give them plenty of tobacco, a little wine, and they keep perfectly fit. Courage isn't necessary. They acquire it in action. There is no denying that everyone feels afraid before a charge, but the most cowardly man jumps out of the trench like a new being at the battle cry, "Savoial" The thought of mother, father, wife, which unnerves one in the trenches, is brushed aside by a flame of desire to move, to strike; and the sight of a dead comrade rouses a wild sense of vindictiveness. T h e Italian soldier takes little interest in the campaign for an intensive manufacture of ammunition. "Give me the bayonet," is his cry, "and I can cut my way to Vienna." Commanded by educated men, the soldiers in the ranks become cavaliers; idealists they always are, like most Italians. Even I [he interpolated laughingly], found the desire to marry a finer thing than marriage. Bisogna vincere, I should rather be a pauper and win the war than be rich and lose it. If the Teutons win, we shall become slaves. We mustn't forget that. I am not sure but that Count Μ— was right when he beat his wife for throwing flowers to the Austrian prisoners in Brescia, not because she was unpatriotic, but because she was sorry for them. W e arrived on time at Porta Vescovo in Verona and showed our papers to a Territorial guard who looked at my safe-conduct, but not at Florence's. Driving to the Colomba d' Oro, we passed a number of newsboys selling extras announcing the capture of Quota 85 at Monfalcone and 3,600 prisoners; the news did not seem to elicit much enthusiasm. Florence and I took our first walk in Verona by moonlight. T h e Arena, under a steady, cool light, had the appearance of a noble brow relaxed. Piazza Bra was beautiful in the light of the blue lamps. Strangely enough the moon, a big reddish crescent riding low in a clear sky behind the battlemented arches of the Portoni, added only a theatrical effect to it.

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AUGUST 8

At 7 : 1 5 this morning a cannon shot awoke us. A bugler went down the street, sounding the short call "to cover"; but pedestrians continued to walk along quite unconcernedly. We dressed and went downstairs, eating our breakfast to the sound of distant cannonading. Later it drew nearer, and, from the cortile of the hotel, we saw two Austrian planes against the sky, white and clear in the sunlight, with silvery clusters of shrapnel bursting all around them. Rising and dropping, they manoeuvred for awhile until a third plane and then a fourth appeared when they all rose to a great height and disappeared. In the Arena and under Porta Vescovo are posti di rifugio—a new use for ancient monumentsl This morning I wandered through streets filled with a perfume of indefinite reminiscence. In the church of San Nicolo, the sight of our Lady Triumphant, in a pale blue gown spangled with silver stars, floating on the clouds of an altar shrine lighted from above, recalled the long-forgotten but deep impression of sweetness and wealth made upon me as a child by this particular Madonna. My vision of Paradise originated in this shrine, I am sure. As I write, I hear a man in the street lustily shouting. Looking out, I see a stout chap carrying a round basket filled with frogs' legs. "Guarda che bele rane!"—See what fine frogs! he calls. Florence and I walked about the streets all the afternoon. Piazza delle Erbe was crowded. A number of popolane were gaily disposing of the green, red, and orange iced drinks set up in rows on the market stands, about which thirsty soldiers were buzzing like bees around a honeysuckle vine: "Menta, menta, anca I'Alpino el la beve . . ." "Un soldo, un soldo, el vegna qua Sior Richiamato . . ." " E lu, della Croce Rossa, un' aranciata—e ghe metto un poco de menta angelica." Business was going on at a great rate. After lingering awhile in the Piazza, we turned our steps toward the Tombs of the Scaligers. Enclosed in towers of masonry to protect them from bombs, they look as if they might be Gothic outworks erected for the defense of the little church of the Scaligers in the background, Santa Maria Antica. T h e iron grille surrounding them is uncovered, but the statues crowning the columns that

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divide it into sections are sheathed in cement. Seeing us gazing at this war picture, a keeper of a restaurant near at hand brought out a photograph of the tombs as they looked before the war and showed it to us. Afterwards he led us to an old building, popularly called Romeo's house, with a cortile surrounded by arches supported on splendid columns. T h e entrance door, a beautiful arrangement of wooden crosspieces, is 110 longer in place but it has been preserved. Although the courtyard is now used as a stable, its nobility and dignity of line rise like incense above the squalor. Next, of course, we sought out Juliet's house in Via Cappello. We dined outside one of the restaurants in Piazza Bra. T h e late twilight was gradually tingeing the Arena a delicate shade of coral rose, and storm clouds moving slowly westward made a stirring background for the clearly silhouetted figures of soldiers, with guns on their backs, patrolling the ancient Avail of the old citadel. Following in their wake was a friendly flock of pigeons seeking their nests. Suddenly every other man, soldier or civilian, sitting at the long lines of tables on the Piazza sprang to his feet and rushed toward two groups of newsboys laden with extras, who dashed into the Piazza, shouting "Grande Vittoria!" T h e rush was justified, for Cadorna's bulletin, couched in the usual calm, restrained terms, stated that " M t . Sabotino and Mt. San Michele have been completely won by us, and the bridgehead of Gorizia is in our hands." A lady of patrician type dining at a table nearby with her son, an aristocratic-looking boy of tender years, and a R e d Cross dama ordered champagne and drank to Trieste. After dinner I stepped into a tiny newspaper shop on Piazza Brä, where the proprietor was counting up the day's palanche and setting them in orderly rows. A woman with her husband came in for a chat. " A h , Sior Gaetano," said the woman, "this has been a great d a y . " "Yes," he replied. " I thought I should have to call the Carabinieri. T h e people came upon me like Germans attacking a trench. T h e y took every newspaper and fought for space to open and read them. Many in their excitement didn't even pay, but I don't m i n d . It was like old days." "Every soldier in Verona," the woman went on, "is wild with

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disappointment at having missed the capture of Gorizia. I heard some of them say they would gladly have been wounded—even killed—if they could only have been there." T h e n , while I was trying to read an obituary of that noble soldier, Colonel Giordana, and crying in my heart that he had missed the joy of this news, the conversation turned to the existing relations between Italy and Germany. "Surely now we can declare war on Germany," said the woman. "Yes, it's high time," responded the newsdealer. " T h i s victory has made us strong enough to declare war on the strongest enemy," interrupted his visitor. "Say what you will, Germany is a great nation. T h e plan she had of conquering Europe was wicked but great. W e are equals now. W e must declare war and have it over with; for, after the war, she'll need our laborers, and we'll need her capital, but we'll exchange on terms of equality." As the sound of singing grew louder, I stepped out of the shop into the tempered, soft darkness of the Piazza, from which the ancient Avails, towers, and amphitheatre stood out in monumental calm. Dimly, across the square, I saw a flag carried aloft at the head of a great throng marching and singing Mameli's hymn and other patriotic songs. I should have sung too, but no sound would squeeze through the lump in my throat; for I was thinking of this Piazza in other days—so recent that there are men and women alive who can describe them to their children and grandchildren —days when the Austrians charged the citizens of Verona for wishing to be Italian, for wishing to be free. T h e procession moved on in the shadow of the Arena to the corner of the Piazza and the Corso, or Via Mazzini as it is now called, pausing in front of the building that formerly housed the Gaffe Tenda. No light was needed to illumine the tablet on its walls, commemorating the death of the Veronese woman who pleaded for the life of her unborn child but was bayoneted on this spot by Austrian soldiers for shouting "Viva l'ltalia!" Someone cried, "Viva Gorizia Italiana!" and then everybody shouted, loud enough for the dead to hear. As I followed the crowd into Via Mazzini, the remembrance of

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things gone by, dead and buried with my mother, dead too because of a loyalty of mind to America that has changed the face of the world for me, flared up within me, not disloyally, but like words written on a fiery scroll—the call of the past, the hatred of Austria I had felt as a child in this very city. T h e throng of men and women grew bigger, and the singing, hemmed in by the narrow Corso, louder, and the cheers, more resonant. In front of a cinema they came to a halt and listened in silence while the orchestra within played the National Hymn. Then on they marched, singing, to Piazza Erbe, on which there is a column, decorated with a wreath, marking the spot where a number of citizens were recently killed by an Austrian bomb. T h e scene I witnessed this evening in front of the former Caflfe Tenda recalls to my mind a memorial service I attended as a boy with my father in New York in honor of Pietro Maroncelli, a martyr of Austrian oppression. He had died in America some years previously, and his remains were about to be sent to his native land. While a political prisoner of Austria, one of his legs, bound by a chain to his cell, became affected with gangrene and had to be amputated. My mother was the gentlest of souls, but she hated the Austrians. In her girlhood she had seen them at work in Venetia, and the remembrance had left an indelible mark on her spirit. Good administrators the Austrians always were, but cruel with a judicial precision and cold-blooded meticulousness difficult for those who have not experienced it to imagine; for they are always able to make out a good legal case. They were well within the law when they hung nine hundred and sixty-one citizens in the LombardoVeneto between August, 1848, and August, 1849, f ° r the political crime of aspiring to be Italian. Past history? Not so very old, for Austria held Venice up to 1866. At all events, the smart of the ancient scourge still lingers like that of an open wound in the soul of northern Italy. AUGUST g

This morning we paid a visit to the church of St. Fermo. I recall very distinctly the figure of my grandmother ascending its steps.

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T h e fish bone, fashioned into a sword, with which Saints Fermo and Rustico were killed was exposed today; I saw a number of soldiers hastening forward to kiss it. It is always displayed during droughts such as the present one which has killed the corn crop. August is the season for rain prayers, from the faithful of old Verona to the Indian snake dancers of Arizona. T h i s afternoon we drove out to Avesa, where I used to spend the summer in my childhood. T h e landscape surrounding it is now outraged by a terrible collection of new houses painted in Teutonic style. A t dinner in Piazza Bra this evening, while an Italian airplane was doing stunts overhead, the appearance of newsboys announcing the entry of the Italian troops into Gorizia brought everybody to their feet pell-mell. Later I took a walk past the Castelvecchio. Its towers reached u p splendidly toward the sky, and the moon shone on the running water in its moat. Beside it the Adige swept unconcernedly by, flowing mightily but with superb grace under that dream structure of proud, disdainful beauty, the Scaliger Bridge. AUGUST 1 4 . FLORENCE

Another of the precious stones of Venice, Santa Maria Formosa, was struck by Austrian bombs a few days ago. San Magno, Bishop of Oderzo, founded this church at the request of the Virgin herself, who bade him erect it on the spot over which he should see a white cloud resting. For centuries the reigning Doge paid an annual visit to it in fulfillment of a promise made by one of his early predecessors to the members of the Cabinetmakers' Guild, whose headquarters are located in this parish. T h e visit commemorated their bravery in rescuing the maids of Venice from the Istrian pirates who carried them off from the Cathedral Church of San Pietro in Castello, where they had assembled with their dowries, according to custom, to receive the blessing of the church on their coming nuptials. T h e Austrians can point to nothing of military importance in the vicinity of Santa Maria Formosa, but such brutal and illegal attacks by the Austrians as this assault are not new to the Venetians.

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In 1849 the Austrians surrounded Venice with a force of 30,000 men and 200 guns and fired on it for twenty-four successive days, during which they set free aerostatic incendiary bombs, a novelty in the warfare of those days, that fell as they deflated and exploded by contact with the objects they struck. T h o u g h the bombs did little harm, the guns damaged many churches and palaces, the Academy of Fine Arts, and the Rialto Bridge. AUGUST 2 8

Italy declares war on Germany, following a series of occurrences leading to this logical step, such as Germany's surrender to Austria of Italian prisoners of war who had escaped to German soil and her postponement of bank payments to Italian subjects on the ground of their being alien enemies. These are some of the technical causes, but the real reason lies undoubtedly in the growing conviction among Italians of the necessity of facing Germany as an enemy, though there is still in certain quarters a sentiment of admiration for her. T h e Florentines have taken the declaration quietly, almost apathetically. On the whole Tuscany is skeptical and indifferent. T o n i g h t comes the news that Rumania has declared war on Austria-Hungary. This move, no doubt, is in line with some preconcerted plan or secret treaty with Italy. AUGUST

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T h e official bulletin of August 26 announces that Nazario Sauro was hanged by the Austrians at Pola on August 18. Sauro was an irredentist of Istria who occasionally visited New York as an officer of the Austro-American Line. He took an active part in Austrian politics and fought bitterly all nominees for public office of an anti-Italian tendency, with the result that he and his followers were made the objects of police surveillance. In September, 1914, Sauro evaded the call to Austrian colors and escaped with his family to Venice. Before the outbreak of hostilities between Italy and Austria he was enrolled as an officer "assimilato" in the Italian Navy. Although made of the stuff of

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martyrs, he was a happy jovial soul, whose exploits rang through Florian's Cafe in Venice. Between May 23, 1915, and May 23, 1916, he participated in forty-nine naval engagements, putting to good use his knowledge of the Adriatic coast and currents with which he had familiarized himself in the hope of assisting some day in the liberation of Istria and Dalmatia. O n one of these expeditions he landed from a submarine at a small harbor on the Dalmatian coast, made the local gendarme a prisoner, distributed handbills giving particulars of the victories of the Allies, and was off before the local Austrian authorities woke up to the fact of his presence. On the eve of his departure for the perilous undertaking from which he never returned, he announced to his friends his determination not to commit suicide if caught by the Austrians, as he had originally planned. "Suicide is an act of liberation and therefore of egoism. I must have the strength to resist, to suffer, to act so that the enemy will once again cover themselves with infamy. Cesare Battisti was right. T h e last time one can serve one's country, one must render it as great a service as possible." In the case of Sauro, Battisti, and other irredenti, Austria can claim as usual the absolute legality of her acts. These men were Austrian subjects who had enlisted in the Italian ranks and were captured while fighting in them. T h e Austrian military courts had, therefore, as clear a right to order them executed as we in America had to hang every one of the gallant, though mistaken officers who changed their uniforms in the Civil War from blue to gray and fired on the flag. But, thank God, we did not avail ourselves of this right. T h e difference of procedure throws a helpful light on the grave and cruel problems connected with the status of the irredenti. SEPTEMBER

14

1 have been too lazy or perhaps too tired to write. It has been a depressing summer to pull through. Lately events have followed each other rapidly, though not as much progress has been made in the war since the entry of Rumania as I had hoped. Sarrail seems to be beating time in the East,

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Italian correspondence between these two countries is watched for the purpose of locating deserters or renitenti. T h e diplomatic privileges usually accorded by courtesy to consular mail have been abrogated, I gather, from a remark made by R : "Consul Soand-So," said he, "is the one consul in Italy sympathetic to the Allies." On an early morning walk to Fiesole the other day I met that jolly crowd of beggars, old, halt, and lame, who file daily down the hill to collect pennies in their various spheres of influence. They are not organized in the American meaning of the word, though they act in unison like a flock of birds. Hidden by the curves of the Via Vecchia Fiesolana, you hear them approaching, with a note of camaraderie and joy in their chatter, the sound of their sticks on the hard road and the irregular tread of their more or less lame or aged legs making a characteristic tattoo. Individually pathetic, they are on the whole far from pitiful, for their infirmities are not a hindrance but a help in gaining a livelihood. T h e tiny income they earn, not by effort but by being, is sufficient for men more interested in the game than the amount collected. Happy Italians who grasp this little joy out of that which elsewhere is misery! "Chi si contenta, gode." SEPTEMBER

15

It is vintage time in Italy. This morning I followed Florence to the podere opposite our villa, where she had gone to join the harvesters; a beautiful farm owned by a German, on which Tonino, our gardener, lives, and his forbears have labored for a century and a half, not as serfs but as devoted servants of the soil. It spreads in graceful cascades of olive gray and rich green down to the Via Faentina, with here a wall of stones over which ivy picks its poetic way and there a hedge of winter roses. A slanting, paved aja— threshing floor—lies half way down the slope, beside the house, an architectural composite of sloping walls and irregularly shaped chimneys, from which steps run off and merge in grassy plots beneath the vines and olive trees. An old woman I meet tells me the Signora is ahead. "You can catch u p with her," she says, "by jumping on the oxcart." I con-

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tinue, however, on foot and pass the primitive red-colored oxcart, on which the grape vats are jostling against one another, as the huge, ponderous, plodding white oxen drag it over the stony road. It makes a pagan, almost Bacchanalian picture, flanked by grape vines hanging in unending festoons from tree to pole and pole to tree. A host of friends and neighbors are gaily at work, cutting bunches of grapes and dropping them into baskets partly filled with luscious fruit. T h e ground, still wet from the night's rain, is drinking in the heat of the bright sun and exuding a warmth bespeaking the abounding vitality of mother earth. It is essentially a war vintage: the harvesters, except for a couple of Territorial soldiers on "licenza agricola," are mostly women and oldish men. Children give a hand, too, for the work is not hard. They all work slowly and easily in the Italian way, but so deftly that Tonino tells me the fruit will be picked by sundown. T h e grapes are rich and plentiful this year. Wine will not be lacking, though the German proprietor of the podere will not drink it, for all the German properties have been confiscated and placed under government control. At nine in the evening, by the light of a faint moon bathing indistinctly and mystically the soft masses of Florence in the distance, we walk back to Tonino's house to attend the harvest supper to which everyone who labored in the vineyard is invited. We enter by the kitchen door, near which hangs an iron oil lamp, patterned after those of the Etruscans, illumining the bust of some classic personage over the door; on the wall ticks an old clock. A warm, soothing, natural odor of oxen and stable comes thinly and not unpleasantly into that humble room dignified by a Tuscan proportion and simplicity of line. We are given the places of honor at a long table covered with a clean, white cloth, around which sit twenty-four men and women of three generations, the men still in harvest clothes, but the women freshly dressed. T h e r e is plenty of excellent food, soup, fritto misto, delicious pasta redolent of an herb-flavored sauce, and plenty of honest wine to wash down the huge slices of war bread. I am struck by the old men. T h e r e are no inactive old men in Italy. What wonders they perform these days! Indeed the present shortage of labor offers a great oppor-

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tunity to those who are second-rate and normally unfit. After awhile the men at the table commence talking of the war, simply, objectively, not bitterly, as of something unpleasant that must be brought to an end as soon as possible. SEPTEMBER

l6

W e tried out the Ford, regenerated after its experiences at the front, over a somewhat precipitous mountain road running from Fiesole to Borgo San Lorenzo. T h e scenery was more picturesque and alpestre than the usual gentle landscape of Tuscany. Contadini were gathering great heaps of fascine for winter fires. O n our way home, we had a glimpse, high up on a hill near Pratolino, of Castel di T r e b b i o in which are confined some German officers who were captured on the Italian front before war was declared against Germany. SEPTEMBER

18

Florence, Mr. Lothrop, and I reached Lucca today by dusk, just as its annual feast and fair were drawing to a close. Driving through its narrow streets to the Hotel Universo, we were greatly attracted by this town. Built on a diminutive and exquisite scale, it is a dignified little city, not unlike a land Venice, with quaint streets, spacious piazzas, splendid monuments, and gardens of which one catches occasional glimpses through the windowlike apertures in their walls. T h e facade of San Michele interests me more than that of the Duomo, but the reliefs of the months of the year in the vestibule of the latter are irresistible, and Ghirlandaio's "Madonna and Saints" in the sacristy is a feast of color which acts like sunshine on the soul. T h e tomb of Ilaria del Carretto makes a sweet appeal — s o like a work of love does it seem. It stormed greatly, and we were confined for some hours to the hotel, a rambling old palace infested with mosquitoes which would have eaten us up, if we had not demanded nets for our beds. W e whiled away the time discussing, among other topics, Italy and the Italians, whose virtues and faults, Lothrop thinks, can be explained in terms of their great vitality.

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Before leaving Lucca, we had an unpleasant incident with Vincenzo, our chauffeur, who stole some benzine and made off with our car for a good night and merry. SEPTEMBER

20

T h e trip from Lucca to Pisa, skirting a storm, was uneventful. We passed a lovely castle high above the road with a double line of cypresses marching steadily up to its entrance. My first view of the unmistakable lines of the dome and campanile of Pisa was from the bare, open stretch outside its gates, through which we passed into streets crowded with soldiers and officers. T h e city is darkened at night, though it is not as "blue" as towns nearer the front. SEPTEMBER 21.

PISA

I have always disliked the Leaning Tower in photographs, and I dislike it even more in "life." It looked particularly "off" today, with an Italian flag flying from an upright staff on top of it. T h e warm, yellowish orange color of the Duomo glimmered through the gray, rainy atmosphere. T h e long, double aisles in the interior are splendid, and the choir would be very fine if it were stripped of all color except that in the gigantic mosaic figure of Christ in the half-dome over the altar, on which attention should be focused, as it was on the mosaics in the domes of the early churches. Over the doorway of the Baptistery is a Madonna by Giovanni Pisano, closely resembling a statue of the same subject by him in the chapel of the Arena at Padua. Inside there is much that is exquisite, but the pulpit by Niccolo Pisano was a disappointment to me. Florence and I paid a visit to the Orto Botanico of which we have an old map. Different species of plants are grown in aiuole bordered by narrow, raised platforms, built of brick and cement, upon which plants requiring warmth and dryness are set. We have had poor, very poor weather in Pisa and lots of trouble with Vincenzo, but we have managed to see a good deal.

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SEPTEMBER 22

We visited the Camposanto this morning; it is impressively sweet and quiet. T h e beautiful ambulatory enclosing it is filled with too many objects of little importance, though there are some of interest, such as the chains of the ancient port of Pisa. Under the pavement is the tomb of Benozzo Gozzoli. T h e great series of frescoes by him on the walls is, like all his work, a thing of joy. I think I derive more pleasure from him than any mural painter. With a clearing sky we set out for Florence, stopping on the way to visit Vico Pisano, an enchanting little castellated town south of the main road. Crossing a bridge whose keeper demands a toll— a toll well worth paying—you are greeted by an ancient, dignified church and an Orphans' Home standing side by side on a broad, quiet piazza, upon which squads of Bersaglieri are training; they do not seem to belong to the scene, but are not a displeasing part of it. Up a winding, rocky road you rise to finer and finer views, passing old but neatly kept houses with open doors disclosing comfortable kitchens or women working at looms. At the threshold of one of these houses sat an old man busy—oh so busy!—making and repairing bird cages while birds in myriad cages on the wall behind him sang lively tunes. S E P T E M B E R 2 3 . FLORENCE

Today the Maresciallo of Carabinieri in Fiesole appeared in all his regalia to say that I was wanted immediately by the Quaestor in Florence. The Quaestor, it turned out, was at luncheon—a luncheon lasting five hours. When we finally met, he told me that I was "diffidato" from writing a book on the bombarded cities of Italy, a project highly approved by the Press Bureau of the Comando Supremo. I cannot imagine how it came to the notice of the Quaestor unless I mentioned it in a letter to America, of which the Censura took note. SEPTEMBER 2 4

Florence, Nellie, Mr. Lothrop, and I started in the Ford for Monte Senario. Outside of Marchese Guadagni's place, it broke down: so we lunched under some trees and then pushed the car

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down a slight grade to a peasant house, where we left it overnight. T h e next morning I returned, with a Red Cross car and two Red Cross mechanics loaned by the American Hospital, to tow it to town. With its brakes out of commission, the only feasible way to get it down the steep grade from Fiesole to San Domenico was to attach it by ropes to the front of the Red Cross car and let it roll down by gravity, while I steered it, and the other car, running very slowly behind, held it back like a brake. SEPTEMBER 2 9

At five o'clock this gray, rainy afternoon I entered the little side door of the Uffizi and went up a plain stone staircase to the studio of the director, Dr. Poggi, a long room with a window overlooking Santa Croce. It was littered with books, old and new, paintings in course of examination, and other objects of art. Upon this quiet, kind-looking man, rests a great responsibility, especially since trainloads of "refugee" pictures have been seeking the protection of Florence. First they came from Venice and its vicinity, then from Milan and other northern cities, and, after the Austrian drive, from the Trentino. And now more and more are coming from poor, tried Venice. Some objects from the redeemed provinces are here; among them Dr. Poggi mentioned a Pala d' Oro, a number of fifth-century cofanetti of chased metal from Grado, and a "San Matteo" by Pittoni from a church in Borgo Valsugana. T h e director gives receipts for these exiles to their consignors and sees them numbered and entered on the list of honored guests. Those that come rolled are packed away at once, but those that come framed are unmounted and rolled before they are stored. For many of the latter, this sojourn in Florence will prove a godsend, for their frames, often badly in need of repair, will be examined and restored. At the beginning of the war a group of civil and military experts met in Florence for the purpose of discussing ways and means of protecting its treasures. They came to the conclusion that the city was not within the range of danger. Since then, the evident determination of Austria to strike at works of art and the improvements to aircraft that enable them to remain longer in the air have called

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for some measure of defense. Many works of art have been removed from upper to lower floors of museums or to rooms protected by vaulted ceilings; sand and various devices for fighting fire have been supplied to the museums; and firemen have been made acquainted with the location of the most precious examples of art and drilled in salvaging them. A squadron of airplanes will shortly be assigned to the defense of the city. One hundred of the most precious paintings in the Uffizi—the greatest art refugees in the world—have been transferred to the royal banquet room in the Pitti, above which are two stories of vaulted rooms. T h e y include all the Titians, Raphaels, and Botticellis, Piero della Francesca's Duke and Duchess of Urbino, Rubens' portrait of his first wife, Leonardo da Vinci's "Annunciation," Verrocchio's "Baptism of Christ," and some Flemish masters. Four canvases of the one hundred selected, which are too large to hang in the Pitti, have been rolled and stored. Other plans for the defense of important works of art in Florence comprise covering the doors of the Baptistery and the base of Giotto's tower with sacks of dried seaweed,—which, light as it is, has proved more resistant than sand—removing the stained glass windows of Santa Maria del Fiore, Santa Croce, and Santa Maria Novella, and erecting a false ceiling over the tombs of the Medici in the New Sacristy of San Lorenzo. SEPTEMBER

30

Delayed by a visitor, Florence and I made a call somewhat late in the day on the new guests of the Pitti. T h e impression we gathered, all the sharper and more definite perhaps for the shortness of our visit, was that of a distinct note of rank and yet of ease added to the atmosphere of the great rooms. You could walk close to the pictures, set upon movable easels, enjoy the warmth of their colors, and scrutinize the faintest touch of brush. T h e y were neither too high nor too low, they were just where you could see them well and enjoy their company, be with them indeed as one like myself, at least, has never before had the opportunity of being. T h e s e canvases and their artists never seemed so alive to me as today, particularly those in the royal banquet hall which is not

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part of the museum. Hung with draperies of the same red and gold silken stuff that covers the chairs, this room is formal but livable, with light coming in strong through windows built to throw light, but not on pictures. Here the grands seigneurs of art —not the King—were receiving today, receiving graciously and easily, permitting us to look into their eyes and fathom quietly their souls. If the Madonnas seemed to belong less to Heaven, they drew us closer by their marvelous humanity. Even those perfect portraits by Piero della Francesca of husband and wife, painted 011 separate panels but framed together, he with a hooked, broken nose and capable-looking head, she Teutonic in appearance, pleasantly plain, and no less capable looking than her husband—even these seemed like friends. We were able to draw as near to Raphael's portraits as he himself had done in applying his brush. We could almost feel the beat of his heart and the hearts of those he so wondrously painted, so clearly has he revealed their personality, especially in the two portraits of Pope Giulio II, so alike and yet subtly different. The pleasure was not merely ours, and therein lay the difference between today and other days. The paintings themselves breathed an unmistakable note of gladness. Their collocation and the light, no doubt, helped to create this impression, but some influence beyond these seemed to animate them, possibly the reflection of our own joyous mood occasioned by the simple relations established with these Great Souls. They had ceased to be objects hung, catalogued, and isolated. They had come down from their high places to mix with us. War had made us friends. But the deep, true reason for this particular note of companionship was that profound art had come into easy, direct toucli with our life. Never had that basic fact—art is life—been so conclusively proved for me as during the hour we stood face to face with these marvelous likenesses. The artists themselves had endowed us with the supreme joy of understanding and appreciating what they intended to portray. We grasped, as no perusal of books could have taught us to grasp, the personality of Pope Julius II, the emotions of the Fornarina, the playful freedom of the Christ Child, the human motherhood of the Madonna, the poetry of Botticelli, the singing

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faith of Fra Angelico, the devotion to beauty of Titian, the color of Raphael, the brooding, introspective soul of Leonardo da Vinci. A n d over the whole scene, beautifully set, throbbed the simple, fine Italian sense of democracy. T h e King had lent his sala—a gracious but most natural act—and in it art shone as something infinitely brighter and greater than a king's diadem. One understood why the Princes of Italy had not only favored artists but craved their companionship, and why art had flourished in the great days of Italy when artists, living in an environment of affectionate understanding, were as much a part of life as sunshine, as leisure, as poetry, as song are a part of a well-rounded life, of that measured fusion of spirit, soul, and hand which makes the deep joy of living. OCTOBER 5

T h i s afternoon I paid a visit to the Uffizi gallery. T h e gloomy atmosphere of this gray day emphasized perhaps the sense of emptiness and lifelessness that pervaded it. T h e First Corridor is unaltered except for the removal of gems and intaglios from the window cases. Its lovely painted ceiling and mere shell of a roof, which rests on the beautiful carved rafters overhanging the great windows, seem very unprepared for war, so unprepared that one instinctively thinks of a possible "smash." T h i s same dreadful thought follows one into other sale with skylights, and into the tribune with its targetlike glass dome. In the tribune one feels less than elsewhere the absence of famous pictures. T h e finest are gone, but the masterpieces replacing them amply enrich the red silken walls. Bronzino's portraits are there, the "Ignota," with her amber collana and her particularly dressed hair, looking placidly out from a background of a peculiar blue exactly like that from which the same artist's little "Maria de' Medici" gazes at the saints and sinners surrounding her, the " A d a m and Eve," the "yellow" depressing Guercino, and the not overstimulating Spagnoletto. T h i s mixture of subjects offends me, forming, as it does, an exhibition of virtuosity rather than an assemblage of art. It does not quite suit me to see Sassoferrato's " L a Vergine Addolorata," clasping her hands in prayer, so close to

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Bronzino's portrait of "Don Garcia de' Medici," a fat, laughing baby boy, dressed in a rich red frock, squeezing a poor little bird in his fat, greedy hands. T h e touch of war is more marked in the other rooms. In one of the Sale Toscane, a dirty green cloth stretched over the rich gilt frame that formerly contained Ghirlandaio's "Madonna col Bambino" takes the life out of the many colorful paintings by Filippino Lippi still gracing its walls. In the Sala di Botticelli one feels instantly that the two great Flemish tapestries hanging over the spaces once occupied by " T h e Birth of Venus" and " T h e Adoration of the Magi" cover the absence of something rich and rare, so feeble is the life and imagery in them compared with the examples of Botticelli that remain on the walls. T h e acme of emptiness is reached in the Sala di Leonardo, where no attempt has been made to cover the void left by the removal of the Master's work. Here still hang the Cardinal Virtues by Antonio and Piero Pollaiuolo: "La Speranza," "La Temperenza," "La Giustizia," and " L a Fede." With sword, balances, and cross, they sit as unmoved as if nothing unusual had happened in the world and nothing that mattered could happen, symbols of the indestructible as they are. OCTOBER 6

There was a tender moonlight tonight, spectral and not over clear, but warm, soft, and veil-like. I walked up to Fonte Lucente and thence to Villa degli Angeli. T h e Italian countryside always "shuts up" at night. T h e houses, shuttered as soon as the sun goes down, look prepared for attack. Whether their forbidding appearance owes its origin to the fear of danger in mediaeval times or to the fear of night air I do not know, but it certainly intensifies the silence that envelops all Italian rural sections after dark. Florence was bathed in a nebulous veil, but the lights on Viale Michelangelo stood out high and clear, like gems in a diadem. T h e Mugnone Valley belonged only faintly to this earth, being mostly fairy-woven stuff. Into the bowels of the hills opposite me ran a short train, puffing like a dragon of Storyland. Its snorting, more and more muffled, was finally swallowed up by the grinding noise of the wheels of the rear cars which had not yet entered the

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tunnel. A stretch of anxious semisilence followed, marked by the inchoate, indefinable noise of the dragon fighting under the earth. Puff, puff, the monster stuck its head out. T h e valley echoed its bellowing, and fiery fumes rose in the air. Away it went, seeking new prey. And I traveled on, pausing to rest in the cypress peace of Fonte Lucente, over which hung one bright, particular star. An electric light on Via D u p r i spoiled much of the view from the top of the hill, but the "feeling" of the landscape, as one looked through the olive trees at Florence in the distant mist, was markedly Botticellian. T h e r e was the same verdant, meaningful, flat light, the same simple and fascinating but elusive imprint, the same vagueness in even the most definitely drawn detail that entices one, looking at the pictures of Botticelli, to think and dream of all sorts of lovely things. Am I right in thinking of Botticelli as not quite human? T o me he seems a wondrous sprite, closely allied to the fairies and their profundity of vision. OCTOBER

7

T h e interior architecture of the Bargello is so perfect that the few changes made, on account of the war, in the arrangement of its exhibits do not at first appear important. But, as the eye travels quickly from the great cast of Donatello's equestrian statue, "Gattamelata" in the centre of the large vaulted hall on the first floor to the gem of the Donatello collection, the "St. George," in a niche, the sight of two stout timbers inserted at the beginning of the war in the wall above it, with the idea of removing it from danger, is something of a shock. T h e project of transferring "St. George" to the lower floor of the Bargello was abandoned later because of the opinion of experts that the vaulted hall was as safe as any room in the building. T h e ugly break in the wall made by the timbers lends a certain poetic fury to "St. George's" warriorlike figure. He looks as if he had backed into his niche, ready to draw his great sword against anyone who might attempt to carry him to a place of safety. Both "Gattamelata" and "St. George," whose warlike appearances are accentuated by the flags of the ancient guilds hanging on the walls, appear more like defiant figures awaiting the outbreak of war than refugees trusting to a lucky miscarriage of

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bombs. " T o Battle" would be their cry rather than " T o Safety and Retreat." All the works of Donatello, and most of the bronzes in the Bargello have been placed in this hall. Donatello's "Youthful St. J o h n " is an exquisite creation: the childlike face, with open, inquiring mouth, is full of poetic surprise and the sweetness that emanates from an untried inner life of simple, beautiful faith and innocence. T h e "Marzocco," the Florentine lion, is at his post, looking as undisturbed as a bargaining Tuscan faltore, so undisturbed indeed that one relaxes at the sight of him and lays aside temporarily the anxiety attendant on these days. Many of the rooms on the upper floors look as if they had been sacked. T h e tower room on the ground floor, where halberds and swords once gleamed, and flags of more or less renown made their stirring appeal, is dark and silent. Access to it is cut off by a stout wall recently built, which reaches part way up to the ceiling. Behind it lies asleep—so a custodian told us—the refugee art of Venice, the arms and flags of Tuscany acting as guards of honor to their illustrious guests! OCTOBER 8

There seems to be some discontent abroad, especially in regard to the call to colors of men of the older classes. I hear complaints about it from the peasants with whom I stop to chat on my walks. One of them said that the government hopes, by putting most of the men in the ranks and feeding them, to prevent a revolutionary movement. Halfway up to Fonte Lucente there is a casa colonica picturesquely situated. T o my surprise I found it occupied today by a squad of Territoriali who picket the Faenza railroad line. They were listening to one of their number reading aloud the morning's war news. Farther along, on the wall of a villa, was a scrawl: "This is the last walk Pietro Landi will take"—the shortest story with heart interest I ever read, significant of what is in the minds of some of the men called to service. On this same road I gather daily some news of a sorrowing

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world. On her way home from buying bread this morning, the Rossi woman stopped me to say there is a rumor current that her son is in a prison hospital in Austria, with both legs wounded. I could see she believed it and was struggling to keep .down the suspicion that he had lost both legs, a suspicion that has already assumed the proportions of a fact in the eyes of her neighbors. The instinctive reaction of both the mother and woman in her was manifested by a strange mixture of a desire to cherish her son and a sense not of repulsion but of outrage and grief at the thought that probably only half of her boy, born whole of her, would return home. This complex emotion revealed by her words and actions was new to me, but, on reflection, I found it not unnatural. "Do you think I'd refuse him?" she asked more of herself than of me. "I hear the government intends to keep all the badly crippled men in institutions, but I want him home. They will have to pay for his care though," she added quite fiercely. Other women coming from market were discussing the domestic problems of the war. "Ne ho tre per la poppa," said a husky one —though I believe no woman can nurse three babies contemporaneously. "And I have seven little ones," rejoined another. She was lucky, for a Territorial soldier, who is the father of four or more children is assigned to service near home. After discussing the cost of living—the price of I' olio, la candela, and things we never think of—they joined in a chorus of gratefulness over the fact that the hospitals are free to all. And to me this last comment was the saddest of all. October being the month of the Rosary, the following placard has been hung at the entrance of the church of San Domenico: La Vergine Madre Debellatrice col Suo Rosario degli Errori Albigesi e della Barbarie Musulmana Minaccianti la Patria Nostra Salutata nei Secoli Regina delle Vittorie Aiuti anche Oggi I Forti Difensori

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del Diritto Italico Ottenga All' Europa Sconvolta La Pace Desiderata. As a historical parallel it's going some! According to an Italian friend of mine in the diplomatic service, the want of consideration with which our diplomats are treated abroad owes its origin not only to their lack of personality and training but to the principle of reciprocity! Americans would be surprised perhaps if they knew how European diplomats in Washington resent the scant respect and deference accorded them. What can an ambassador accomplish there? What interest is taken in his statements? Is his position any better than that of a labor leader? Is it indeed as good? T h e American Hospital decided to celebrate the award of a silver medal to one of its patients by a bicchierata last Sunday, but it did not arouse any excitement in the men. After the somewhat tame feast was over, I spoke with the hero, a small, slim man about thirty-five years of age, I should judge. Born in Brazil of Calabrian parents, he returned to Italy at the age of twenty-nine. This is the second medal he has won in the war. H e apparently takes pride in the award not as a token of his courage but of his skill. He seems to have no fear of death; the thought of it does not even affect him with a sense of mystery as machinery, for example, affects a man not a mechanic. T o heroes, evidently, danger appears much the same as machinery to mechanics. They know all the ins and outs of the game. As this man puts it, "You must be astute, you must be calm, you must not take a step backward or forward without knowing where it will lead or being ready to face what you may meet." One of his exploits was the capture of a machine gun in charge of some Austrians, whose habits he had stealthily watched. He looked upon the adventure as a job not a risk, or rather as a job with a risk incidental to it like any other job. If he could lay his hands on the machine gun before he was discovered, the job was easy, not dangerous, for, once in his hands, he had only to turn it around and pay out the ammunition ribbon to capture any number of men single-handed. Another of his feats was to

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explore a trench abandoned by the Austrians, which the Italians suspected might hide a trap. H e found it full of nitroglycerine, made his report, and the artillery blew it u p safely at long range. His father, w h o believes in a man keeping up his courage by action, continually urges upon him the necessity of facing new dangers. Life in Brazil, where a man lives near to nature and must look out for himself, had prepared him admirably for war. " I don't mean to say anything against my comrades," he said, " b u t it is clear that most of them have had no acquaintance with emergencies. T h e y have not been apprenticed to danger. If they had engaged in my tasks, they would have failed or been killed, not because I am luckier, or braver, or abler, but because I am skilled in the tricks and ruses of the game of offense and defense." I have had a letter from the Americano Tarasca. H e too, has had his adventure. H e volunteered to go to the T r e n t i n o w h e n the Austrians made their drive there last spring, b u t was sent instead to the Isonzo front. In the battle of Mt. San Michele, ΛνΙιεΓε his regiment won a gold medal, he was overcome by gas w h i c h the Austrians used for the first time. I found today a fugitive note I made about a peripatetic c o b b l e r w h o helped us put up the top of our car during a rainstorm on the R o m a n Campagna. I was struck by that cobbler; he seemed a very pathetic figure, not in his person or trade, b u t because he was plying it on the Campagna. In Tuscany he would have been happy, even blithe. W h y ? Because of the difference in the two places. Tuscany is gracious and livable, with a house here a n d an inviting tree or knoll there. R o m e is severe and mysterious e x c e p t possibly for the great and mighty. O n e cannot imagine St. Francis c o m m u n i n g with birds on the R o m a n Campagna, where n o t h i n g humble or deeply sweet and tender ever thrives. R o m e is like a woman, beautiful and superbly, even aristocratically sumptuous, w h o bears the signs of having had too many lovers. T u s c a n y instead is like a lady grown mellow in aristocratic dignity, w h o has loved and borne many children but has never k n o w n license. R o m e has; she bears the marks of it all over her. It is a strange place for the residence of the vicar of G o d — b u t let that pass.

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OCTOBER 9

T h e most valuable works in the Accademia di Belle Arti have been moved into the corridor of the tribuna, the only vaulted room in the building. From the jumble one gathers an impression of tremendous disorder, which is intensified by the splendid isolation of Michelangelo's "David" standing, under a strong light, unmoved and unmovable. Almost all the paintings are in size, subject, conception, and execution so graceful and tender that they combine badly, very badly, with the superb torsos and blocks of marble and stone, hewn by the mind-driven hand of Michelangelo. T h e mixture of Ghirlandaio's "Adoration of the Shepherds," Fra Angelico's "Descent from the Cross," Botticelli's "Spring," and Michelangelo's studies of statues of "Prigionieri," intended for the tomb of Pope Julius II, spoils the individual effect of each. But oh, that "Spring" of Botticelli!, with its incorporeal bodies, its quintessence of unreal reality and real unreality, its grasp of the elusive, its embodiment of the exquisitely lovely which is yet not an embodiment, its rendering of a thousand feelings, graceful, exquisite, poetic, pulsive that we know exist and seek, hope for, desire, and once in a lifetime, for an instant, enjoy. Here we see them fixed for us on canvas, visible, unmistakable, true. I could sit and look at Botticelli day after day, dreaming with my eyes open. OCTOBER 1 7 .

AREZZO

Florence, Nellie, and I started in the Ford this perfect October morning on an Umbrian trip. We started excellently, but, on the road to Impruneta, beyond Galluzzo, we met such a stream of conveyances, diligences, and carts with horses, each adorned with a long feather sticking straight up from his bridle like the horn of a unicorn, that it was impossible for the Ford to behave at its best. Led horses, oxen, and mules encumbered the road too, for this was the second and culminating day of the Donkey Fair held annually in Impruneta from time immemorial. From the ridge above the town there was a fine coup d'oeil of the Piazza and the fairgrounds below it, as both of them lie on a slope.

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The Piazza was sprinkled with booths and bustling with a goodhumored crowd seeking food. The Trattoria L ' Universo was crowded upstairs and down; but for forestieri there is always room. T h e proprietor of the inn improvised a table by placing a door across two wooden horses, upon which he spread a cloth and served us a substantial meal accompanied by vino cotto. Near by stood a man plucking chickens, with a cage of live fowl at hand to use if the decapitated ones gave out, for chickens impaled on long spits, as many as seven or eight to a spit, and roasted over fires kindled on the edge of the piazza and on the roads leading into it constitute the plat du jour. T h e little donkeys standing about in groups for sale, their heads laid sleepily on the necks of others as small and delightful as themselves, are, of course, the joy of this Fair, though we were happy to see that the beautifully trained Italian pigs we met on the road seemed really happier little animals. T h e baby brown somarelli, with long, fuzzy, matted hair, sad faces, and legs cut in unmistakable lines of obstinacy do not command as high a price as the nattier and more fashionable gray donkeys, with zebralike stripes down their backs, but I heard ηο lire for one refused. The church of Santa Maria dell' Impruneta is surprisingly rich in treasures. Its interior was spoiled by renovation in the baroque period. Some beautiful features remain, however, such as the charming polychrome frieze of fruit and leaves on the cornice of the altar of the Madonna, and the predella by Luca della Robbia below the Tabernacle of the altar of the Holy Cross. T h e architectural aspect of both these little altars has been impaired by the addition of domes. In the afternoon we sped along a splendid road, called by courtesy level, to Arezzo and settled ourselves in the Albergo d'lnghilterra. After dinner we strolled up and down the steep paved streets of the town, which are unbroken by sidewalks. In the quiet and mystery of the night, the aspect of Santa Maria della Pieve and Piazza Vasari was very impressive. We made several attempts to warm our beds, for the rooms were bitterly damp and cold, but without much success. T h e director of the hotel evidently considers it beneath the dignity of his

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hostelry to heat the beds of his guests with those delightful, oldfashioned, pottery receptacles of live coals hung in small basketshaped crates turned upside down that the Tuscans call preti and use most effectively for this purpose.

OCTOBER 18

T h e individuality of this lovely town, which "dolcemente signoreggia" the fertile valley in which it lies, attracts one immediately. Its clean broad streets forbidding by their grade much traffic, its small but well-kept hanging gardens, its sense of quiet contentment and absence of "farfigura" make a stay in Arezzo delightful. Apart from its many other attractions Arezzo merits a visit for the faςade of the Pieve, with its three graceful tiers of columned loggie suggesting a fugue in a musical composition. On the soffit over the main entrance are some quaint sculptures representing the months of the year. December is depicted by the saddest pig scene ever modeled: a butcher standing over a little pig, thrown on the ground, holds in one hand a hoof of the little animal and in the other a knife he is about to plunge into its heart. It is a fine, spirited piece of work, but the pig's snout, catching a high light, lingers in my memory with a real pang. T h e interior of the church has been wisely restored. What it became in Vasari's hands may be gleaned from a terrible baroque pillar of variegated marble, embellished with the head of a man peeping through flying draperies, that has been preserved as an example of the period. In the sacristy there are some beautiful old vestments, including a set of purple and silver made from a cloak belonging to Vasari. T h e Duomo of Arezzo, beautifully placed on the esplanade fronting the Medici fortress, suffers by comparison with the Pieve. It is filled with splendid but crowded monuments representing too many tastes; and, yet, the noble building holds some beautiful things: " L a Trinitä e Santi" by Andrea della Robbia, for instance, in the Chapel of the Madonna, on the base of which are some charming figures of members of the Misericordia, completely covered by the cloak and hood of their habit, but so exquisitely modeled as to reveal the individuality of each.

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On the main altar rests the marble tomb of San Donato, Bishop of Arezzo, six of its eighteen original columns having been removed for the purpose of placing it in this position. T h e longer one looks at it, the greater becomes its appeal because of the play of light on its groups of sculptured figures, its daintiness of construction, and the variety of color introduced by its golden background and inlay of blue enamel and silver. OCTOBER 2 0

At the edge of a sleepy piazza to the north of the D u o m o stands the old church of San Domenico. It was closed today, and I carried away only the impression of robust fineness and an echo f r o m across the seas in a contribution from the "Colonia Italiana di Boston," listed among the donations for its restoration. But yesterday, while I was kept indoors by a heavy cold, Florence and Nellie were admitted by an artisan who, quiet and alone in this divine workshop, was restoring with a sparing hand two series of frescoes by Spinello Aretino and other painters, r u n n i n g a r o u n d the lower part of the walls, which had been blotted o u t probably by the whitewashing brush of Vasari. And, talking of artisans—how wonderful are the Aretine vases, decorated with beautifully drawn Greek figures copied from the silver vessels brought back by Mario from the sack of Athens! OCTOBER 2 2 . PERUGIA

On leaving Arezzo we felt as if we were bidding adieu to a friend so gracious that not even the anxieties of a great war could m a k e h i m overlook the duties of hospitality, hospitality accorded n o t only to stray guests like ourselves, b u t to two regiments of soldiers picturesquely encamped outside the city's ancient walls. T h e road to Perugia, skirting the lovely Lake Trasimeno, is perfection itself. Beyond this beautiful sheet of water comes the ascent to the Pass of the Magione. It is a long pull, b u t over its crest there is a chance for a delightful rest in the shadow of the Castle of the Knights of Malta, a superb b u t graceful fortress, where a h u n d r e d knights once gathered to discuss ways and means of get-

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ting rid of Cesare Borgia who, however, outplayed them and summarily disposed of a number of them. We reached Perugia in the early evening. T h e holiday sounds of the Sunday crowd on the Piazza and the noisy productions of the municipal band barely reached the upper rooms of the hotel, overlooking the beautiful Perugian countryside, in which we established ourselves. It was well, for we needed quiet, as we looked out of the window in the gathering darkness toward a hill in the east. Halfway up lay a little white town shimmering like a soft cloud under the clear, steady light of the evening star. Assisi, men call it, but, at that hour and in that light, it seemed as if it might be the soul of St. Francis quivering in the boundless ether. Assisi was our objective the following day. At the luncheon hour or rather during the three hours of midday sacred to Italian rest, you may walk through Assisi without meeting a living soul. In the silence of the mild October sun shining on the little town, there was nothing to prevent the mind from peopling it with the good brothers of St. Francis, nothing to disturb one's sweet fancies about the blessed Saint. So quiet and empty was the cloistered piazza at the side of his church that all the birds of Tuscany and Umbria, including his beloved larks, might have gathered in it for a heart-to-heart talk with the beloved Saint. In the beautifully sombre lower church there is such a profound sense of living faith that were St. Francis alive today it might be possible to induce him to leave his humble Portiuncula for the sake of praying in its lovely silence. Yet it is to this little oratory and to the tiny cell wherein he died, both of which are preserved in the great church of Santa Maria degli Angeli, that the people bring their burden of sorrow and anxiety. In the little chapel of the Portiuncula women were praying, and a Territorial about to leave for the front was asking the Franciscan accompanying us if he might be allowed to commune with God in the cell where the good Saint died. In the small, cloistered garden outside of the church, the thornless roses still bloom around a statue of the Saint, so modernly conceived that it left us somewhat cold; but, on coming out of the church into the Piazza, we recaptured the

39 6 1916 touch of his spirit hovering over the wounded soldiers limping around it. A dozen more or less precipitous but excellent roads out of Perugia lead to many interesting places, to so many indeed that a choice is difficult. Our immediate interest being to investigate the present condition of the hand industries of Umbria, we picked out the road to Deruta. The people of this village constitute a large family who respect their worthy history by endeavoring to preserve its monuments and by honoring its customs. Pottery has been made here for centuries. Some years ago the industry waned, almost coming to an end before it was revived by the aid of an old artisan. Most of the workmen are now at the front, but volunteer Austrian prisoners, Bohemians in particular, who are skilled in this art, will probably be employed to fill the vacancies. Everybody pots and paints in Deruta. At the local trattoria you eat pasta out of dishes made by the small daughter of the proprietress, and fill your glasses with wine from quaintly shaped pitchers made by the late proprietor. The signs on the shops, the family escutcheons on the houses, the ex-votos in the churches are all made of majolica. The small collection of it preserved in the municipal museum attests very clearly the potent influence exerted on a community by a tradition of artisanship, which often produces results far greater than those attained by a merely theoretic or technical education. Deruta lies about halfway between Perugia and Todi, and historically it is about half the age of this latter town—Etruscan, as a glance at its walls shows. If one wishes a visible proof of the impregnability of the ancient hill towns, let him climb the steep road in Todi leading from the third and lower circle of its walls, the mediaeval, to the first and upper circle, the Etruscan, which encloses the so-called Acropolis of the town. Todi's civic symbol is an eagle, an eagle that I must grudgingly admit excels in loveliness of form, in obvious strength of wing, in proud and menacing visage, the bald-headed eagle of the United States of America. It is a fighting bird, symbolic of Todi which, with its dark walls, massive public buildings, and ancient churches gives an impression of lowering defiance and unbending trust in its own strength.

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OCTOBER 3 1 - N O V E M B E R 2 . TO CITTA DI CASTELLO AND FLORENCE

After ending our visit to Perugia, we dropped down a road, built like a corkscrew, to the T i b e r and drove northward to C i t t i di Castello, through an undulating countryside dominated by oak trees. T h e autumnal beauty of its coloring, with light, foliage, and atmosphere suggestive of Corot's canvases, cannot be matched, I am sure. In addition to a well-arranged museum of local art and a splendid park outside its ancient bastions, where a regiment of soldiers is encamped, Citta di Castello offers other attractions to visitors. Those who have a thirst for antiques may slake it in an antiquity shop full of odds and ends, which, in the present dearth of tourists, is plying a lucrative trade in vegetables and roasted chestnuts! Those who delight in revivals of old industries may visit the looms of the Laboratorio T e l a Umbra a Mano, which turns out yearly hundreds of yards of beautiful hand-woven linen. As we were about to leave Cittit di Castello, our little machine gave evidence, without any apparent cause, of unusually high spirits. These were soon explained when a car from its home town across the Atlantic, filled with officers of a famous fighting regiment, swung around the corner in front of us. Moved by the bond that exists between owners of Fords, they smilingly saluted us, though we were civilians and forestieri to boot. If one wants to enjoy the intimate comfort of specklessly clean rooms filled with flowers and a larder stocked with delectable provisions, let him stop, ten miles north of Cittä di Castello, at a small hostelry, the Albergo Fiorentino, in Borgo Sansepolcro. Here, too, long rows of tents outside the old walls remind us that the flower of Italian manhood is in the army. In this small community we found the people attending to their daily tasks with the same spirit as elsewhere, wasting no time on complaints about the special conditions of today. Two hundred women in this small community are occupied in making beautiful lace, true to old patterns. On leaving Borgo Sansepolcro, we cross the Apennines, take the road to Arezzo, and thence turn northward to Florence. It is All Souls' Day, a day dedicated by the Italians to a living remembrance

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of the dead. Groups of men and women in Sunday garb, carrying potted plants, flowers, tapers, lamps, and lanterns, are wending their way on foot or in diligences, freighted with wreaths and flowers, to the humble God's acres that at other times of the year slumber under the shadow of their cypress-sheltered walls. Today they are alive and bright with people visiting the graves, sweetly or quaintly adorned with flowers in the midst of which are occasional photographs of the departed. Accepting death at its true value, as a rule of life democratically applied to all in an unescapable communion, they have come to visit those who have gone rather than mourn their death; for the clear, common-sense view of life, characteristic of Italians, plays its part also in the relation of the quick and the dead. It may be, too, that I discern no sign of despair or piteous resignation because All Souls' Day has a special significance this year. T h e grief for dear ones who died before the war is mitigated by the thought of the tragedies they have been spared, and the grief for those who died at the front, by the honor in which their memories are held. Even at this unavoidable turning point of life called death, there are distinctions possible in the manner of entering its dark portals. T h i s do we know: the greater number of those who have entered them this year have entered them as brave men and true. It is late and dark as we stop, on our journey's end, at the foot of the Fiesolean hills. T h e long Piazza of San Domenico is sleeping in the shadow of the old Domenican Church and Convent. At one side of it, over the village cemetery, rises a dim light of votive tapers and lamps, which seems to tremble softly with a promise of dawn—the dawn of United Italy to which her most patriotic citizens have looked forward for centuries. NOVEMBER 7. FLORENCE

Florence and I dined with Marchese and Marchesa De Rosales and Avvocato Bosi at Cencio's. Rosales described the wonderful development of war industries in the north; also the splendid work accomplished in rehabilitating the mutilated in some of the hospitals, especially in the Rizzoli Institute at Bologna, where he had

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seen badly crippled peasants drawing better than he himself, a sculptor, ever drew. Avvocato Bosi has no doubts about the result of the war. T h e Germans, unexpectedly checked at the Marne, were obliged to face the price of their temerity, the price of final failure, which, owing to the very perfection of their plan, was certain from the moment their project for a speedy victory failed. He thinks the Italians will accept a prolongation of the war as a matter of course. Tuscany may grumble, but it always grumbles; Sicily, Calabria, and Sardinia are still impelled to action by the promptings of chivalry; Piedmont, Lombardy, and Liguria are happy because they are growing rich, though, it must be said, they give very freely of their profits. Lombardy indeed is not only generous but very patriotic. On the whole Italy is not suffering, for wages have risen in proportion to prices, and the numerous regulations and restrictions in operation do not really affect the normal habits of the people. Rosales described a military mass he had attended at the front for soldiers unexpectedly recalled to the first line from a rest in the retrovie. T h e church filled with men on their knees, holding lighted tapers in their hands, was a very impressive sight. A tale Rosales told of the kindness shown by some Carabinieri to a young Austrian woman living in a town of the redeemed districts is worth recording. While her husband was away from home, serving in the Austrian army, she gave birth to a girl baby, who later sickened and died. On the night of her death, two Carabinieri patrolling the streets heard the mother's cries and entered her house to ascertain the cause. Soothing the young woman as well as they could, they helped prepare the little one for burial and promised to arrange for a funeral service and grave. Next day, while one of their comrades, a carpenter, was making a small coffin, they collected from the others enough to buy a little white garment, shoes, and stockings for the child. After she was dressed, they placed on her head a wreath of white blossoms, arranged her in the midst of tapers and flowers, and sent for a photographer to take her likeness, hoping thereby to comfort the mother whose

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grief was doubled by the thought that her husband would never see his child. Such are the Italian soldiers! A t the funeral service the captain of these men appeared, somewhat to their perturbation, for they feared he might disapprove of their activities in behalf of an Austrian family. Instead he praised them and offered his own sympathy and aid to the young woman. NOVEMBER 3

I am trying to write at my desk at Villa Torricella, but the rumble of aerial motors and the pounding of anti-aircraft guns interrupt my work. Four airplanes and a dirigible are in the air, testing the adequacy of the Florentine aerial defense. A n ugly, black flyer hovering over our roof, and gunfire issuing from the quarries in the hillside across the valley make the experiment quite stirring. NOVEMBER 2 3

W e have just come back from a visit to the hospitals of Villa Bondi and Villa Pisa. In a workshop established in the former casa colonica of Villa Bondi artificial limbs for the patients are made. Every man who has lost a leg receives a light wooden one, not unlike an old-fashioned stump, to use on week days and an "aesthetically" modeled one to use on Sundays and holidays. I was struck by the scene at the workshop today. From its wide-open doorway I could see, without, the Hill of Fiesole against a lovely background of clear blue sky and, within, a group of mechanics at lathes and forges, making ridiculously lifeless bits of the human body—dead, mechanical substitutes of living substance, in which leather replaces muscle, and steel, nerves. T h e inferiority of man to nature is never so apparent as when he attempts to counterfeit it. In the class-rooms of the villa, tailors, shoemakers, bookbinders, toymakers, and cabinetmakers were at work. One of the toys, a casa colonica in a bucolic setting of trees, peasants, animals, and a haystack, was delightful. A t Villa Pisa we saw many new arrivals from hospitals in Padua. A Sardinian, a fine-looking young man, minus a leg, told me that one day at Opacchiasella he and his comrades were in high good

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humor over the streams of Austrians surrendering when bang came an Austrian "305"—and that's all he remembers. He is hungering for home. " I have not written to my family that I am crippled," he said. " I have told them only that I am suffering from vertigo." A sweet-looking boy, with one leg gone, said smilingly, " A leg is less than life. I think I shall be able to do light country work; so I can't complain." A Sicilian, sitting up in bed, avidly eating a hearty meal fed him by a nurse, was the perfect embodiment of Sicilian fierezza. T h e stumps of his arms, for he had lost both hands, stood out strong in immaculate dressings; his chest and head were bandaged and one eye was lacking, but the other shone out of his scarred face, bright, steady, firm, and undaunted. He did not seem in pain or even discomfort, and he was not discontented. Never have I seen such life and strength as I saw in the one eye of that shocked face and in that broken frame. DECEMBER 1 5 . ROME

Although sweetmeat shops abounding with Christmas panettoni and fancy cakes are open and caf& are crowded, the aspect of Rome seems somewhat changed; not gloomy, but tamed, as I saw it tonight by the lowered street lamps which cast a ruddy light on the wet pavements. Caf£ Aragno was filled. A waiter told me laughingly of a patron's attempt to pay his bill with Greek silver. " W e accept almost any currency here," he said, "but Greek coins go only at King Constantine's counter." At a quarter past ten, half of the electric lights in the cafi were put out as a reminder that the hour for closing was at hand; at half past, it was enveloped in darkness, and everyone started homeward uncomplainingly. We are creatures of habit after all. We may even get into the habit of being good! The habitues of Aragno's impressed me, superficially at least, as being unaware of the important crisis Italy is facing; for her reaction to the surprising German offer of peace may decide the question not only of her freedom but her honor. But one must never judge Italy by firsthand impressions. Italians themselves differ greatly in their interpretation of the country's reaction to events. Casardi, for instance, told me this morning in Florence that the

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German move has acted like a boomerang, turning persons indifferent to the war into guerrafjondai whereas Commendatore Branchi thinks we are facing a critical situation of which the malcontents will take advantage. No doubt all the forces that went to great lengths to keep Italy out of the war will raise their heads again. Not long ago a motion to consider peace, with a prevision that now looks like a collusion with Germany, was introduced in the Chamber by the Socialists, but at the request of Premier Boselli, it was adjourned for six months by an overwhelming vote of the deputies. T h e sentiment of the press is almost unanimous against giving any consideration to the German peace offer, with the exception of the Giolittian papers which guardedly stress the advisability of examining it. After the Italians have had time to scrutinize it, I believe their reaction will be quite different from what Germany expects, especially in view of the Teutonic outburst of offensive oratory. Meanwhile there are signs that the Vatican is on the alert for any opportunity of offering its services that the German proposition may provide. DECEMBER

l6

T h e lavorio, as the Italians descriptively call the intrigues connected with the German peace offer, such as the timing of the Socialist motion, is almost too obvious. The activity of the malcontents and such professional pacifists as the clericals is a revelation of human selfishness which can be explained only by the number of men inimical to the government. Think of the hundreds who, in the sifting of values, have been found incompetent and dismissed from their posts, and of the thousands who feel aggrieved because they have not obtained the positions to which they think themselves entitled. Think also of the justly aggrieved, brave, patient, uncomplaining men who have been kept overtime in the trenches because of the inexpediency of replacing them with grumblers and cowards of the type of C , whose made-to-order arguments against the war, abounding in venom and lacking in spontaneity, are so un-Italian as to make me question whether he

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is not in the pay of the enemy. T h e ghastly expression on his face, as he told me, when I happened to meet him today, that, though he is over forty years of age, he could be trained as a sublieutenant and assigned to a first-line trench inside of forty-five days, disclosed to me a man's fear of death. I had always supposed that the horror of war lay not in the dread of death, but in the suffering incidental to it and the sight of its tragedies. Then, too, it is but fair to say that men over forty meet the summons to war very differently from younger men who, being less settled in their habits, face it not only with elan but enthusiasm. DECEMBER

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Today Richardson invited Y and me to lunch with him in his new apartment at the top of the Spanish steps, a luncheon that spread out to tea, with a five-hour talk on war, adventure, and literature. Y is a correspondent endowed with an artist's sensitiveness and with a restless soul rather than a journalistic mind. Tall, ugly, with a flattened face and small eyes emerging from below a bulging "braincover" not big enough, apparently, to store his impressions—this is the picture of the man. DECEMBER

l8

T h e political situation is not very clear, a circumstance that generally means trouble in Italy. In a semidarkness like the present, the Italians begin to imagine and invent—forms of mental exercise in which they excel and delight. There are strange happenings in Parliament. Turati's admission that Italy must have a new and safe boundary and strategic guarantees in the Adriatic was such a volte-face by the leader of the Socialists, who have not only fought bitterly against Italy's participation in the war, but have declined to support war cabinets or to vote for war budgets, that doubt has been expressed of its sincerity. Was it not, with its implied hope of the attainment of these goals, designed to induce the deputies to listen to the German peace terms? A few are certainly ready to listen. Alessio for instance, who had the effrontery to suggest in the Chamber yesterday, after some sweet and flowery remarks by

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way of introduction, that Italy was the natural intermediary in peace negotiations because she was the only one of the Allies who might be termed a conquerorl Meanwhile German propagandists are actively trying to bring on a panic by asking gravely and portentously whether Hindenburg will not make his next drive against Italy?—asking the question, of course, for the purpose of letting the public infer that they not only know he will, but greatly fear the results. Even the extra-parliamentary meeting held yesterday by some eighty senators and deputies to discuss the formation of a war committee like that in England adds to the doubts and suspicions of the hour. T h e project, on the face of it, is respectable and patriotic, for its purpose is to study ways of intensifying the war, but why are such men on it as Molmenti who has always opposed and obstructed the war and Gambarotta who urges Italy to take the peace terms under consideration? Peace! How well Germany played the word! Although the Allies will not bite at the baited hook, it will nevertheless do a great deal of harm. T h e mere mention of such a portentous word has been a shock, which, though it can be reasoned away, will leave a lingering residue of the fleeting hope that warmed the hearts of everybody for an instant, even though it was a make-believe flash, not a real flame. DECEMBER

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T h e press is unanimous in praising Sonnino's masterly speech on the German peace offer. He pointed out to Parliament that almost all of the opinions expressed about it rest on the assumption that the government has received some concrete or, at least, fairly definite proposals from the Central Empires. This assumption, having no basis in fact, owes its origin probably to reports circulated ad artem in Rome. These reports would be beneath notice did they not resemble the propaganda current during the period of Italy's neutrality that was proved to be of enemy origin by nothing less than Count Tisza's statement in the Hungarian Chamber. " W e are all desirous of peace," Sonnino concluded, "of durable peace, but by that we do not mean a peace depending on

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the strength of the chains forged by one nation for the purpose of holding another in subjection." Ambassador Page asked me to take a hand in translating Sonnino's speech. In the midst of our labors, for the Ambassador himself, Van Rensselaer, and I were working on it, he invited Van Rensselaer and me to lunch at Palazzo del Drago. We were received very cordially by Mrs. Page, though we were late. During luncheon Mr. Page talked in a humorous, chuckling vein, of the ambassadorial airs of Whitney Warren who is now traveling in Europe. The Ambassador has found a law he thinks fits Warren's case, which was passed by Congress in the latter part of the eighteenth century to discipline George Logan, a self-appointed agent of our government in France. An acquaintance of mine, a young officer, tells me that his father, an irreconcilable pro-German Roman black, connected in some way with the Banco di Roma, is awfully glum—a sure sign of a predicament in Germany; also that Cadorna, though he has the absolute confidence of the army, may be pushed out by political influences just as Joffre was. If he should be, it will be due to the machinations of the Masons who dislike having the command in the hands of such orthodox Catholics as Cadorna, Porro, Pecori-Giraldi, and the Duke of Aosta. The German wife of an Italian naval officer, living in the same hotel as my friend, has direct information of the lack of food in Germany and such surprising evidence of Italian disasters as a snapshot of the blowing up of an Italian warship. DECEMBER 2 4 . FLORENCE

Richardson's mysterious hint of "something big looming up in a couple of days" was followed by the sudden appearance of Wilson's note, or rather Lansing's, to the belligerents. On reading a summary of it I felt much the same mixture of anger and anguish as I should feel at seeing my favorite in a combat tricked into a false move; but, on reading it in its entirety, I felt humiliated. What a poor document, even in form—rambling, vague, false in its assumptions, dishonest in its valuation of peoples and historic events. I share the view of the Popolo d' Italia which calls it a note

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from the Man in the Moon. Rastignac in the Tribuna ironically pities the vaunted sufferings of the Americans, caused by their profits in trade! O n the whole the note elicits little surprise from the Italians who regard it as a mercantile document, such as they expect from America. It seems incredible that Wilson should have made a move like this without sounding the European chancelleries. His failure to do so leads me to fear some reason for his action not generally known, the bad military situation of the Allies perhaps, of which the excessive deference paid to the note by the semiofficial Giornale d' Italia might easily be symptomatic. Meanwhile the delay of the Allies' reply to Germany is disquieting. Branchi has a special fear of his own: the trouble certain to ensue if the peasants have to buy wheat because of a shortage due to the rain that spoiled its sowing. T h i s afternoon we went to tea at the Hagemeyers' to meet two Englishwomen from Salonica, a captain surgeon and her chauffeur. With hair cut short and a general appearance of "readiness," they were natty and attractive in British service uniforms. T h e i r unit of surgeons, nurses, orderlies, chauffeurs, and mechanics is composed entirely of women. Salonica is unsanitary, and sickness is rampant. T h e cold weather from which these young women suffered greatly while sleeping temporarily without tents on the ground is a cause of general discomfort. Although they had observed no marked ill-feeling against the Allies in Salonica, some bloodletting occurred in Athens at the time of the demonstration against the demands of the Allies. T h e first contingent of Italian soldiers arriving in Salonica numbered 4,000, and many more came subsequently.

The Diary of

GINO

SPERANZA

IN TWO V O L U M E S

The Oiary of

GINO SPERANZA ITALY, 1915-1919 Edited by FLORENCE COLGATE SPERANZA

V O L U M E II:

1917-1919

AMS PRESS. INC. NEW YORK 1966

Copyright 1941 By Columbia University Press, New York

Reprinted with the Permission of Columbia University Press AMS PRESS, INC. NEW YORK, N.Y. 10003 1966

Manufactured in the United States of America

ILLUSTRATIONS

C O L DI

LANA

THE ITALIAN

BATTLE-GROUND

Modified from a map in A History of the Great War, by John Buchan (Houghton Mifflin Company, Boston, 1922)

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JANUARY

5.

ROME

W h e n Florence and I reached Rome last night, a cordon of Territorials drawn up in the station betokened some approaching event: a conference in Rome of members of the Entente cabinets, as we learned later in the evening. A t the Embassy this morning Richardson repeated to me stories he has heard of mutinies and insurrections in Italy. I did not take a great deal of stock in them because, as I told him, they came, I presumed, from the small and unrepresentative class of Italians, with whom, though he moves about more than the other secretaries of the Embassy, he naturally comes into contact. "Instead," he replied, "they come from very reliable newspapermen." Still I doubted them and doubt them even more since talking to Marchese De Rosales who tells me that he knows positively there is no trouble in Milan and that he has heard nothing but good from the front. Rome shows no particular enthusiasm over the illustrious delegates arriving to take part in the conference, though many flags are hung out. JANUARY

7

T h e papers give no account of the proceedings of the conference, but they release "straws" editorially. I hear through Mr. Miller of the London Morning Post—what is beginning to be Pulcinella's secret—that one of the topics under discussion at the conference is the removal of troops from Salonica. Some French troops en route to the east are said to have been halted in Rome. T h e Idea Nationale combats openly the abandonment of Salonica, but urges the withdrawal of the "thin veil" of troops connecting Valona and Salonica. T h e abandonment of Salonica would not really affect the Italians who undoubtedly favor the realistic policy of looking after the interests of the small

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states at a final peace conference instead of trying to save them by aspiring but sterile military efforts. It would go hard with the English, however, who only last week recognized Venizelos' "Salonica Government." JANUARY 8

T h e quiet and businesslike manner in which the conference has been conducted has impressed the public. No hurrahs and a lot of "sawing wood"! T h e delegates departed last night as suddenly and silently as they came. JANUARY

12

T h e American Charge d'affaires to Servia has given up his job at Corfu. Official communications reached him through Athens so late that he was the last man in Corfu to receive information of what was happening in the United States. Finally, when the Greeks flocked down from the mountains to ask particulars of Wilson's note to the belligerents before he had been apprised of it officially, he cabled his resignation. T h e day before the Allies handed to the American Ambassador at Paris their answer to President Wilson's note, Borsarelli, Under Secretary of State, called at our Embassy to say a copy of it would be delivered to Mr. Page that afternoon. T h e Ambassador went to play golf, leaving strict instructions to see that the Foreign Office kept its promise. As the afternoon passed without any sign, Richardson called at the Consulta and made a forceful but goodnatured statement to the effect that the Ambassador would raise hell if the reply went to press before he got it. Half an hour after midnight a much worn copy was delivered at Palazzo del Drago. Richardson thinks A of the Foreign Office a man of limited powers, unpleasant, and conceited. I suggested that he had better take my word for it that he is very astute. A absolutely declines to speak English to Richardson. Of course; catch him not taking advantage of a situation. T h e Embassy, I find, has few means of gauging Italian public opinion or of ascertaining what is happening in the country except through the inadequate consular reports and the "scoops"

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of one of its employees, who picks up stray bits of information, such as the recent conference in Rome, which he reported to the Embassy a couple of days before it became public property. JANUARY 13 Norval dined with us last night in our rooms, upstairs, as he is not yet officially back from his wedding trip. Mabel was ill and couldn't come. This morning he telephoned me that the Ambassador would like to see me, if my cold permitted me to go out. When I arrived at the Embassy, Richardson introduced me to Major Helberg, our new military attachö, of whom everybody speaks so well that I was not surprised to find him friendly and charming. While we were talking, Mr. Page appeared and invited us into his office. He asked me to give him my opinion of Mr. Wilson's note, but, instead of waiting for it, promptly began the dear game he loves of standing by the fireplace and giving his. He is so loyal to the President, so authentically an honest American, that nothing he says can offend, no matter how much one disagrees with him. I interjected some remarks; but he would not even admit that the document showed haste of construction and lack of style. He considered it not only perfectly neutral in sentiment, as it should be, but very carefully phrased. I told him that the note was inopportune unless there was some special reason, unknown to me, for issuing it now; also that, "judged by the diplomatic test of whether a document offers a 'handle' to those in opposition to its views, it was weak in that it gave the Allies an excellent opportunity of making a somewhat unpleasant reply." W e talked of other things, back and forth, for an hour, agreeing that nobody in Europe loves us. "Nobody loves anybody else," said Mr. Page. Before I left, the Ambassador gave me a copy of the Logan Act, urging ine to write an article on expatriated Americans. I walked home with Richardson who said he had just learned of the divergence of views among the delegates to the conference, especially in regard to the tone of the reply to Mr. Wilson's note, which Mr. Page told me he had urged Sonnino to make as friendly



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as possible. Sonnino, it seems, persuaded Briand that it was wise to make it not only clear in terms but conciliatory in tone, despite the opposition of the English and Russians. Sarrail is alleged to have asked Cadorna for a large number of soldiers for Salonica, and Cadorna to have replied that he was planning to withdraw those he had already sent. Later, however, he agreed to let them remain. There seems to be no doubt tliat a great spring offensive on the western front, initiated by the French and English, was decided upon for June. I understood that the next big Italian drive will be into Austria through Laibach, a plan favored by both Bissolati and Lloyd George. In the afternoon Miss Baskerville of the New York World came to tea. Although acknowledging that disagreement exists among the Allies, she thinks it will make no difference to the course of the war; for a war always proceeds along certain lines and cannot be stopped or shifted by the will or moods of a few persons. She told us something of her life in Russia, where she lived many years. Her picture of the Czar, who never makes a decision, military or political, without resorting to table turning by way of advice, was not reassuring, and her account of Rasputin, the monk and presumably pro-German agent, who is alleged to have been murdered recently, was absolutely disgusting. JANUARY 22

While the Richardsons, Florence, and I were having tea on the Appian Way yesterday, Richardson told me of Mr. Wilson's new move, his speech on peace to the Senate. This morning the Ambassador summoned Cortesi of the Associated Press and me to the Embassy to ask us to make a translation of the President's speech for the Italian press, since the President's note to the belligerents last month was outrageously rendered. We set to work, but were carried off to lunch at Palazzo del Drago by Mr. Page—a delectable luncheon of Virginia ham, griddle cakes, and maple syrup! After luncheon we chatted awhile, discussing the speech, which Mr. Page, of course, loyally defends. Apropos of a statement of

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Mr. Page's to the effect that Mr. Wilson had recently expressed great confidence in his views of Italy, Cortesi took occasion to say tactfully that he thought it very difficult for diplomats in Rome to get the point of view of Italy at large: "Your social duties are so overwhelming that you are forced to move only within a limited circle of the wealthy and socially prominent who are neither patriotic nor representative. All these people tell you . . ." "I know," interrupted the Ambassador, "they tell me only what they think I like—they offer adulation." Back we went to the Embassy offices and worked again, while Mr. Page buzzed around, praising the speech which he parallels with that of Lincoln at Gettysburg. Needless to say he did not wholly approve of Richardson's colder praise of it as The Sermon on the Mount of political addresses. After tea, which was sent in from the Grand, Mr. Page left, according to agreement with the Foreign Office, to deliver an English copy of the speech to Sonnino. Tucking it into his breast pocket, he walked off with a grin to try it on the finest statesman in Europe. Three quarters of an hour later he returned fairly chipper, but not as jubilant as if he had scored a pronounced success. Sonnino, he said, had read the speech aloud, read it very well. He thought it favorable on the whole to the Allies, but hard on England in regard to the freedom of the seas and on Russia in regard to Poland; it would undoubtedly create interest, but he did not see its practical application at present. The fundamental idea of it, Sonnino observed, had been discussed by no less a person than Dante in De Monarchia. In fact, he, Sonnino, had lectured on Dante's conception of a superempire protecting individual states. Yes, he had a copy of his lecture which he would give to Mr. Page. The Ambassador inquired of Sonnino what was happening in Russia. Sonnino, "twisting his legs as he does while talking," replied that it was hard to say, but he thought Russia would pull out all right. Mr. Page told Sonnino that he was having an official translation made of the President's speech for the newspapers, so that they

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might print a correct version of it, though he thought they would attack it anyhow. "I shall see to it that they don't," snapped Sonnino. By eight o'clock Richardson, Cortesi, and I, freezing because the fire had gone out, were licking the translation into final shape. It was nearly nine when we finished it. T h e n the Ambassador hustled Richardson and me off in his car, for I was expecting friends' to dinner, among them the Richardsons. JANUARY

23

W e had tea today with Mrs. Carfrae. Mr. McClure of the London Times was present, looking like a new man despite his motor accident at the front. O n a recent visit to Rheims he had been favorably impressed by the condition of the Cathedral; with one side almost unharmed and some glass in place, it is still, to the eye at least, a noble and exquisite monument. Signora Luzzatto, wife of the ex-prefect of Udine, told us that she had received a note from the French aviator, Beauchamp, who flew over Munich and landed in Venice, thanking her for entertaining him in Udine, which was written on the day he was killed in action. JANUARY

28

These have been busy, interesting days, perfect days indeed for any man, if only the sun had shone and I had felt better. One evening we went to Miss Baskerville's and met John Hearley of the United Press, who was on the Sussex when it was torpedoed and broke in half in the English Channel. He told us some astounding details of his experience. Florence gave a tea the other day for the Richardsons. Mr. Page, who came with Norval, was as sweet and charming as only he can be. H e even apologized for wearing a frock coat. "I never wear it to teas," he said, "but I have just come from a visit to the King." W h i l e I was accompanying him downstairs, he said that the K i n g had told him he thought the President's speech very good, but doubted the possibility of its immediate usefulness. T h e King, he says, looks like a man happy to be leading the life of a soldier at the front, far away from affairs of state.

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I was closeted with Mr. Page for nearly an hour today, going over some editorials on the President's speech. The Giornale d'ltalia and the Resto del Carlino of Bologna are extremely favorable to it. T h e Stampa of Turin, representing Giolitti's views, is overenthusiastic, referring to Mr. Wilson's language as "Roman" and "pro-consular." T h e Tribuna is hostile to it, and the Idea Nazionale stoops to personal vituperation of the President. The reform-Socialist II Popolo d'ltalia looks askance at it. The straightline Socialist Avanti! agrees with most of the President's views which, it says, are taken from the Socialist program, but it does not approve of his proposal to defend peace by "an international force"; for peace, according to the Socialists, can only be effected by the consensus of the international proletariat. Mr. Page is keen about winning friends for the President's speech. He read me some notes for an address he intends to make and asked me to write an article for the Italian press. I promised to submit a draft in a day or two. In the afternoon Florence and I attended a diplomatic reception given by the Ambassador and Mrs. Page at Palazzo del Drago. It was an enjoyable affair—"all Rome" was there—but I was struck by the absence of any special figure. None of the women were very beautiful or superior or even very daring, and the men were not at all distinguished in appearance. T h e Japanese were greatly attracted by the buffet and ate voraciously. In the evening I dined with X , a monastic feast on New England mahogany. I enjoyed the occasion greatly by reason of the striking contrasts it afforded. My host was never more "MiddleWest"; and the effect he produced, running true to form while conversing in Italian, was amazing. One of the Italians present has developed heart trouble after two years of service with his battery and is now on a three months' leave of absence. One great advantage of being an artillery officer is that one may have a large amount of baggage. He carried two hundred and forty tins of pate de foie gras to the front and ate them all himself! Count Gnoli, director of art in Umbria, described the process of restoring frescoes: the cleansing of their surfaces with soft feathers,

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the filling of holes and fissures with a special sort of Roman sand that does not attract to itself any particles of the material surrounding it, and the sparing application of color to masses rather than to lines and shadows of the design. While he and Stanley Lothrop, who was present at the dinner, were standing one day on a scaffolding in the church at Assisi, they saw traces of figures emerging from the sky blue paint of a lunette upon which they happened to be looking down. Gnoli ordered the paint removed, and the portraits of five Cardinals appeared—the five who opposed the transference of the Papacy to Avignon and were in consequence blotted out of the fresco. Gnoli tends to believe that the frescoes attributed to Giotto at Assisi are not by him but by his pupils; for he finds in them the Master's spirit, but not his hand. The officials sent to inventory the contents of the monasteries confiscated by the government in 1866 overlooked many objects of art, which the monks disposed of as they saw fit. In one instance they even cut heads of saints out of valuable canvases and sold them at five cents apiece. American collectors came in for a good word from the art critics at the dinner. Of one in particular they spoke very well. He buys like a signore, though he has, in common with other millionaires, the fault of taking no interest in objects costing less than 20,000 lire. T o a sum considered fair by the experts accompanying him, he adds 5,000 or 10,000 lire and makes an offer that he will not raise or dicker about. This idiosyncrasy of his results sometimes in his losing objects of art, since the antiquarians persist in believing they can induce him to meet their prices, and sometimes in his being purposely deprived of them by the experts who have no compunction about encouraging the dealers to hold out for prices they know he will not pay whenever they wish to block the sale of certain works of art they think should remain in Italy. FEBRUARY 4

It is the happiest Sunday of my life. The sun, dim, Roman sun though it be, has the joyousness of an Easter brightness. The United States, my country, has finally found itself. The German

11 1 9 1 7 blockade note of January 31, illegal in spirit, disloyal in its violation of pledges, wicked and cruel in intent, offensive in form, proved to be the last straw in breaking American patience. Either Germany wants war or she has misjudged the United States, just as three years ago she misjudged France and Britain. I can't imagine a document more calculated to incite American opinion. Now Bernstorff goes, and the Bald-headed Eagle claps its mighty wings! My Country, my Country! Thine eyes have finally seen the coming of the Day, not the Day that the Germans dreamed of as Der Tag, but a Day of freedom such as you, America, suffered and fought for in the strength of your great youth. Lord—give Thou Thy blessing to the President of the United States and to all persons in authority in these great moments. Again we can sing:

As He died to make men holy, Let us die to make men free. FEBRUARY Γ, Florence and I dined at the Embassy this evening. FEBRUARY 1 1 Yesterday I began with Lothrop a round of the Agro Romano schools, on behalf of the American Relief Clearing House in Rome. These schools have been established by a private organization, the Comitato delle Scuole per i contadini dell' Agro Romano. With Professor Cena, associate editor of La Nuova Antologia and Professor Marcucci, director of the schools, we visited two, less than sixteen kilometers, I should say, from the centre of Rome. Our first and most interesting stop was at Quattro Cancelli 011 Via Salaria, a little beyond Castel Giubileo, the property of Duke Grazioli, a very large landowner. The name is descriptive of four gates barring access to a railroad crossing. Beside it stands a water tank belonging to the railway system, which supplies water to the peasants of this little settlement, who, before the advent of the railroad, had only water drained from the malarial Agro Romano to drink.

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Upon a desolate hillock of clay and scrub hang twenty primitive, thatched capanne made of rushes and straw, with no openings except doors, not even vents for their primitive fireplaces formed by a circle of stones. Out of the stagnant, liquid mud at the foot of the knoll emerge two long, stone buildings. T h e older of the two consists of a single room, blackened by decades of smoke, with a big double chimney in the centre of it and a number of ventless fireplaces at intervals on the floor. It is dimly lighted by four small windows, the size of ancient shooting slits, and is divided by platforms of rough boards, measuring approximately 6 by 10 feet, into quarters for twelve families, which are separated and screened from one another by bamboo and branches of dry foliage. A couple of women were sitting on the floor of one "apartment," mending clothes, and a few babies were playing about the big room. T h e only difference between this and the new building is the division of the latter into large rooms. Each of these is equipped with a real fireplace and furnished with three or four double beds for the use of sixteen or seventeen adults and children of both sexes. No privies, no path to the houses from the road, no tree for shade, no hedge for shelter! Both men and women work for a wage of one lire and thirty centimes a day, excluding, of course, rainy days. Their staple food is a round, thin crusted cake of Indian cornmeal, eaten without any condiment. Collected by a padrone from various parts of Italy, the laborers are farmed out to work on the land very much as immigrants in America often are; but their living conditions are infinitely worse than those of any American labor camp I ever visited. T h e landed proprietors are largely responsible for the sorry plight of these people. Although there is a law on the statute books requiring landlords to improve their properties under penalty of confiscation by the State, they allow their agents to take all they can out of the land and put nothing into it; and yet bonification of the Campagna would yield good results. On the other hand it must be admitted that these peasants, who are not stupid but of a somewhat retrograde type, are so fixed in their habits that they would live just as wretchedly if they were paid ten times as much

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as they are. They are representatives of an old serf system, now happily passing, who come to this hole because they would be even worse off if they stayed at home. They regard the present war just as their peasant ancestors have regarded wars since the days of the Roman Republic, as a natural event like an earthquake, and they expect it to be followed by famine as other wars have been. But, no doubt, questions will arise in the minds of those who have gone to the front, for they are living far better in the trenches than they ever lived here, and, when they return, they will be heard from unless their lot is improved. A night school for adults and a ricreatorio for children have been established at Quattro Cancelli in two defunct cattle cars contributed by the railroad company. These are kept beautifully clean, lighted by acetylene, and decorated with wreaths, leafage of green, flowers, and pictures. We took relays of the children, who show the effect of the care bestowed upon them, for a ride in our car. Before we left, their serious, but cheerful, young teacher led them in singing Mameli's hymn—just as a trainload of Bersaglieri swept by. FEBRUARY

12

Imagine the great station at Rome in its customary nightly aspect, not overclean, not overorderly, with considerable traffic going on. Add to its busy, but not hurried, go-as-you-please aspect a cordon of Territoriali in their ill-fitting uniforms, stretching from the exit gates of the railway platforms to the street doors, about which stand groups of Carabinieri, Questurini, and Territoriali, with bayonets set. Their friendly, pleasant appearance leads you to imagine that you can push your way through their ranks with a few determined strides. If you attempt to, however, you press a spring, as it were, that starts a mechanism of effective resistance, courteous and kindly, but impenetrable unless you know the password releasing it and opening the way. T h e password is Comitato Francese, an organization that does not exist; for the Comitato is comprised of Miss Nissy, an English-Hungarian nurse, the first person in Rome to think of greeting the French troops passing through the city on their way to the Eastern front.

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At first she met them alone, then, with a few friends, and now with a retinue of well-meaning persons who regret their meagre knowledge of French; for what these soldiers like best is to talk, though—God bless their gracious manners!—they accept any offering from almonds to chocolates, from cigarettes to postcards so courteously that one is inclined to think them entitled to win the war by their good breeding. Now imagine, while business goes on as usual in the station, a passenger train pulling in from Terni, out of which scramble a mixed civilian crowd carrying all sorts of bags and bundles, and, at the same moment, a longer, less brilliantly lighted train pulling in on an adjoining track, out of whose endless cars, first class and freight, pour men and men and men in light blue uniforms and casques, chasseur and red Zouave caps. Strong resistant fellows they are, with no riffraff or weaklings among them, full of go and life, though many have held and thrown back the enemy at Verdun and not a few bear honorable wounds. They are not jolly but far, very far, from sad. Some are soon clustering around an old whitehaired man with a little lady by his side, the Belgian consul and his wife, who never fail to meet these troop trains. Others gather around a number of ascetic looking French cures and sisters of charity, distributing kindly words, kindlier smiles and little medals —yes, from le Pape himself—as well as rosaries and likenesses of saints. Meanwhile, at the Ristoro del Soldato, Italian ladies are handing out delicacies to Italian fantaccini and French Zouaves alike, boys fighting in a common cause. The time to see these French troops is late, after the rush is over, and the point of saturation for gifts has been reached. The bugler sounds the order to entrain, the lights on the platforms are turned off, and the only illumination comes from the troop trains lighted by bits of candles in lanterns, which throw a dim, picturesque gleam over the crowded compartments and the military accoutrements swinging from baggage racks or resting on them. On the platforms, helmeted French sentries march up and down, and Italian Carabinieri keep vigil over a scene that becomes more than ever quickened by a sense of tragedy as silence envelops it. One evening, not long ago, a small contingent of sappers and

1 9 1 7 *5 engineers arrived, with their stout, sweet-faced horses lined up, nose to nose, in cattle cars—veteran globe-trotters they must be, for they seemed perfectly at home in their quarters on this long journey that is destined to carry them across the treacherous seas. Why, oh, why didn't some one think of bringing carrots for them? Cut sugar for man or beast is out of the question in belligerent Europe, but anyone would surely have paid a franc apiece for carrots in order to treat these uncomplaining warriors. Another evening the papal gifts went so fast that a tall Grenadier was unable to get a rosary, though he explained, as he waved aloft an open envelope in his mighty hand, that he wanted it for his little daughter's birthday. Soon, however, some American ladies, who had been courageously asking of all who crossed their path, "Have you a coroncina?" found him an acceptable substitute, and he handed over his letter for registry, perfectly content. Later I came across a fine-looking Chasseur trying to make a guard at one of the exits on the railway platforms understand what he wanted. A stupid guard he must have been, for the word, "bibliotheque," ought to have enlightened him. "Oh, for a book, Monsieur I" exclaimed the Chasseur, as I stepped up to play interpreter. "Oh, for a book and a newspaper!" H e was not allowed to pass through the gate, but I was, and soon I returned, my hands filled with samples of that strange and forbidding-looking French literature one finds in railroad stations and my pockets stuffed with Parisian papers, to find him awaiting me, the picture of gratefulness. As the troops were about to depart that evening, the clink of cymbals and the sound of a harmonica and mouth organ came from the rear of a long train swallowed u p by the darkness. In the tenseness of that stirring environment the tuneful and merry medley of Parisian chansonnettes lacked substance and reality. A few moments later, however, strains astir with the eternal verities of life floated over the air, as a dozen, a hundred, a thousand men in an invisible train farther away in the darkness intoned, "Mourir pour la Patrie." T h e song swelled and trembled and rose in billows of fervor towards the sky, towards that immortal arch spanning the Eternal City, witness unimpeachable of the truth that

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only two kingdoms can live: the Reign of Law and the Kingdom of God. FEBRUARY 2 1

W e called this evening on the Garibaldis, Signora Garibaldi having invited Florence to meet her daughter, Italia, who is at home on leave from the field hospital where she nurses. I spent my time talking to General Ricciotti. I must say he was interesting after he came to the end of his usual fantastic talk about the Savoyards, which tonight charged Queen Margherita and "Duchess Tommaso" with sending Italian military plans to their Austrian relatives! He has an absolute mania for the sins of the royal family, especially those of the Queen Mother and "her lackey," Sonnino. H e insists that the Allies have made a fundamental error in allowing the Germans to impose on them their own manner of warfare: the immobilization of the enemy in the trenches by a fabulous use of artillery. "With both sides playing the same game," he said, "there will be a continuous stalemate. Guns are toys. You can't win a war with them. You can win wars only with infantry. T h i n k of the hundreds of thousands of shells fired by the French and English! If each had killed but one soldier, the strength of the German army would have been broken. T h e Allies can't beat the Germans unless they force an infantry battle on them. They must retreat, if necessary, in order to draw the Germans on to new ground, where they have not had an opportunity to entrench." T o General Garibaldi the United States presents the most unprecedented psychological state in the history of nations. Although he is still studying it, he is ready to assert that Americans have taken a stand against war, not because they have all they need economically or because they are "pussy-footed," but because citizens of modern democracies do not believe in resorting to war to settle disputes. They are theoretically right, he thinks, but they are acting against the law of nature. Struggle is the law of nature, and a stable state of peace is unnatural. Even if Europe should settle all her problems in this war and attain apparent stability,

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she will find ranged against her some day the less democratic and more primitive nations. It is the law. General Garibaldi favors national conscription because of the discipline it affords to mind and body. Athletic sports he considers far from an adequate substitute. As to the type of men who make good soldiers, he cited his father's dictum, "Thieves and students make the best fighters": in other words, ingenuity and ardor are the qualities that enable men to win battles. FEBRUARY 2 2

Miss Baskerville of the New York World invited us to meet M. De Lutoslawsky today, a Polish banker of Warsaw, a mild, thoughtful business man in appearance, pale-faced and kind-eyed. H e is in Rome on a mission to the Pope, having come by way of Archangel and Newcastle from Moscow, where he took refuge after the German invasion of Poland. Whether he can return as easily is another question. T h e trip back via the United States is out of the question because of the heavy traffic on the Pacific that necessitates engaging berths months in advance and the congestion on the trans-Siberian railroad, which is still largely single-track. One million Polish refugees are living in Russia. M. De Lutoslawsky oversees sixty-seven of the districts in which they live and two thousand schools established for their children. None of the capitals he has visited shows any marked effect of the war; Rome, least of all, perhaps. Prices in London, high as they are, seem very low compared with those in Russia, where they have risen fabulously owing to the cost of transportation. Cars and wagons are rented at high fees for the transport preferably of luxuries, which pay more in proportion for space than necessaries. Flowers, for instance, pay very high. T h e peasants, debarred from drink, for which they formerly spent 75 percent of their wage, are saving a great deal of money; but their high consumption of the products they raise is causing a scarcity of food which increases prices in the cities. These, however, the working classes are quite able to pay, for they earn a great deal of money, especially in making munitions.

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Russian action in the war is hampered both by the utter inability of the Russian mind to solve the problems of organizing and maintaining an offensive, and by the terrible obstinacy of the Czar, as exemplified, for instance, by his retention of Protopopov in the cabinet. Russia, M. De Lutoslawsky insists, is not to blame for the Rumanian disaster. Although Russia urged the entry of Rumania into the war early in the campaign, the chief of her military staff opposed it at the time Rumania came in, not only because of the lack of good railway communications between the two countries, which had always been a deterring element, but because Rumania had sold part of her food stocks to Austria. A Russian stroke against the Germans, like Brussilov's against the Austrians last spring, will not be possible unless an offensive of the Allies in the west should compel the Germans to withdraw their heavy batteries from the Russian front. In that event the Russians might still deal a great blow. Otherwise they will probably not take the offensive again. Kovel has been so fortified by the Austrians and Dvinsk by the Russians that an advance by either of them is highly improbable. T h e "opposition" in the Russian Duma is actually strong enough to acquire power, but its members are fearful of putting their strength to the test in these critical times, when constitutional prerogatives are curtailed and huge problems must be solved, lest they fail and damn the future of the liberal party. M. De Lutoslawsky fears that hunger may drive his countrymen into the German army. With food hard to get, for Germany has deliberately destroyed Polish industry, able-bodied men who can neither work nor eat may well feel inclined to join an army, in which they will, at least, be fed. However the number of Poles alleged to have enlisted in the German army has turned out to be not more than 400, and perhaps less, instead of the 1,600 claimed by the Germans. Poland is so hemmed in by powerful neighbors that it will not be able to have any life of its own until it has had time to develop a policy capable of competing with their contending machinations. For the present the best solution would probably be an

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assured autonomy under the Russian Empire. But, no matter who wins the war, it is inconceivable that Poland should not enjoy some measure of self-government in the future. Lutoslawsky greatly regrets that the Russian Government has not come out with a flat-footed declaration for the freedom of Poland, such as Grand Duke Nicholas made, but he is positive the Czar is convinced of the necessity of granting the Poles a large measure of independence. "Government in Russia is indefinable. Nothing like it exists elsewhere. It is little and it is much, but you cannot place your finger on it when you wish to deal with it or hold it responsible or fight it." M. De Lutoslawsky is tremendously opposed to the Jewish international influence which he considers a disintegrating force, working for evil and against freedom. In Poland the Jews represent 14 percent of the total population, in Warsaw 42 percent. FEBRUARY

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T h e Lyman Law! I had a talk at the Embassy with the captain and crew of this, the first ship burned by the Germans since their submarine blockade went into effect. T h e y are mostly men from Castine, Maine, not over bright and rather rough, but "mine own people." T h e Lyman Law was a peaceful, four-masted schooner from Bangor, Maine, old, but staunch and graceful still, as I could see by the captain's eyes while he was describing her to me. W h e n the submarine signaled him to stop, he ran up the Stars and Stripes. Thereupon the submarine hauled down its flag. A German officer who spoke English perfectly—so well indeed that his vocabulary included American curses—boarded the Lyman Law, examined her papers, and told the captain he could proceed. He had hardly got under way when he was halted once more. "I'm sorry," said the officer, coming aboard the schooner again, accompanied by two men carrying incendiary bombs, "I shall have to burn you"; and he ordered the crew to stock their launch and sail away. "Those Germans were hungry," broke in the steward. " O n e of them went below and investigated our supplies. W e had plenty of good stuff to eat, canned milk and butter, sugar, potatoes and

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onions, and a barrel of fine hams I had smoked myself, which I reckon they didn't find, for I had it very carefully stowed away." "Captain," I asked, "what did you do with the flag?" " I wouldn't haul it down," he replied; "I asked the officer if I could leave it flying." "I asked the officer if I could leave it flying"! His words stung and burned, and all the details of this nautical hold-up seemed of little consequence in the echo of these submissive words. On my way out of the Embassy I saw the crew of the Lyman Law in the large reception room of the Embassy, eight peaceful men, young and old, a month out of Bangor, Maine, who had known nothing of the German blockade. I shall never forget the picture they made slouching uncomfortably in the large leather armchairs of the Embassy offices while they waited patiently on their country's aid. On the walls above them hung views of the Capitol, the White House, and the thin, tall spire that eloquently symbolizes our affection for George Washington, whose picture looked down upon them from above the fireplace aglow with red embers. I have loved New England as a mother, and those blueeyed sailors were her sons. I saw them several times again, sunning themselves on the streets of Rome. Once they were studying the certificate di soggiorno per gli stranieri. With their heads together, trying to make something out of the official certificate of residence with which all foreigners in Italy must be provided, they were a comical sight. "After all," said one of them, an old white-haired man, warming himself with evident pleasure in the Roman sun, "it's milder than on our coast at this season." FEBRUARY 2 7

Florence accompanied Lothrop and me on our second visit with Professor Marcucci to the schools of the Agro Romano. The day was perfect, bright, and cool. We sped past the long, unimproved pastures of the interminable Borghese holdings between Torre Nova and Pantano. In a somewhat lonesome group of dwellings on that broad, sunken plain, passers-by at night may see

21 1917 the single light that illumines one of the committee's night schools. After a "frittata all' olio" at the osteria opposite the tramway station of San Cesareo on the Via Casilina, we started on foot over land belonging to the Rospigliosi. An easy walk brought us to Marcelli, a primitive, picturesque little hamlet of neat, thatched huts, to which water has to be carried from a long distance. T h r e e small buildings, not unlike American portable ones in appearance, house the day and night school, the kitchen, and the asilo, where the children, dropped early in the morning by their mothers going to work in the fields, spend the day, studying, playing, and working in a struggling garden. When we arrived, they were eating their midday meal, a copious and excellent soup of rice and beans cooked in oil. Afterwards a fat little country girl and a baby boy, gesticulating like a Cicero, entertained us with a dialogue on "polenta" and its weariness as a steady diet. A walk of four kilometers more brought us to Colle di Fuori, a large village of capanne on the communal lands of T o r r e Pecore, occupied by peasants from the adjacent mountains. T h e commune tried to get rid of them, but Marcucci's committee intervened and succeeded in frustrating its attempts by enacting, as Marcucci said, "a moral law" in the shape of a stone schoolhouse, to which the peasants contributed labor and ten lire apiece. Other friends of the enterprise donated the money needed to complete it. Its whitewashed walls are incrusted with colored pottery bowls and futuristic tiles of symbolic capanne. In its little belfry is a bell given by the teachers of the Agro Romano schools. Most of the peasants in these villages have large families, though they seldom marry before the age of twenty-four or twenty-five years, being restrained by the "patria potesta" from diminishing the family income by setting up new households. "You see here," said Professor Marcucci, "the origin of wealth. Every member of a family works and contributes to the creation of its patrimony, and small families adopt children in order to attain a maximum of yield." In a sequestered spot, some distance beyond Colle di Fuori, lies

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the cheerful hamlet of Mezzaselva. Out of the huts flanking "Main Street" came numberless fine-looking women in ciociara costume, with babies and children dressed like themselves, to enjoy the setting sun and greet the visitors—a friendly, sociable little community. Their church, made of sticks and odds and ends, is the most tumble-down building I ever saw. Through chinks in its walls as big as two joined hands you see huge propitiatory tapers stuck in the ground at all sorts of angles in front of a little altar, mutely asking divine aid for soldiers at the front. Across the way from the church are the buildings of the school, opened three months ago. Already an efficient teacher has produced wondrous results, as we can testify; for, while we sat in the crowded schoolroom, with the costumed women peering in at the windows, the children read, wrote, recited, and sang for us. They were a very, very bright-looking lot of healthy youngsters, tremendously interested in the new problems on which their little heads are working. Never have I seen a more cheering sight in Italy. At length, fortified by fresh coffee and raw eggs, which we drank from their shells, we marched off through the wildwood by the light of a beautiful setting sun to Via Casilina and motored back to Rome. MARCH 2

T h e enactment of sumptuary laws always seems to have the effect of exciting mankind to circumvent them. Today the desire of Italians to evade them may be traced not to a lack of patriotism but to the strongly individualistic Italian mind delighting in challenging laws that tend to make life uniform and in inventing novel and ingenious ways of outwitting them, especially those affecting foodstuffs. New England will have to look to her laurels as the land of pie, if this war goes on; for Italy is now becoming expert in this branch of culinary art of which she was formerly quite ignorant. With fruit abundant and flour scarce, a cook shows his or her skill by creating very thin crusts resistant enough to hold a great quantity of inner delights. So thin indeed is some of the pastry displayed in certain confectionery shops that Venetian blown glass is the

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only appropriate simile I can think of to use in describing it. Pies may be indulged in only two days of the week because sweets are barred from the table on other days. On sugarless days, when sweets may not even be displayed, the windows of cafis and confectioners are filled with vases of golden honey, bottles of delightfully colored liqueurs, and empty hand-painted candy boxes. T h e newspapers are filled with requests for rulings on food problems. According to viceroyal decree, cheese is half a portion. Does macaroni, then, with grated cheese served separately, make a course and a half? T h e powers that be have wisely decided "No." Only two courses, including one plate of meat, may be eaten for luncheon. Does a plate of ham and eggs constitute a full meal? A friend of mine, who raised the question at a wellknown restaurant by ordering this dish and asking for a second course, was informed by the headwaiter that he could not legally have it. MARCH 4

T h e other day I worked my way through a shifting crowd of people in front of a postcard shop on the Via Nazionale to see what they were looking at and learn why they were exclaiming: "Gamba sola!" "Mutilato!" "Poverino!" "Fantastico!" In the centre of the show window, with rows and rows of postcard reproductions flanking it, was a neutral-tinted drawing of a Bersagliere charging over a parapet of sandbags, a Bersagliere with only one leg! I began to make inquiries about this Bersagliere, Enrico Toti by name, and finally called on his family who live in humble quarters near Porta Maggiore. At the age of twenty he lost a leg in a railroad accident, but continued his life as if nothing had happened, even taking part in swimming contests. He traveled through Europe and Africa on a bicycle with one pedal, paying his way by exhibitions of athletic feats, or by painting pictures, often upside down, with lightninglike strokes. Although he was robbed by a German impresario of all his savings and not allowed by the Austrian authorities to ride through Vienna with an Italian tricolored sash over his breast

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—an incident that cut short his trip in Austria for he refused to divest himself of the Italian colors—he was never for long depressed. As a youth he was interested in drawing, carving, cabinetmaking, electricity, and chemistry which he evidently followed to some purpose, for his father showed me a number of patents he had taken out; also in the social conditions of the boys of his neighborhood, for whom he started a toy industry. His books speak for themselves. "Those he bought before his accident are on the upper shelf," said his mother, as she led me into his bedroom, "and those, after it, on the lower." On the former are Homer's Odyssey, Plutarch's Lives, and a treatise on The Rights of Nature and the Rights of Man; on the latter, Will Is Power, Character and Duty, Arise, Take up Thy Bed, and The Art of Renewing One's Soul and Body. On both shelves are volumes of poetry and adventure. When the war came, one supreme thought possessed him. "This," he said of his crutch, "has never taken courage from me, but I should look upon it with horror if it deprived me of the chance to fight." Owing to the sympathetic understanding of the Duke of Aosta, he was finally allowed to enlist as a Bersagliere cyclist. "And then," said his mother, as she showed me his letters from the front, "life really began." He was wounded, but was back on the fighting line in five days. " I am stronger than ever," he wrote, " I no longer know what fatigue means. When I come home you will see a medal on my breast; a bronze one perhaps, but even that will be worth bringing." On a table in the salottino of his humble home lies a gold medal, the highest military honor for valor on the field of battle, awarded to his memory by order of the King of Italy; for two days after his mother received the letter she had read us, Enrico Toti was badly wounded on the battlefield and died, flinging his crutch at the enemy. A P R I L Ι Ο . AREZZO

Florence and I left Rome after a busy and tiring season. Our Country—My Country—has made the great decision. Dra-

2 1917 5 matically, if one can gauge such an act by such a test, our declaration of war against Germany was less stirring, at least on this side of the water, than the sudden announcement of our diplomatic rupture with Germany, which pointed to a swift and drastic change in the views and sentiments of the Americans, making war not only possible but probable. Yet the decision is a great decision, reflecting as it does the will of a people, whose interests up to now have not been greatly involved. I have tried to study its significance, as an act fatally marked out by a historic law that a free people could not disobey, in an article I wrote in Italian—with some difficulty I confess—for La Nuova Antologia. America's declaration of war was made the occasion of an Italian demonstration of sympathy. A member of the Ambassador's staff asked naively whether I knew that a demonstration like this is always carefully worked upl I assured him this was no exception. A fair-sized procession marched from Piazza Colonna to Palazzo del Drago and joined the large, respectable and respectful crowd that had gathered at Palazzo del Drago to greet the Ambassador and hear him speak. When I saw Mr. Page afterwards, he made a distinction between the generalities of his address and the convictions of his private views. Both Italy and America, as he put it, stand for freedom and constitutional government; but, at this point, the similarity and even the sympathetic relation between them cease. "Ships go back and forth between Italy and America," said the ambassador, "but there is no bridge over the waters upon which the two peoples may walk and meet." He uttered these words in connection with my request to him to make use of me now that my country is at war and American material in Europe may be mobilized. "You," he said, "should continue the efforts you have been making in the press to bridge this sea of mutual misunderstanding and ignorance that divides the two countries. As for American expatriates, they can't be utilized. There isn't standing room in hell for the majority of them." He then went on to say that he was thinking of establishing a volunteer Intelligence Office to furnish news of interest about Italy to America and vice versa. If he did, would I accept its chairmanship? In reply to my

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answer that I should be glad to organize a Press Bureau with a staff of volunteers willing to work seriously, but not with men wishing only ephemeral positions, he asked me to submit an outline for the organization of such a bureau; also to write him of my offer to act as secretary to the American military attach^ or any American military missions going to the Italian front. He smiled as he told me that the government is sending him a new military attach^ who speaks neither French nor Italian. Sonnino, he said, has turned him down on the treaty he has been trying to negotiate for the abrogation of the double citizenship of Italians. I urged him, nevertheless, to press it, pointing out certain facts I have gathered showing that the Italian Government is slowly coming to a realization of the trouble likely to ensue because of the present law. Approximately one million naturalized citizens of Italian origin in North and South America, who have not responded to the Italian call to arms, are going to become criminals unless their status is regulated by a change in the lex sanguinis. Classed as technical deserters, they will become detached from Italy—indeed they are already selling their holdings here—and an element in reducing Italian exchange abroad after the war will be lost. I suggested to Mr. Page that his wisest course, instead of pursuing the question with Sonnino, would be to put a bee in the bonnets of the "business" Ministers who can, if they choose, force the government's hand. Mr. Page is pretty well disgusted with the conduct of the Italians in regard to the American loan. They not only wished it raised at the last moment from two to three hundred millions, but in securing proposals for it, he has been unable to get any signed statements, however confidential, from either Carcano, minister of the treasury, or Bonaldo Stringher, president of the Bank of Italy, both of whom sent him statements on official paper, but unsigned. There is no question, however, but that England is trying to block direct dealings between Italy and America. I thought talk about this matter had been exaggerated, but I have learned of certain incidents that clearly point to England's intention of keeping Italy in financial vassalage.

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M A Y I O - I 5 . CASENTINO

Despite the innumerable travel books on Italy, there are two awaiting an author: one, a study of the old Roman roads traveled today, and the other, an account of the back roads of the modern kingdom. T h e former calls for the patient study of a scholar who combines erudition with a fondness for walking; but the other is open to anyone who has time to give to the humble and less accessible parts of Italy. T h e back roads in Italy run through sections of the country lacking railroads or served very inadequately by them because of the scarcity of business or natural difficulties. T h e y differ from the back roads of younger countries in having a history of their own, frequently charming and stirring. Often they lead to places hallowed by the memories of great men, great men not in their historic moods or at the ebb and flow of their lives, but at times when they were seeking pleasure or relaxation or inspiration in an environment that colored and influenced their lives as men rather than as personages. Wishing to see how the war has affected these out-of-the-way districts in Italy, Florence and I decided on a visit to the Casentino, as the upper valley of the Arno is called. Grinding our way slowly up to the Consuma Pass in our Ford of many campaigns, we have the countryside to ourselves, the season for forestieri not having yet arrived. T h e snow is still on the high mountains, but our engine grows hot on the steep ascent, and, to cool it, we beg water from the contadini we pass, to whom our chauffeur explains that a motor, like any other hard-working laborer, needs plenty to drink. Water seems in great demand. Boys who once, 110 doubt, carried water in wickered flasks and quaintly shaped jugs to men working on the land are now doing double duty in ministering to the women, whose bright kerchiefs make vivid splashes of color midst the gay, wild flowers fringing the fields on which they are engaged, cultivating, ploughing, and pruning. I say "ploughing and pruning" advisedly, because on these uplands I have seen disproved ostensibly at least, the saving of the Florentines that

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women cannot drive oxen to the plough or prune the olive and the grape. From the Consuma Pass we dip into a valley of contentment and plenty, or, to use an up-to-date simile, of no food tickets. T h e great war, which spares no place, has touched the Casentino, but more softly than elsewhere. Accustomed to depend on its own resources for centuries, it has met the threat of economic suffering without fear and the threat of spiritual suffering with that ruggedness of outlook instinctive to mountaineers. The Casentino is a very characteristic district of back roads, with a dinky little would-be-modern railroad puffing and whistling along the base of the mountains that flank it. It rings with the names of Dante and Petrarch, of Lorenzo il Magnifico, and Giuliano de' Medici, of St. Romualdo and St. Francis, not to speak of lesser figures. T o all of them we feel closely drawn, for, in this out-of-the-way region of ancient customs, we may almost glimpse them on this or that road, in this noble castle or that secluded convent. We stop at the first little village in the valley, Borgo alia Collina, which, from its perch on a hill, looks contentedly down on a green world. Strangely enough a famous beauty of the English aristocracy became so enamored of it half a century ago that she bought a house in it for a summer home. T h e inhabitants still expatiate on the winter frolic she once indulged in of bringing a party of friends all the way from Florence up the Apennines and across the snow-capped Consuma Pass to attend a carnival ball of the countryfolk. Her home, at present, is a good little hostelry which has not lost its attraction for the English. T h e proprietor indeed tells us of his struggle with them over their passion for gruel. "They know what they want, the English," he says, "but they are very goodhearted despite their obstinacy." This dear English lady's dust rests in the small chapel of the Castello, where six hundred years ago another good and noble lady, the Contessa Elisabetta, daughter of the Count of Battifolle used to come and pray; and pray she well might, for Count Roberto Novello in his high tower at Poppi looked down enviously on the green slopes of Borgo alia Collina, and tried by

2 1 9 1 7 9 every means, including murder, to possess himself of it. Failing, he continued to molest the Contessa until, in order to assure the safety of her people and herself, she ceded it to the powerful Republic of Florence, where she retired and was held in high esteem for the rest of her days. Adown the long street of Borgo, on the evening of our arrival, came the full-throated song of boys summoned to the colors:

'Twill not be our little mother Calling us to rise, to wake, But the summons of the bugler In the morn our sleep will break. Some of their elder brothers are prisoners: some have been wounded; and some will sleep forever on colder and more austere heights than the green-covered hills of the Casentino. Yet not only are the nightingales singing in the adjacent woods, but the peace that Cristoforo Landino found in this ancient village seems to dwell in the heart of the people of Borgo. One may almost see this scholarly Florentine secretary and commentator of "la grande et oscura opera di Dante Alighieri" walking in the garden of the Castle given him by the grateful Republic as a reward for his services. Peace we found also at Poppi. At the head of the slanting central piazza stands the hexagonal oratory of La Madonna del Morbo, erected in 1530 in honor of the Virgin who saved Poppi from a pest. Over its portal hangs a war inscription encircled by painted scrolls and flowers, in which there is hardly a note of sadness: For For For For

Pray, Oh ye faithful the sons of Italy who are guarding and fighting for our land, the welfare of our King who shares their glory, constancy in our resolve, the solace of the mothers and wives of our Country.

T h e noble citadel above the town of Poppi, which served as a model for the Palazzo della Signoria in Florence, is now being restored to its lovely and primitive lines. T h e master mason in charge of the work points out two bells in its tower: " T h e little one we ring," he says, "whenever one of our people dies here or

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at the front, but the large one booms out on special occasions such as a great victory over the Austrians." An escutcheon of one of the rulers of Poppi hanging on the walls of the courtyard caught my eye, a figure of a horse holding in his teeth the arms of his master—a symbol of the loyalty permeating the atmosphere of this place, a loyalty that once belonged to the ruling princelet, but has now evolved into a finer, larger sense of duty to a nation united. Between Borgo and Poppi lies a broad, green field, flanked by good roads, the battlefield of Campaldino, where the Guelfs of Florence, in whose ranks Dante fought, defeated the Ghibellines of Arezzo in 1289. Legend relates that the contadini refused for centuries to cultivate it, because they believed that the blood shed in that great combat had soured its soil. This historico-agricultural condition of sterility has evidently been overcome, for an opulent growth of grain waves over it today. Here, as in many other places in the Casentino we meet memories of Dante, in moods glad and sad, but never bitter. At Campaldino is said to have sprung up his friendship with Bernardino Polenta, in whose house at Ravenna he was to find hospitality in his darkest days. From him, no doubt, Dante heard the moving story of his sister, Francesca, which afterward he was to relate in one of the most splendid passages of the Divine Comedy. Romena, where the poet stayed in 1 3 1 1 , is still, despite its ruined state, the . . . nobile castello Difeso intorno da un bei

fiumicello,

of which he wrote in Canto IV of the Inferno. It is of military use even today, for we saw soldiers engaged with some apparatus on top of its tower. But, as we must not talk of military matters, let us sit awhile with the peasant woman who hospitably asks us, after our climb up the hill, to rest in the very, very old and cool kitchen of Romena, where I see something I haven't seen for months and months—white flour! T h e fortunate barefooted lady possessing it, who has been working since R, A.M. in the fields, is

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now making taglialelle for what would be to me—so long have I been deprived of the taste of real wheat flour—a sumptuous meal. Her two sons at the front have been most fortunate, she tells us; for one is driving a mule and the other is doing only light work because his feet were frozen early in the war! " T h e Tedeschi," she says, drawing a line across her mass of soft white dough, "are 011 this side of the line, and all the other nations are 011 the other. They can't hold out forever, can they?" Whereupon she pats her dough, kneads the line out of sight, and symbolically ends the Avar. Of course one can't be in the Casentino without going to Camaldoli, but I wish I hadn't gone. Among the many and great blessings for which humanity is indebted to St. Romualdo, who founded the Camaldolese Order, is his devotion to forestry. As far back as the tenth century the rules of his order provided very definitely and wisely for the encouragement of it. Dante sang of umbrageous Camaldoli, and Emerson called it God's plantation; but, today, the urgent needs of war are sorely telling on its ageold woods. The cutting is supervised by experts, but, nevertheless, it is substantial and menacing in extent. One road to the Hermitage is blocked by great trees awaiting transportation, and the other is terribly cut and scarred by the traffic of motor trucks carrying lumber to the sawmill. An overhead filovia, used to transport lumber to the valley, mars the aspect of this beautiful countryside. Happily the planting of young trees to take the places of those cut down is well under way; so our children's children may see Camaldoli as good St. Romualdo intended it to be. Stopping for a taste of "Lacrima d' Abete" at the farmacia of the monastery, I learn from a white-hooded 111011k that the ancient stills have not been working for several years because of the lack of sugar. I must wait for better days to satisfy my curiosity and my appetite. "Twelve of our brothers and one of the novices at the Hermitage are at the front," he says. "We pray they may all return safely." While I muse on the present strange circumstances of life that remove men from the peaceful seclusion of Camaldoli to the in-

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tense, stirring life of the battle line, I hear the sociable brother speaking again: "You are English? No? American? Oh, I should like so much to learn English. Last summer I exchanged lessons with an English governess who was at the hotel here." A surprising statement I thought, though I should have been proof against astonishment at the strange and comical mixture of new and old customs in modern Italy that one runs across continually. T h e practical philosophy of the Italians does not easily square with our historic and artistic conception of them. Take the lad, about to become a soldier, who drove us around the countryside. I asked him whether he would prefer the life of the followers of St. Romualdo at Camaldoli or those of St. Francis at La Verna, if he had to choose between the two. Looking up at the two mountains on which they respectively stand as if to measure their altitude and accessibility, he replied with profound conviction, "La Verna is by far the more preferable; the monks at Camaldoli never eat meat." Perhaps it is an error to ascribe the practical view of life exclusively to the modern Italian. Italian civilization has always presented surprising contrasts of greatness and mediocrity, of saints and rascals, of geniuses good and bad. Its many manifestations of greatness blind us to the mediocrity always accompanying them—the same commonplaceness, shrewdness, patience, provincialism, and adherence to custom that is markedly noticeable in the Italian middle class of today. T h e war, by emphasizing these typical qualities of the Italian people and by bringing to the surface their latent genius for organization, has shown that Italy is the same today as it was yesterday and a thousand years ago. T h e same old, unchanging, ever interesting Italy! I feel sure of it as we drive homeward in the late evening. T h e ancient villages we pass through are not asleep, but awake and full of song, celebrating the festive month of May according to the ancient Tuscan custom. Boys, who will be in the ranks tomorrow, are giving vent, with the aid of mandolins and guitars, to their feelings for this and that maiden in the old, old rispetti wherein love, in true Italian manner, is often nicely balanced with common sense:

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Non t'adirar perche non sia venuto: S'io non posso venir, mando un saluto; S'io non posso venir, mando un sospiro: T i do la buona notte a tuo ritiro. 20-25. LEGHORN, PIOMBINO, AND VOLTERRA Florence and I, with Salvatore as chauffeur, made a late start for Leghorn in the Ford, partly because we stopped to give some instructions and materials to the craftworkers at the American Hospital, and partly because the octroi at San Domenico insisted 011 measuring and weighing the gasoline we carried for the trip. T h e last stretch of the flat and uninteresting road to Leghorn, with a heavy rain falling and the tall impressive masts of Coltano, the most powerful Marconi station in Italy, rising from the marshy outskirts of the town, was somewhat forbidding and lonesome in appearance. MAY

W e lost our way in Leghorn, and stopped a sailor of the Regia Marina to ask him to direct us to the hotel we had selected. Hoisting himself on our cans of gasoline he accompanied us to it and several others, all of which were closed. Finally he guided us to the Albergo Giappone, a noisy, but fairly conducted, modest inn. At luncheon the next day we saw four French officers in charge of a transit camp for French troops who, arriving by sea from France, stop here en route to the Balkans. Lately, I understand, they have come by train and gone straight through Italy without stopping, especially whenever a prospect of a big drive in the East looms up. T h e announcement in the newspapers of the suspension of certain trains often gives a clue to the movements of troops. Leghorn's busy streets confirm my impression that maritime cities resemble one another. Even their people are apt to be of one type. T h e women marketing in Leghorn looked slovenly, and the men, unshaved and southern in aspect, almost like foreigners. T h e sight of water and shipping was a distinct pleasure. Although the ships were old-fashioned two-masted sailing vessels and the view of the sea was not extensive, the throb of that mysterious life suggested by the sight of masts and the sound of the sea sang to my spirit.

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T h e r e are apparently no special regulations in force in Leghorn. We came and left without being questioned or stopped except at the detestable octroi which fined us for having put the contents of one of our three cans of gasoline into the tank of the car instead of keeping it in the can "as declared" on entering the city. We left Leghorn, as we had entered it, in the rain. Skirting the docks, we saw in the waters a green submarine Hying a flag, and a couple of small armed tug boats painted war gray. A tortuous road along the coast took us up and down cliffs decked by a profusion of wild flowers and green shrubs, hardy and strong, over which honeysuckle trailed, flinging its perfume afar, and tender spring vines cast sweet-colored blossoms, mostly pink and white, which looked like roses but were not. T h e sea, calm, and beautiful, was yet tragic, for, deserted as it was, it spoke eloquently of war, the only moving object on it being a little armed gray patrol boat which kept courteous pace with our Ford. In the distance, islands rose dimly, and occasionally, as the fog lifted and the rain ceased, we caught glimpses of sunshine coloring the small bays and inlets of the rocky, winding coast with tremulous stretches of blue and green and reddish gold. I had almost forgotten the loveliness of breakers. This run along the Tuscan littoral woke stirring memories that made me homesick; for the sea, beautiful, but not softly beautiful, seemed to bring me nearer not so much to America as to American life. From a cliff, solitary and thickly wooded with stone pines, that juts well into the Mediterranean, rose a fine, restored castle, beautiful but severe—"II Romito"—the property of Sidney Sonnino, as we learned from some peasants living in a neat looking casa colonica on the estate. "His Excellency has been absent for the past three years," they said. T h e monotony of the flat stretch to San Vincenzo is redeemed on the left by hills with many a castellated town, and on the right by pleasant stretches of stone pines along the edge of the sea. We passed some fine estates, notably the Gherardesca holdings, with a pineta heavily cut, and many well-kept stock farms, lending an appearance of comfort to the countryside.

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At San Vincenzo we obtained four cans of gasoline from the local mesticheria by paying 2 3 . 5 ° ' i r e apiece. T h i s lucky find, which has never come our way before, though we have tried at dozens of other places, was unusual enough to make me question whether the dealer was not in the business of furnishing gasoline to German submarines. It is just as well perhaps that I c arried away some of the precious liquid! While Salvatore was bargaining for the gasoline, the youths of San Vincenzo gathered sociably about the Ford and told us proudly that their town is protected by a gun, mounted 011 a motor car, which can repel any hostile attack! One of them, a very bright-looking corporal, a native of San Vincenzo, had been to France and England with "the general and other soldiers"—so ran his words—to purchase stallions for breeding purposes. One of his charges fell ill in Paris and had to be nursed for forty days before making the trip to Italy. He was going again in September, he said, speaking like a globetrotter, while the pleasure of this new experience he owed to the war danced in his eyes. France he did not like as well as England. In London the people were so hospitable that they had not allowed him and his comrades to spend a cent. He thought he would go to live there after the war. Farther down the coast the road runs through forested marshes. T h e r e we met no one except a lame forest guard of malarial aspect in brown corduroy, with gun and dog. Shortly afterwards we had a puncture. Leaving Salvatore to mend it, Florence and I walked ahead 011 a road as rough, ragged, and stony as any in New England. When the Ford caught up with us, there was a passenger in it, a young man from the Piombino Works, to whom Salvatore had given a lift. He told us that our visit to the Blast Furnaces and Steelworks, for which I have a permit from the Secretariat of Arms and Munitions, had been announced at the Works by the Ministry of War. Near Piombino the road suddenly rises out of the wildwood and faces the sea, which, at this point, is a sheltered, quiet bay with a flat, monotonously gray-colored coast line, relieved only by a clump of stone pines. A sudden twist in the road thrusts your

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gaze upon modern, industrial Italy; for here, as the young man from Piombino said, pointing to a railroad embankment upon which refuse from the Steelworks was being dumped, " H e r e the Works begin." T h i s vast acreage of shops, sheds, furnaces, trucks, and cars was going full blast, smoking, rumbling, grinding, and pounding, though it was not only evening but Sunday. A f t e r settling ourselves in the Company's hotel, we walked through a long street, lined with little shops thronged with civilians and soldiers, to an ancient, turreted enclosure in the older part of the town, where the daily market is held. We then took a turn past the Works. Alight with the ruddy glow of the furnace blasts, they called to mind the thought of our own industrial country and the significance of its position in the world today— an interesting question, for, in an industrial sense, at least, it is one of the oldest of countries. T h e next morning Florence and I presented our pass at the office of the director of the Alti Forni e Acciaierie. In the absence of Dr. Sevieri, the director, we were received by Professor Piccinini, a sandy-haired, pleasant, courteous engineer, who put himself at our disposal for a visit to the Works which cover several acres of ground and employ about 3,000 laborers. W e began with the Alti Forni, second in importance of the blast furnaces in Italy. Into their blazing jaws, filled with alternate layers of iron ore, limestone, and coke, streams of heated air are poured through pipes cooled by sprays of cold water lest they melt. T h e chemical reactions taking place result in the production of molten iron, slag, and gases. T h e iron, pouring out from openings made in the furnace at regular intervals, flows into a channel and thence into hundreds of little moldlike depressions scooped out of sand on the floor, where it solidifies into cast, or pig iron, as it is generally called. From this pig iron steel is made by adding certain elements, according to the quality of steel desired, and purifying the whole in ovens, from which samples are spooned and tested before the hot metal is run into molds and formed into ingots. T h e s e are carried by derricks, which trolley back and forth, to the rolling mills, where they are flattened and elongated to a standard thick-

1 9 1 7 37 ness and length before being transferred 011 moving platforms to other parts of the Works to be sawed into pieces of the right size for working into shells. T h e humanlike arms of these derricks also open and close the doors of the ovens and thrust powerful fingers into them to break up the crusts forming on top of the fires. Mineral wool, hydraulic cement, and bricks, used to lengthen the life of the superhot ovens, are made from slag. Sixty tons of hydraulic cement are turned out daily by a factory equipped with up-to-date crushers and machinery. Other by-products of the Works include sulphate of ammonia, tar, naphthaline, and benzol, once used for making dyes, but now for tritol, a very powerful explosive. Horsepower is developed not only in the usual way by boilers but by steam generated in the process of manufacturing coke, of which 450 tons are turned out daily from a mixture of English and American coal. After visiting the deposits for extra parts and accessories, a "model" room filled with wooden copies of every piece of machinery purchased, and a historical museum in which the old Belgian experimental machines are preserved, we turned to the social end of the establishment. There is a rest and luncheon room for women near the pier to which the flatboats loaded with ore from Elba tie up; for women, with the aid of modern hoisting buckets, now unload the ore, so briskly that they are accomplishing twice the amount of work performed by men before the war. While women unload, men bake! In a splendid building provided with modern machinery they turn out daily four thousand loaves of bread, made of wheat ground in a mill belonging to the plant, which are sold to employees for a price less than that fixed by the government. All kinds of food are 011 sale at the Company's stores, including fruit and vegetables, raised on its orchards and farms. A family of average size, numbering six persons, spend about 100 lire a month for food, which is charged against wages, or paid in installments. T h e Company also runs a cucina economica for unmarried employees, where soup at two cents a portion and meat and vegetables at four, are served to six hundred persons at a time.

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T h e so-called Piombino Trust, composed of plants at Piombino, Elba, and Bagnoli, near Naples, has a fleet of sixty-five coal-bearing ships plying between England, America, and Italy. Next to the state railroads, it is the largest consumer of coal in Italy. It owns ore mines in Sardinia and leases government mines in Elba, in which it employs two thousand men, "indigeni e mezzi selvaggi," who work when and how they please, without rule or program. Although the plant at Piombino has been provided lately with new machinery and is animated by a sense of "push" not existing before the war, the output of steel is about the same, because a finer grade, requiring time and care to produce, is now manufactured instead of the poorer formerly turned out, which was mostly used for railroad rails. During the early months of the war, shell steel for France was made. A number of minerals employed in the manufacture of steel that were formerly imported from Germany have lately been discovered in Italy and are now being used at Piombino. Among the projects in hand are a new pier, costing 8,000,000 lire, and an electric oven operated by means of a natural-steam power plant at I.arderello in the hills northeast of here, which is led by hot vajxn geysers. Although the Works are quasi-military, they seem quite "open." T h e few sentinels I saw were apparently guarding a field of vegetables! In the town few defensive measures are in evidence—even the blue paint on the electric bulbs is peeling! But the crescentshaped bay, rich in Napoleonic memories, is quite thrilling. At either end is a little fort, and, on a cliff above the new passeggiata outside the town, a sentry is stationed. I four 01 five small twomasters hugging the shore, and, peacefully anchored in the bay, one of the Company's weather-beaten coal ships, looking pathetically ready for any fate. As I gazed at that ship and thought of the perilous voyages it must undertake, I grasped as never before Italy's tremendous handicap in this war, in which coal and steel play a decisive part. If that ship and its mates fail in their appointed task, how much will the courage of the brave men who hold the line from the Ortler to the sea avail? Italy's dependence on foreign markets for coal has raised a staggering industrial problem. How

1 9 1 7 39 can she greatly increase her output of munitions, as she must, at the very moment that her supply of coal from Germany and Austria is cut off and her own carrying tonnage and that of her allies are being progressively reduced? In spite of this handicap she has built new plants, utilized old ones, and created an army of workers to meet not only the enormous demands of her own army and navy, but to make "75's" for France, rifles and ammunition for Rumania, and airplanes and explosives for Russia. " I t is in the way Italy has tackled these problems," said a thoughtful American observer to me, "that she deserves the special sympathy of a country like ours, boundlessly rich in natural resources and plenteously provided with raw materials." Before leaving Piombino, we paid a visit to Populonia, an important port of the Etruscans, where that mysterious race established foundries to smelt Elban ores. After following for six miles or so the wooded road north of Piombino, we turned westward and rose easily toward the sea through an undulating green country bordered on the right by groups of stone pines which all of a sudden spread out and fringe the shore of a quiet lake. But no, it is not a lake; it is the Mediterranean resting peacefully in the ancient harbor of Populonia, with its blue waters graying to a haze in the distance. T o the right of the road, on a straight stretch of beach, stands a jonte, and, at the edge of the waters, a small belfried chapel with a knightly escutcheon over its door. From this point the beach curves gently until it meets an old tower or castle, now a casa colonica. T o the left stand a farmhouse and an Etruscan tomb surrounded by piles of slag discarded by the Etruscans in smelting, which the Works at Piombino are planning to test and utilize, if they find it sufficiently rich in iron. T h e road rises and rises, at times sharply and steeply—a sylvan road with intermittent glimpses of the sea, flanked by old trees, vine-covered rocks, and ivy-decked bushes. On top of the hill is the town, a tiny affair, enclosed by an ancient wall through which one passes by a door, still in working order. Inside are a few houses, a tiny shop situated apparently in a dungeon, a little church, with bells ringing and candles lit at the moment of our

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visit, and two splendid towers one round and one square, both roughly restored. A semaphore station on the higher one was in charge of two sailors making their rotide beneath it. Outside the gate of the town, which is situated on one "horn" of the bay of Populonia, are the remains of an Etruscan wall, some Roman ruins, and best of all a view of sea, sky, and hills rivaling that from Taormina. Below was a steamer treading cautiously along the coast, with a torpedo boat keeping pace beside it. On the green promontory that forms the other "horn" of the bay is mounted a battery which can cross-fire with the batteries on Elba. Our visit to this place, permeated by a sense of old and new, of nature and war, of men who labored and fought in other days as men are laboring and fighting today—all set in this beautiful landscape of land and sea—turned out to be one of our finest experiences in Italy. T h e next day we left Piombino with clearing skies, and drove northward along the coast as far as Castagneto. There we turned inland and wound up and up, along shady mountain roads. We met the family of a mountaineer, father, mother, child, and little pig following his masters as intelligently as a dog. Whenever he saw himself outstripped, he would give u p wallowing in the lovely mud of the shady gutters, which had enticed him for a moment, to scurry easily, lovingly, and beautifully after them. T h e landscape became bleaker and bleaker. As we entered Monteverdi, a rugged town of an almost Etruscan silence, the only sound we heard was the puff of a gasoline motor in an old tower, an auxiliary of the Larderello Power House. Soon, however, a big puppy standing outside a general store, in the New England sense of the term, gave us a hearty welcome. T h e citizens of Monteverdi must be patriotically inclined; for many of its poor, old stone houses are marked by marble slabs commemorating the visits of important persons, and all of its humble, impossibly steep alleys are called after the great battles of the Risorgimento. A boy, who refused a tip—I mention him for glory!—led us to the school house, where an oldish man, awaiting a visit from the local inspector of schools, was teaching a group of little children—a sweet and yet pathetic scene.

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W e drove on and up, then down to Bagno la Perla, a primitive bathing establishment of natural, hot, iron waters, housed in a pleasant, old, wandering building, set close against a wooded hillside, with a picket fence and green arbor in front of it and a tumbling brook, crossed by a bridge, beside it. It was not yet open for the season; also it was horribly run down. I was wondering where we could turn for quarters for the night when Florence solved the question by deciding to superintend the cleaning of a couple of rooms with water, soap, and rags, which she commandeered. T h i s rural hostelry, with a little chapel and a bar, used principally by the driver of a one-horse diligence passing the door, offers its guests quite good food. It could be made into a really delightful inn. Following the brook, you pass what once must have been a villa, with a lovely dilapidated garden in the shelter of a valley, and go on and on until you see in a frame of Tuscan hills and castellated towns the smoking geysers of Larderello. As early as the first part of the nineteenth century boric acid was extracted by boiling these waters. In 1827 Francesco de Larderel substituted the heat of the natural vapors for that of fuel, and instituted other improvements resulting in the establishment of a flourishing industry. N o t till 1912, nearly a century later, were the waters of these geysers utilized as a motor force by piping them to a steam generating plant and establishing an electric station that has gradually been enlarged to serve Siena, Leghorn, Massa Marittima, and Piombino. T h i s is the only thermic electric enterprise in the world; the only one, that is to say, in which electric power is produced by natural heat. Even the houses of the workmen are warmed by it! N o t a penny for fuel is spent here! From Bagno la Perla we made a quick and lovely run to Volterra, up and down hill, along lovely mountain slopes whence we caught occasional glimpses of ruined watchtowers. Beyond Saline the road mounts steadily, and the landscape takes or. a convulsed volcanic aspect, the ground being broken up into bleak, blank hillocks edged with green scrub, grass, patches of lovely cremisi clover, weedy blue blossoms, and yellow ginestra. Despite the "svolte pericolose," the Ford broke all records, landing us in

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Volterra on "high" at the Pensione Sorelle Grandi, a haven of peace and cleanliness. It was an easy ride to Florence over quiet, mountain roads by way of Castelfiorentino and Galluzzo, though we were blocked for a time by a great flock of sheep and cattle resting on the road near La Madonnina. Beyond the beautiful cypress stretches of the Pianciatichi Castle we suddenly saw, at a turn of the road, San Gimignano sitting on its hill in pride and loveliness and sweetness. W e stopped at an old tower near Montespertoli and took our tea in a field behind it, studded with cypresses. Soon we were surrounded by some wild country girls, two of whom confessed they had been caught stealing freshly cut hay to feed their rabbits. T h e land on which we were sitting belonged to Sonnino, they said. Which Sonnino? "Sidney Sonnino"—just so they spoke of the leader of Italy—"the man in Rome, a bad man who made the war. He wouldn't come here openly, for the people would beat him, but he has come disguised as a priest"! Yes—there was plenty to eat, especially in the fruit season when they could steal from orchards. Such was the unconcerned moral tone of the female babes of Tuscany on the second anniversary of Italy's entry into the war, a day bringing the news of a great Italian victory on the Carso. But even the city of Florence, as we drove into it, seemed indifferent. Only a few flags were flying, and no enthusiasm was apparent. But our trip, lovely, interesting, and novel, closed fittingly for us with this victorious note, as tired but hopeful with the help of God, we drove through the gateway of Villa Torricella, aglow with roses inside and out. M A Y 2 8 . FLORENCE

Yesterday Florence underwent a sinus operation. O n her way to it she passed an hour with the soldier artisans at the American Hospital. When she left, she found a sweet-smelling rose on her handbag, which had been quietly placed there by one of the soldiers. MAY 29

I learned today at a meeting of the directors of the American Hospital that Prince Scilla, the head of the Florentine Red Cross,

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was so pleased with the artistic quality of our soldiers' work that he had asked for samples of it to show to other military hospitals in Florence. From this meeting I went to the rooms of the I^eonardo da Vinci Society to meet Angiolo Orvieto and discuss with him ways and means of initiating intellectual exchanges between the United States and Italy. Gino Gioli, the blind and charming vice president of the Society joined us. Orvieto thought my modest, tentative suggestion, involving 110 expense, of interchanging messages between leading literary and scientific bodies and university professors could be put into operation at once. He proposed bringing together informally next Saturday representatives of the Laurentian and National Libraries, the Uffizi, La Crusca, I Lincei, the Georgofili, and the Istituto di Studi Superiori to talk it over. Among others he mentioned Isidoro Del Lungo, Pio Rajna, Dr. Poggi, Dr. Burci, Professor Volterra, and Professor Morpurgo. I took this opportunity of seeing the exhibition at the Society of official photographs of the historic and artistic monuments damaged or destroyed by the Teutons in Belgium, France, and Italy. Those of France are the best and most impressive; those of Italy, the most numerous. JUNE 1

I walked up to Fiesole this bright morning to get our tessere for sugar and rice, which are delivered only to the "heads of families"! As I neared the Piazza, I heard a rumble, and, as I swung around the corner into it, I saw some mounted-artillery soldiers resting in the shadow of the cathedral. T h e rumble came from lumbering field guns that practicing squadrons of artillery were dragging through the narrow, awfully paved streets of Borgunto. T h e martial line of horses and men trotting into the Piazza and disappearing downhill toward Florence was a pretty and stirring sight. After obtaining our tickets for sugar and rice at the tiny Municipio, where a modern usher accepts tips with the manner of a great signore, I stepped into the Museo Bandini. Its very old, bent, deaf, but laughing custodian accompanied me asthmatically upstairs and showed me with great glee the locks installed on the

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doors of the room from which some early paintings had been stolen. Over one door is inscribed "Ars Fovet Fidem," and over the other, "Fides Fovet Artem." A St. Anthony in quite a good triptych of this collection exemplifies the same old Italy of contrasts. Dressed in the richest of vestments and adorned by the holiest of haloes, he is accompanied by the most human-looking red pig imaginable. I often think that St. Anthony Abbot in his ecclesiastical robes with the very plain but intimately close little pig at his side is the most representative of all Italian figures. I crossed over from the museum to the Roman theatre. It was empty except for two custodi, one sitting in a shady corner of the ruins of the temple reading a newspaper, and the other standing in motionless ease on the steps of the little Museum Faesulanum. Happily they left me to wander by myself among the ruins. T h e sun, high in the heavens, was thinning the mist of the valley and brightening the red of the poppies that fringed the gray ledges of field stone and massive Roman blocks cropping up in the midst of the ruins. What I like about the theatre is its simplicity: arena steps and vine terraces lying side by side; paths leading to Etruscan vestiges and fruitful fields meeting and crossing; little piles of hay, grown in the pit of the Roman theatre and on the sites of temple and thermae, lending an appearance of order and thrift to the scene. In the small museum were a bas-relief of a "Venditore di Uccelli" and some Roman farm implements, very much in keeping with the agricultural aspect of the ruins that appealed to my mood today. Roman or Etruscan—it all seemed very Italian! JUNE 3

We celebrated at the hospital today the premiazione of six soldiers who have made u p their lack of boyhood schooling by taking the school courses offered in hospitals and passing their examinations. It was a moving little ceremony, attended by about one hundred soldiers, a banged but jolly lot of men who sang "1" Inno di Oberdan" lustily. I went myself to the school inspector to get certificates for two of the men. One of them, Marsala, a Sicilian barber, has lost the greater part of his feet which were badly frozen at the front. He trips merrily about the hospital on his

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heels, shaving his comrades at two cents a head, and happily repeating, "Now I can shout, 'Viva il Re,' because he is going to support me the rest of my life." T h e other, Lazzerini, a young peasant, with the face of a scholar and a thinker, has spent nine months in bed following an operation on his thigh bone. H e received his certificate lying on a stretcher. Each of the men received a present of five lire and a safety razor except Nencioni who was given a thermos bottle in token of the thermos basket holders that he makes and decorates with the "belle torri" of his town. JUNE 1 8 . VALLOMBROSA

Not feeling very well, I consented, at Florence's request, to a week's bachelor exile at Villino Medici just before, thank the gods, the regular season set in. T h e rest has helped my mind and body. I have climbed all the hills around here, writing as I rested on my walks. T h e fir trees on the private and public holdings and on the royal domain have been heavily cut. Most of the wood goes to France, where it is checked on arrival in Paris by two men from Vallombrosa. One of the lumber firms working here, the Fratelli Feltrinelli of Brescia, is a powerful company of millionaires of long and honorable standing. T h e y own forests as far afield as Hungary, with branch railroads running to them—an example of Italian big business of which one seldom hears! Every process of the woodman's art may be followed at Vallombrosa from the felling of the trees to their passage through the sawmill. After being cut down and "shaved" by men wielding axes shaped somewhat like halberds, with heads only partly attached to their handles, which can be swung heavily or handled daintily, they are dragged by oxen to the sawmill or the railroad station. T h e debris left on the ground is cleared up by women who tie branches and twigs in bundles and pack bark, shavings, and scraps in bags. Both men and women perform their tasks according to the dictates of custom, I .should say, rather than rule, in a disorderly, lackadaisical manner which results in the most complete order.

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JUNF. IQ. FLORENCE Florence came up to Vallombrosa to spend Sunday with me. It took us about three hours to drive back to San Domenico via Tosi and Sant' Ellero in a little country carriage drawn by two small lively mountain horses adorned with flying tassels and ringing bells. We passed a large modern building in which five Austrian officers and their orderlies are confined. T h e government has chosen an attractive site for the temporary sojourn of their captured enemies! We engaged the little country equipage to take us home because the ever-breaking left rear axle of the Ford broke again on Saturday, while Florence was coming u p to Vallombrosa. A peasant driving a load of hay carried her to Diacceto, where she arranged for a team of oxen to drag the Ford back to a garage at Pontassieve, asked the occupants of a motor bound for Vallombrosa to notify me that she would be late in arriving, and engaged a peasant to drive her up in his baroccino to Villino Medici. At a quarter past eleven that night anxious Gino heard the rumble of wheels and out of the darkness emerged a light. "Is that you, Gino?" I heard Florence say—and there she was glad and brighteyed, holding a candle, shielded from the wind by an improvised paper shade, to guide her driver through the dark forests. JUNE 21 T h e Arte Rustica del Soldato was exhibited today in the assembly room of the American Hospital, which was decorated with masses of laurel and the flags of Italy and the United States. T h e various articles made of raffia, straw, carved wood, and appliqui paper were laid out on tables covered with strips of brocade or embroidery and decked with flowers and branches of laurel. T h e soldiers, dressed in their Sunday best and shaved by Marsala, were drawn up in a solid phalanx to greet the numerous visitors. Orders were many and disappointments not a few; for Italians vied with English and Americans in buying; everything, except two paper boxes, was sold an hour before the exhibition closed. T h e soldiers took great interest in the sale, and some of them came timorously forward to make purchases. Marsala invested five

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lire in a box carved by an Alpino friend from Brescia. A soldier from Milan, a butcher, admired the fine stitch of a small basket which he thought was priced too low. Could he order one? Yes. Could he order another for a friend? "All these are very fine things," said a tall Granatiere. "People do not buy them because they feel sorry for us, but because they are artistic and will look nice in their homes." Many of the raffia baskets, with designs of fanciful animals woven into them, found ready purchasers, but even a poorly made basket by Nencioni, decorated with the towers of San Gimignano, which had been marked down and hidden behind some flowers, achieved great success, being bought by an antiquarian of Florence! Mazzioli of Udine, the master artisan of the inlaid straw work, was surrounded by admirers following in the steps, perhaps, of the Duchess of Aosta who had ordered a sample of his work. Intervalli was a comedy in himself, as he sat stolidly in the background, hands on his stick, watching his work being sold without speaking or showing any emotion until I stopped to speak to him, when he became the picture of a supremely satisfied Cheshire cat. Oriente of Idaho, the dearest lad of all, helped Florence beautifully. J U N E 22

The accepted method of identifying Americani is by the gold fillings in their teeth. American dentistry indeed has become such a mark of distinction that the peasant soldiers in the hospitals, wishing to emulate the reservists from America, are now insisting on crowns and bridgework as a delightful part of their general treatment. But it is easy to pick out an Americano from a crowd of soldiers simply by his looks and bearing; lie has more go than the stay-at-home Italians and the impress of a wider horizon— more confidence in himself as the captain, or should I say the corporal, of his soul. Oriente, who is convalescing at the hospital from a wound in his left leg, has not a grain of gold in his teeth, but his bearing stamps him as an American. He is a great friend of Florence's and mine. Where he comes from in the United States I had some dif-

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ficulty in learning. Every time I asked him he would rattle off a long, strange word that conveyed no geographical information to me, and, when he saw I was still perplexed, he would rattle it off again somewhat contemptuously, as if he thought me very silly not to recognize it instantly. It was in Idaho; that's all I could make out. T h e other day I said to him, "Oriente, I'm from the East, and I don't know the names of many important towns in the West. Please write the name of your town.'' "Don't you know the Oregon Short Line Railroad?" he asked with considerable impatience. "It's one of our biggest railroads and its shops are located in my town." I silently handed him paper and pencil and lie wrote "Pocatello, Idaho." Oriente had been a boilermaker in the railroad shops—"a good job with steady wages," he said. "I began earning eighteen cents an hour, but I was making thirty-four cents when I left." "Why didn't you become an American citizen?" I asked. "You don't think of taking out papers when you grow up with other boys, work in the same shop, belong to the same union, go to the same church, and do the same things. It's different with the fellows who come over to America after they're grown-up. I was only eleven when my brother sent for me to come out to him. He was a foreman in the shops, and everybody knew him; so the boys took me right in. Why, when I was twenty-one I voted the straight Republican ticket in the presidential election." His honest eyes grew somewhat embarrassed as he looked at me. "No, sir," he said slowly. "I never meant any wrong by it. I voted as the Americans did because I felt I was one of them." "Wasn't it hard for you to make the break and come to Italy?" I asked gently in order that he might not think me censorious about his irregular use of the American franchise. "It is kind of confused in my mind. A couple of years before the war the nearest Italian Consul sent me a notice to report at the Consulate and be examined for service as a soldier. It's the law over here, you see, and everybody fit has to serve. I didn't pay any attention to it, for I thought of myself as an American. But when the war broke out, tilings looked different to me. Even the

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boys thought I was doing right when I told the boss I was going over to fight. All the men of my section got an hour off to come to the depot when I left. It was great, I tell you, as the train pulled out, to hear them shout, 'Bully for you. Good luck. Sock 'em good.' " If Oriente had known how homesick he was making me, he might have forgiven my abysmal ignorance of that important center, Pocatello. "What do you pay for shoes in New York?" he suddenly broke out, and then went on to explain that the hospital surgeon has ordered a special shoe for his lame foot, but he thinks what he needs is a pair of American shoes! Oriente has taken up basketmaking with great vim, though he does not approve of copying the quaint old designs on Sardinian baskets that some of the men are using as models. T o his mind reproductions in raffia of American advertisements would be far more attractive than quaint Sardinian animals or Abruzzese cocks. He finally decided on making a heart-shaped basket in red, white, and blue of his own design to send to his girl, Dora O'Grady, in Idaho. After it was finished he lay in wait for me: "When you go down to the village," he said—the village being the city of the Medici!—"won't you please buy me enough chocolates to fill my basket?" Not knowing whether candies could be sent by parcel post in wartime and doubting the effect on them of a trip to Pocatello, I argued weakly that Dora would be quite as well pleased with the basket empty as full. He laughed heartily. " I n America you always give your girl candies, no matter what. Dora will like my basket all right, but I guess it will be safer to send the chocolates along with it." No American sojourning in Italy was made happier by the news of 0111 rupture with Germany than Oriente. He begged for American newspapers. One day he was greatly elated by a long letter from his brother in Pocatello. The town was enthusiastic over the war. There had been a long parade, in which the boilermakers had carried the largest flag. Oriente's eyes danced with pride. But his great happiness was caused by the news that his brother was going to enlist in the United States Army.

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" D o you suppose," he said, " t h a t after I'm discharged and go home, I might, with my e x p e r i e n c e — I ' m a sergeant now, you k n o w — g e t some kind of a commission in the American army, even though I'm lame?" T h e r e u p o n I blurted out a cruel question that has been in my m i n d for some time. " O r i e n t e , " I said, " y o u know you are not legally an A m e r i c a n citizen, and you are a little crippled. D o you think you w i l l pass at Ellis Island?" Instead of the storm of anger I had expected in answer to my question, a broad smile greeted it. " D o n ' t you w o r r y , " said the exile from Pocatello, Idaho, " I b e l o n g to the Boiler-Makers' U n i o n ; I'll get in all right." JUNE 2 7

Mr. and Mrs. Brewster have just come back from T a o r m i n a , where many of the Anglo-American colony still live as in other days. O n e of the hotels, the T i m e o , is open; the others have been turned into hospitals. Food is q u i t e abundant, and life quite normal except for the activity of submarines. T h e Brewsters saw four or five ships attacked and sunk. A small cannon m o u n t e d at the foot of the hill on which T a o r m i n a stands occasionally goes into action, but it is totally inadequate to grapple with submarines. O n e morning, while the Brewsters were breakfasting in their garden, a submarine attacked a boat, which broke in two and slowly sank. T h e n it casually answered the shots of the land cannon, sent a parting shot u p into the town, and disappeared. Entire trains are no longer transported on the ferryboats plying between Messina and Reggio. Mail cars are carried and passengers too b u t not in trains which offer too great a target to submarines. Attacks by submarines on the southern coast of Italy are frequent, especially at points where there are viaducts and bridges. J U N E 2 8 . VALLOMBROSA

Florence and I are at Vallombrosa for a rest which she needs badly after three sinus operations. W e are staying at the A l b e r g o del Lago; it is lonesome, b u t q u i e t and helpful, I think. W e take short walks together, and I go off alone on longish tramps. O n e of them brought me to a sheltered nursery of evergreen seedlings

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— a quiet, sweet place in the woods. A substantial stone house a d j o i n i n g it is inhabited d u r i n g the w i n t e r by a couple of keepers and their families, w h o are provisioned w i t h food and fuel, for they are often snowbound, as a guard I m e t told me. Six of the eight foresters in the g r o u p he belongs to are away at the war, though there is more work now than ever before. T h e duties of the foresters, this man explained, include c o u n t i n g and measuring the length and cubic content of the felled trees, replanting the razed sections with seedlings w h i c h are transplanted at two years of age and set out in permanent locations at five, keeping d o w n the squirrels that hurt the y o u n g plants, and preventing sheep and cattle from trespassing on the pastures a d j o i n i n g the woods of the public domain. Reforestation is expensive, the care of the seedlings alone costing 25,000 lire a year. Some trees I saw had been planted by the monks of Vallombrosa just before the government took over the forests forty-three years ago. T h e forester I talked to thinks the new plantings w i l l compensate for the present heavy cutting. Even the destruction of the chestnut trees does not seem to him excessive, though I have heard complaints that " t h e winter food of the population of f o u r m o u n t a i n villages will be seriously affected by it." O n the other hand he thinks too many beech trees are being destroyed for the purpose of m a k i n g charcoal. Seventy thousand quintali were m a d e last year. W h a t became of it all? San Miniato in V a l l o m b r o s a — a good saint's h u m b l e dream come true in an umbrageous valel T h e r e may be a dozen ways of reaching it b u t that by which I came u p o n it one day, w i t h o u t knowledge of its existence, is surely the best! I w e n t off to the w o o d s — to that stretch of secular firs planted by the good brothers of G u a l b e r t o near a lake formerly lying between Vallombrosa and the Consuma. T h e i r lofty shade shut out the sunshine, b u t f r o m their outskirts, on which wild strawberries were r i p e n i n g to a d e e p red and mountain flowers were spreading in profusion, I could see valleys and hills beyond, brilliantly lighted by the sun. Foresters in semimilitary green uniforms, old in years b u t y o u n g in voice and movement, were measuring fallen trees and calling o u t figures to a girl keeping records in the present scarcity of men.

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They hardly added a modern note to the scene; for, though the practice of forestry at Vallombrosa is conducted scientifically, it still appears almost mediaeval because of its setting and the individuality of the men and women engaged in it. Suddenly the firs came to an end, but not ungraciously, for they passed me on to the leaf-tempered sunlight of a grove of chestnut trees, gnarled and mossy. This transition from the cathedrallike shadowland of the straight, ancient firs to the mellow light of the chestnut woods changed my mood. T h e road itself changed; it began to go u p and down; it became less marked and wilder, with flowers r u n n i n g u p to the middle of it here and there. Gradually it diminished to a path, destined apparently to be swallowed up by the wildwood, that led me shortly to a tiny country cemetery enclosed by a wall over which bent golden sheaves of ripening wheat. Just across from it was a little church and big house so intimately combined that I should not have recognized part of the building as a church, if I had not spied a modest belfry on top of it. It looked like a nice, comfortable country house, and such, in part, it really is, with a terrace along its front, graced by rows of potted flowers standing under the shade of tall, old trees—a place on which to sit and think sweet thoughts and wish for dear friends. From it, I looked down on rows of beehives and symmetrically planned terraces planted with glistening green plots of seedlings and beds of newly sown seed, sprouting under the protection of dry, leafy branches and being tended by a dozen young women as happy as young mothers ministering to their children. T h e house, of course, is only incidental to the church, San Miniato, the entrance to which is from the valley, not the road. You must, as it were, seek the way into it just as you must seek the way into Heaven. But when you find the entrance you understand that it was placed here to allow the little church to look out upon the valley of hard-worked fields and the ranges of mountains beyond, miles and miles of them, all of which seem to respond to its gracious blessing with a smile. I went on, though I have not seen such a peaceful corner of the world for years, on and on until I came to a quiet grove of tall

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larches. I have always thought of larches as somewhat ragged and spindly, lackadaisically extending their branches after the manner of great ladies holding out their hands to be kissed by a commoner. But these, delicate in form and distinguished in color, with the sun shining palely through them, or rather resting above them like an aureole, these were nature's aristocrats—a gentleness of heart in trees! JULY

1 9 . VENICE

Lewis R . Freeman, famous globetrotter, and I lost our way going to the front! After a delightful picnic with Florence and Vera Santini in a grove of stone pines on the hills outside of Porta Romana, we left Florence for Venice at 2 A.M. in a compartment filled with Italians who believed in excluding the night air. Was it a lack of air that made us stupid? At all events we passed Bologna without changing cars, as we should have done, and found ourselves headed for Milan. We got off the train at Modena at 6 A.M. and walked the streets until 9:30, when we returned to Bologna on first-class tickets which gave us the privilege of standing all the way. T h e heat on the slow train from Bologna to Venice was almost unbearable. Although a big offensive is due, perhaps even on, we saw few troop trains. In the railroad yards at Mestre were a number of empty cars and some twenty Italian soldiers manacled and chained together. Mr. Carroll, the American Consul, had arranged for our entry into Venice. He took us bag and baggage to La Calcina and then home to dine with Mrs. Carroll. Worn out by the long, hot trip, I slept soundly, but wakened early and saw from my bed five torpedo-boat destroyers gliding silently over the greenish waters of the Giudecca Canal—a quiet, matter-of-fact, but impressive little scene. I spent the morning wandering about Venice, ending, of course, at St. Mark's. When the protection of the Basilica consisted of sandbags, its appearance was martial and brave, but now, overlaid with timber, brick, and sheet iron, it looks like a vast junk shop— a junk shop in which one may still find a few precious objects,

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mostly mosaics. Everything else, even the columns which are swathed with a padded material, has been covered except the golden domes. Over the entrances hang heavily wadded curtains. Outside loveliness is struggling with ugliness and flowering into groups of angels and minarets springing, unafraid and beautiful, from the slanting, timber-sheathed barricade of sandbags that covers the fa9ade and sides of the Basilica. Daniele Manin's tomb is protected by a bulging structure of corrugated iron, but the small red lions on the adjoining Piazzetta are still exposed to Austrian wrath, though they seem quite unmindful of it. T h e two Byzantine columns on the south side of the Basilica are enclosed in wooden structures of a pepperbox effect, and the pedestals of the flag staffs in front of it are boarded. T h e capitals of the columns of the loggia of the Ducal Palace are boxed in very ugly fashion, and over the Porta della Carta extends a metal shed. In the afternoon Freeman and I called on Commander Costa at the Arsenal. He introduced us to Lieutenant Professor Ferrando, art attachi of the Command of the \7enetian Defense, who showed us a large collection of photographs of Venetian buildings damaged during the war and of devices used to protect St. Mark's and other churches. Among the buildings I did not know had been bombed are the Swedish Consulate, the Cotonificio, which looks like a total wreck, and Palazzo Marcello, where a priceless collection of pottery, carelessly left in the attic, was destroyed. While I was sitting afterwards at Florian's, sipping the unrivaled amarena, the great bells of St. Mark's began to toll, and my heart went out to Venice. In spite of the heat the city looks prosperous, the people seem quiet and satisfied, and the food shops fairly well supplied. But winter will come! Later on Freeman and I joined the Carrolls at the Lido, a horrible place, like all bathing resorts. Hundreds of persons are now enjoying the opportunity of renting a capanna on the beach for five lire a day instead of twelve or fifteen, as in prewar days. Airplanes were flying about, and toward night we heard the sound of firing.

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J U L Y 2 1 . UDINE

Freeman and I dined with the Carrolls last night. T h e dinner wound up with real lemon pie, a delicious creation of Mrs. Carroll's. When we left for the station at eleven o'clock in the Consul's gondola, heat lightning was rending the sky and presenting Venice in a new aspect. W e reached Udine at 6:30 this morning. T h e old town smiled us a welcome as we drove through it to the Croce di Malta. J U L Y 22 DEAR F L O R E N C E : It has been a splendid morning. By six an officer of the Cinematographic Staff, Freeman, and I were on our way, in a high-powered car of the Comando Supremo, to Aviano to attend the "Cerimonia del Nastro Azzurro," at which medals were bestowed on forty aviators and the American Aeronautic Mission were present, as special guests. Some fifty miles of early morning motoring in splendid weather compensated for a slim breakfast. T h e country was beautiful, and the women in their Sunday kerchiefs were attractive. T h e approach to the big aviation camp at Aviano was guarded by Lancers, stationed at regular intervals, with their spears, flying blue banderole, stuck in the ground. Shortly after our arrival, several specks appeared in the sky, Capronis and Nieuports arriving from other camps. T h e n a Draken rose in the air, and soon a couple of dirigibles, with the American Aeronautic Mission aboard, appeared and descended slowly while the aircraft circled, planed, and landed, the little Nieuports shooting down noisily like mechanical toys unwinding. A number of foreign attachis and distinguished guests came in cars.

T h e Americans, followed by Italian officers belonging to various arms of the service, marched around the field to inspect the aircraft lined up for review, in front of which Bersagliere cyclists were stationed. Afterwards General Maggiorotti addressed the aviators, summoning each by name to receive his medal from some officer of high rank, foreign or Italian. For me it was touching to see American

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officers and Italian aviators facing each other like comrades, as they saluted and exchanged strenuous handshakes. No kissing occurred except after the presentation of a medal by a French officer who gave his man a resounding smack on both cheeks. One of the aviators, a captain, received his medal from his wife—a very, very pretty compliment. D' Annunzio made a short and not especially distinguished speech addressed to America: "Ali! Ali! Ali! Wings! Wings! Wings! Send us materials to make them, for, as you see, we have plenty of brave men to pilot them." A t the close of the exercises, as the Bersaglieri, saluting, cycled past the guests, I found myself at D' Annunzio's elbow, in line with the American officers standing rigidly at attention. T h e poet, dressed with great care in the uniform of a cavalry captain, was pallid and ugly, but not as brutal looking as in some of his photographs. W e had been invited to the luncheon that followed the ceremony, but the officer accompanying us was in a hurry to reach Udine and develop his films; so we dashed back. In the afternoon we planned, with the help of Captain Pirelli and Captain Weillschott, a program of visits to the front. Afterwards I had a short talk with Colonel Barbarich about the scheme for an American ambulance unit at the front, which he somewhat formally agreed would be useful. He was franker about Florence's plan for running a Casa del Soldato, desiring apparently to avoid placing it under X 's jurisdiction. He offered to give me a letter to the Intendenza Generale at Treviso, the supreme military arbiter for such a project. JULY 23

T o d a y the Command invited us to pay a visit to General Tarditi, who blew off the top of the Piccolo Lagazuoi in the Cadore, as Freeman wants to write u p this exploit. T h e General received us at his villa in Tricesimo, where he and his men are resting, and introduced us to the members of his staff, who seemed very much like a sympathetic family group as they chatted with one another at the jolly mess to which we were made welcome. T h e food was excellent, and the conversation lively.

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"In this war," said General Tarditi jocularly, "you can fight in the air or underground. I prefer the latter, and if I am sent to a suitable position on the Isonzo and given time, I see no reason why I shouldn't cross under it, if I can't cross over it." Lieutenant Cadorin and Lieutenant Malvezzi were in charge of the mining operation on the Lagazuoi. Cadorin told us, if I remember correctly, that it began in February and ended in J u n e with the blowing off of the top of the mountain. Cadorin is a mining engineer by profession, and many of the Alpini on the Lagazuoi were miners from his home town, Belluno, who had worked under him before the war. We first made a tunnel through the lower part of the mountain [he said], for the purpose of shifting our men in safety from one side, where we had our base, to the other, whence a trail led up, through a dead angle, to a post we held below the Austrian position, part way up the mountain. From it we made a passage up to the spot fixed by triangulation as the explosive chamber, and thence bored another to the tunnel running through the foot of the mountain so that, as soon as the blast was set off, we could rush men up, both inside and outside the mountain, to capture the new position created by the explosion. We worked day and night, tunneling with benzine borers and removing the material bored. During the last forty-eight hours we carried thirty-four tons of explosives to the blasting chamber. I didn't get an hour's sleep. Several times I heard the Austrians countermining by hand. As soon as we had put the explosives in place, we blocked the tunnel at intervals with piles of sandbags covered by cement, through which we ran tubes, tapped for the purpose of detecting the presence of poison gas. We had learned the necessity for this precaution on the Castelletto, where stores of Austrian gas bombs exploded after we blew off its top and put the assaulting party out of commission, including Malvezzi who was leading it. When everything was ready, we set off the blast from our base, opened the tubes of each section and tested them for gas, knocked down the barriers of sandbags and cement, and rushed our men up the tunnel. The shock of the explosion was so terrific that it ripped off the flesh of one of the Austrians—only his skeleton was left. On our return to Udine I met Ojetti, taking Ricordi and Marco Praga to see Colonel Barbarich, to work out a plan for field theatres. D' Adamo suggests that Freeman and I pay a visit to Caporetto to inspect its well-organized civil administration and a school for

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Slovene children, founded and taught by Italian officers, which is "already making the children Italian." A new face at the Stampa is that of Annie Vivanti, the authoress, otherwise known as Mrs. Chartres. Pirelli said that D' Annunzio told Ojetti and him the other evening, while they were dining in a restaurant where she was present, that he once found in an album, in which he had been asked to write, this sentiment by her: "There are three impossible things: to read D' Annunzio's verse, to resist Annie Vivanti's fascination, and a third thing I forget." JULY 24

Captain Pirelli took us today through a section of the battle zone, new to me, north of Gorizia. Over a busy and pleasant road we reached Plava on the Isonzo, a bridgehead won by the Italians early in the war and held with difficulty, for the soldiers could not remain there more than forty-eight hours at a time on account of the stench of the unburied dead in No Man's Land. The Isonzo at this point is a very narrow, green, serpentine stream flowing down a defile between Monte Sabotino on the west and Monte Kuk, the Vodice, and Monte Santo, on the east. A short distance south of Plava we turned up a new road leading to the top of Monte Kuk, which the Italians built in twenty-four days, after fighting their way up its slopes. Probably on no other front could a man arrive so near the firing line in a limousine. I felt really ashamed. Zagora, a village on the slopes of Monte Kuk, held partly by the Austrians and partly by the Italians before the advance of the latter, is almost razed to the ground. As we walked through and over the former Austrian trenches, torn by Italian artillery and filled with battle junk, we occasionally passed a hastily made wooden cross—a lonely grave in the midst of all that havoc. We stopped twice to look at the Vodice and at the terrible Monte San Gabriele, farther south. Except for the Austrian and Italian trenches, the prospect was fair, owing to the abundance of green vegetation and trees; and yet it was invested by a semblance of cruelty and mercilessness. We visited a number of doline on Monte Kuk, natural caverns, generally huge in size and long and narrow in shape. In one, with

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six entrances, we saw heavy guns being placed and hundreds of soldiers resting or sleeping on wooden shelves, upon whom the light from the apertures shone weirdly. Numerous gasoline drills were at work, enlarging the caverns or boring new ones to shelter the men. On the reverse side of a sign giving directions how to reach a certain dolina, I noticed the words, "Vogliamo la Pace," scratched in pencil. This is the only note of disaffection I have seen at the front, though there is not apparent the enthusiasm of a year ago, a fact that is not surprising for the war has become a business, in which all one can expect from the soldiers is a businesslike attention to the work in hand. O n our way down Monte Kuk, we met the Bersaglieri coming up. Somehow the Bersaglieri always seem to be coming up! JULY 25

Today, accompanied by Captain Pirelli, we visited the section of the Carso gained during the last offensive, the objective of which was the Hermada. O n our way we passed through the little town of Sagrado, once badly shattered, but now spic and span in new paint. I understand that Gradisca, which I visited in its desolation last year, has been sufficiently rehabilitated to welcome home five hundred of its inhabitants. T h e activity, both reconstructive and preparatory to new offensives, behind the new Italian line is truly imposing. T h e character of the ground lends a fantastic appearance to the emplacements of guns and the barracks gripping dead angles, and the roads attest the skill of the engineers, whose work has reached a state of perfection. After climbing up Doberdo Heights in the car, we halted before coining into open view of the enemy. A t Pirelli's request we put on helmets and walked forward separately over terribly contested ground, whitish, stony, and full of holes, rent and twisted like a man who has died in great agony. Beyond the former N o Man's Land, a narrow, tragic strip that separated the Italian line from the Austrian before the last offensive, we made our way, through torn and stricken trenches and shattered ricoveri, to the new Italian line, running from Mt. Faiti to the sea which it meets at a point

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just north of the river Timavo. T h e Italians went beyond the present line, quite beyond the Timavo in fact, but were obliged to retreat when the Austrians counterattacked. Behind the still and unimpressive stream of the Timavo rose the Hermada, key to Duino and obstacle to Trieste, so calm and verdured as to appear almost unscathed, though devastation marks the land along its base and the marshy lagoons stretching toward the Adriatic, which lay burning under the sun, empty of life. Walking through the new, quickly made trenches of the Italians, we passed small dugouts and caverns full of men watching or sleeping, wrapped in the peculiar silence of the first line. T h e stench of the dead was occasionally very pronounced. From a bend in the trench we began observing. Directly below lay Jamiano in ruins, well to the right of us the lake of Doberdö, to the left, the shipyards of Monfalcone. On the hill of Flondar and the western slopes of the Hermada the Austrian guns were very active. Suddenly they focused their attention on us, and shrapnel shells whizzed over us in quick succession. "Abbasso," shouted Pirelli, and we flopped low, Freeman going down so heavily that he scratched his hand—the first American blood on the Carso! Some splinters from the stone parapet in front of us dented Pirelli's helmet and hit me on the arm. W e "retreated" through trenches equipped with huge baglike torches that are lighted during gas attacks for the purpose of making a current of air to lift the poisonous fumes. Every soldier we passed, whether he was busy or resting, seemed stealthily on the lookout for an enemy he knew was mercilessly watching. On emerging from the trenches, we returned under the broiling Carsic sun to our car and drove quickly to Doberdö village, a badly smashed hamlet in which there is an Italo-Austrian cemetery divided into two sections, one marked by the crosses and small monuments of the Italians, the other, by the gabled crosses of the Austrians. After a pleasant luncheon with Captain Scaravaglio, a blond, wide-awake, and jolly cotton broker of T u r i n in charge of a battery of siege artillery, we paid a visit to Major Μ , the pleasant and courteous commander of the British guns located on the side

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of a hill facing the village of Doberdo. He showed us one of his pet guns and opened his heart somewhat incautiously about the insufficiency of the Italian aerial service. His men, many of whom were sleeping, bare-legged and half naked, on the ground, are quite beyond his control, he said, between the hours of two and four in the afternoon, having formed the Italian habit of taking siestas. O n arriving at the Italian front, they announced they were going to clean up the Carso and take Trieste, a statement for which they were well drubbed by some Italian mountain artillerymen. Since then peace has reigned. Indeed Major Μ says that the letters written home by his men, describing the Italian front, are as good propaganda as could be desired. In a tug-of-war yesterday the Italians beat their guests to a frazzle, dumfounding the British who had not realized that, though the Italians are untrained in this sport, they have learned it to perfection by dragging guns up mountain slopes. Tomorrow night an Italo-British boxing match is scheduled to take place. of the Ufficio Stampa O n the way back to Udine Captain Ρ described some of the distinguished men of letters he has conducted around the battle zone. "Wells," he said, "is not an Englishman at all, so communicative is he about his private affairs." Kipling was very much liked by the Italians. Although he is a delicate man, he stood the trips to the front well. He was more impressed by the Carso, with its horribly hard, cruel natural features, than any other section of the front. Of a recent American visitor, who saw nothing because he balked at the hardships involved in visiting the battle lines on the mountains, Captain D spoke jeeringly; he was absolutely dismayed when Freeman and I said we understood that the man in question was slated for the position of American military observer at the Italian front. JULY 26

Freeman suggested we pay a visit today to Villa Trento, the famous Italian hospital and ambulance unit financed and run by the English. Mr. Trevelyan, Commandant of the first British Red Cross unit in Italy, was out when we arrived, but Miss Power, the matron, received us very kindly, and, later, Dr. Brock, the director

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of the hospital, and Mrs. Brock showed us over it. There are not many patients in it now, but those I saw, some of whom were helping to lay a new floor in the Sala Cadorna, seemed very happy indeed. Before long Mr. Trevelyan arrived, a strange, restless, rather " j u m p y " man, energetic but hardly sufficiently calm, I should say, to handle a big job. Luncheon, in which everyone joined, staff, nurses, helpers, and chauffeurs, was a casual affair, very much in contrast with the cordial formality of an Italian mess; for, after the English fashion, no introductions took place. Afterwards Trevelyan took me aside to talk about the plan of having an American ambulance at the Italian front. He thought there might be room for it in the Trentino but not on the Carso, and he dwelt very wisely and earnestly on the necessity of having the ambulance, if it comes, manned by persons who know Italy and the Italians well. JULY 28

W e left Udine with Captain Pirelli in a Comando motor at 7 A.M. and sped to Vicenza, passing on our way the elliptically walled town of Cittadella. What took my eye especially were the wayside villas with gardens full of many and varied flowers, a great contrast to the green aspect of Roman and Tuscan gardens. Pirelli pointed out Villa Galliera and its beautifully kept grounds. Captain A , whom I had met last year, joined us at luncheon in Vicenza. He has been acting recently as liaison officer on the French front and has added the croix-de-guerre to his Italian silver medal of valor. He is, however, severe about the French who, he thinks, are turning their sufferings into a pose by not washing or eating well because the times are tragic. T h e feeling in Italy against the French is certainly increasing. Our party included an English professor and Franciscan scholar, an extraordinary mixture of culture and rank ingenuousness. I never knew before that the stage Englishman is copied from life! His ignorance of the Italian front was staggering, and his questions about it were so childlike and foolish that I was occasionally startled into wondering whether he was "all there." After luncheon we motored up to the plateau of the Sette

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Comuni, seeing Asiago in No Man's Land from a hill to the left of Gallio, a point of view new to me. T h e line of defensive trenches, machine-gun stations, and buried gun emplacements, running over hill and across vale, looks impassable. Coming back from the Sette Comuni, we drove up Monte Cengio. How tragically the remnants of the poor, rocky trenches, held so gallantly by the Granatieri last year, contrast with the present superb system of tunnels and trenches, which has converted this mountain into a little Gibraltar! But why wasn't it installed before the Austrian drive into the Trentino? O n our return to Vicenza Captain A was called away to act as escort to Prince Napoleon; so Freeman and I ate alone—the worst dinner ever!—at the T r e Garofani. JULY

29

W e rose at five this Sunday morning and were off by six to the Pasubio. Many women in black dresses and veils going to Mass in Isola Vicentina, Schio, and other towns we passed through lent a singularly religious but not at all sad aspect to the scene. T h e r e was considerable military traffic on the road, well-ordered and businesslike. As we began to ascend the hills, wide and wellkept new roads appeared, zigzagging up to points apparently impossible of access, one of which had been built exclusively by the labor of women. Everywhere in the war zone I have seen women, fine, strong-looking women, building bridges, shoveling trap on railroad beds, and keeping up roads, who seem to take their new jobs as a matter of course and show no evidence of strain. T h e road up the Pasubio is a marvel of engineering and patient labor. U p and up we wound to heights where even today linger patches of snow and cliffs that from below look like sheer precipices of rock. Pushing the road higher and higher was a small army of Alpini and Territoriali, digging, drilling, and blasting in the usual deliberate Italian way, which is very striking, for, though the men seem to take their tasks easily and without strain, they not only accomplish a great deal of work but accomplish it quickly. W h i l e the snow was still deep on Mt. Pasubio last winter, roads and trenches were built under the protection of guns hoisted up

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its sheer slopes by man power. After the snow melted, the mountain appeared equipped in most modern fashion with trenches, defensive works of all kinds, and motor roads open and tunneled for the safe movement of troops. One of these roads, La Strada della I" Armata, as it is called, runs up the mountain through a series of sixty-three tunnels. A t the point where the motor road comes to an end, some finelooking mules of the Liguria Brigade, splendidly groomed and saddled, awaited us, with helmeted attendants. My man and Freeman's were both Americani, one a resident of Philadelphia, the other, of Boston. How their eyes shone as they shouted, "Sure!" to my question, "Are you going back to America after the war?" As we wended our way upward, the commander's aide, who had met us with the mules, showed us many of the points of interest on this amazing battle front of peaks, some of which are over 7,000 feet high. W e stopped to look at one of the longest and most powerful teleferiche on the Italian front, over whose cables run nineteen buckets twenty-two hours out of the twenty-four, whenever there is enough material collected at the foot of Pasubio "to pay" its transportation in this way. Ice storms occasionally preventing the transportation of supplies by teleferiche have been the cause of much anxiety to the Command. Happily this anxiety no longer exists, for huge stocks of food and ammunition—enough to feed and arm 15,000 men for two weeks at least—are now stored in caverns. Water is brought up by air pressure from Malgi Busi, three thousand feet below, to a tank on the mountain whence it is distributed to camps and trenches. T h e pipe through which it runs, sixty kilometers long, is laid above ground, for the water never freezes because of the relative degree of heat generated by the pressure of air; indeed the snow surrounding it sometimes melts. After plunging through a labyrinth of caverns and tunnels cut through the living rock, up, down, and around to invisibly placed guns and observatories, we descended an iron ladder and found ourselves in a tunnel opening into a communication trench that leads to a secondary camp and the Strada della I a Armata. T h i s trench will be protected from snow next winter by a folding steel top.

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Finally we emerged into an open cleft in the rocks and climbed to the famous Dente del Pasubio, the most advanced post on this great massif, which blocked the right wing of the Austrians in 1916. We pushed carefully out to a vedette whence we could have thrown a ball into the trench on the Austrian Dente opposite. Here, as in other advanced lines I have visited at the front, there was a peculiar stillness, auguring sudden death or imminent attack; and yet the men holding these posts do not appear at all strained or anxious—just very, very watchful and silent and ready for action. As we came down from the Dente we sighted an Austrian scouting plane, on which the Italian guns opened fire, but in vain. Mounting our mules, which had been brought to meet us, we headed for the headquarters of the command, passing a number of small cemeteries, well-cared for and trim, fitted in, between shell holes and trenches, on bits of land not greatly exposed to the guns of the enemy. In one of them was a large marble cross, and beside its gate, a vase of freshly cut flowers. On a level space, about five feet by ten, in front of the messroom of the brigade, called the Piazza Liguria, the colonel greeted us and introduced his staff, consisting of some oldish men and a jolly lot of youngsters. At the sumptuous, five-course luncheon that followed, the colonel, a very spare, pleasant, reserved man, told me that most of the officers of the brigade, as it is now constituted, come from civilian ranks. Many of them are very helpful in solving the manifold problems of this war, especially engineering ones. T h e intellectual qualities formerly demanded of officers are not so necessary as they were. Character is always important, but, apart from that, the greatest endowment a man can have today is physical strength; for a large number of the hundred and twenty thousand officers in the army at present must be able to stay in the trenches and play their part well. On our way back to Vicenza we stopped at the headquarters of the Fourth Brigade of Bersaglieri, special attack troops enjoying a rest after some stiff fighting on the Ortigara. Colonel Piola Caselli, a tall, able-looking man who not only has spent some time in America but is married to an American, received us with

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considerable pomp in the midst of his staff, with four helmeted Bersaglieri presenting arms. T h e editor of a well-known Italian newspaper, an oldish, mild-mannered man who shakes hands like a priest and acts as if he were afraid to talk, is on his staff. T h e Colonel's son, a seven-foot blond boy, is a volunteer private in the brigade. After offering us whiskey and water, the Colonel invited us to watch, behind a screen of evergreens in his artillery observatory, a bombardment of the Austrian trenches on Monte Maggio. T h e quiet valley of the Posina shook, as the gunners obeyed the order to fire, and columns of black smoke rose over the line of Austrian trenches, struck squarely in the middle, an Italian observation post reported. I must say the bombardment seemed like a horrible Sabbath sport, for the day up to this moment had been perfectly quiet, without artillery action on either side. After a repetition of the performance, we went to the officers' messroom, the appointments of which, such as the fine linen embroidered with the insignia of the brigade in red silk, are unusually good. With tea, marsala, and ice cream we thought the climax of our entertainment had been reached, but the Colonel asked us casually if we should like to see a drill by some new recruits training for "special attack." Descending to an encampment below headquarters, we found a whole battalion of helmeted Bersaglieri in parade formation, who presented arms as we approached, while their band struck up the Bersagliere fanfare. After we had "reviewed" them, a company of men were ordered to take a trench on the crest of a hill supposedly held by the enemy. Crawling up on their stomachs singly and in groups, they cut wire entanglements, tossed hand grenades into the trench, as they approached it, and rushed it all together, some of them, according to rule, going well beyond it to protect those fighting in it. Then a number of them, shielded by a platoon of men firing across them from behind a flanking wall, fell back with their "prisoners." Finally the entire battalion, headed by the band, filed before us at their famous quickstep, the officers raising their hands to their helmets in salute, and the men turning their heads toward us. I see—I shall always see—the young faces of those boys, emerging from their helmets, as they ran by, saluting. On

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they ran, strong, fine, irresistible, running as if to death and yet to victory. What a picture they made: sad, terribly, terribly tragic, and yet glorious! JUI.Y

30

Yesterday, climbing up the Dente, I saw a regimental tailor, a sad-eyed Sardinian, sitting near the entrance of a cavern, sewing a uniform. "Slow work," he said, as we stopped to speak with him, "Slow work without a sewing machine." T h e cavern, filled with supplies, was in charge of a commissary officer, who lived in a tiny shack next to it, a Peter Pan sort of house. His men have caught an "allodoletta"—a lark—he told me. " T h e y have made a fine, big cage for her," he said, "but she is not happy. You can't see her because she is as shy as a bambina; she will not show herself while you are here. W e are all on the outlook to catch a mate for her and make her happy." Blessed be the birds on the fighting line! Shall I ever forget the song of a lark I heard going through a communication trench in a strip of woods at the front? Nothing, I am sure, in the normal activities of life will ever again give me so vivid a moment of pleasure. Courage seems to distinguish the small rather than the large members of the bird family. A report that large birds have abandoned the Italian Alps and sought the security and comfort of Swiss neutrality is confirmed by a story in the Swiss papers, describing the joy of the local hunters at the unusual number of big game in the air. T h e courage of the small birds has been rewarded by strict laws enforced against hunting in the battle zone—for military reasons, of course—which have greatly contributed to the conservation of bird life. I take little interest, however, in this explanation of the large number of birds at the front, preferring to share the soldiers' belief that the songsters have elected to remain with them. T h e fact is incontrovertible that the lark, the nightingale, and the cuckoo still sing on the battle lines, though this is the third summer of the war. Why should they not choose to stay with the peasant soldiers, many of whom belong to the

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land of St. Francis and some actually to the Little Brothers of Assisi? T h e alliance of the birds with the soldiers extends even unto death. I remember my amazement at finding one day in Monfalcone, on a narrow stretch of parkway bordered by trees, numberless tiny birds dead at their post, buried under branches and leaves that had been swept off the trees above them by the storm of battle. Some of these trees, wounded, had fallen into the embrace of others, whose green foliage was swaying and rustling gently as if m u r m u r i n g a prayer. I shall not easily forget these trees or two noble firs I saw in the T r e n t i n o , which had given their life to the "cause" by breaking the fall of an ambulance that had skidded with its human freight off the edge of a road undermined by a shell. Splintered, they stood like tall wooden crosses on their o w n graves. JULY

31

O n the way here from Vicenza I stopped at T r e v i s o to look u p Father Minozzi of the Intendenza Generale, who is in charge of the Case del Soldato; b u t he had gone to Cervignano. W h i l e waiting at the station in T r e v i s o for my train to Udine, I heard my name called, and, on looking up, saw Mr. Lowrie, rector of the American Episcopal C h u r c h in R o m e . W e had a long and friendly talk, mostly about the establishment of an American a m b u l a n c e unit on the Italian front, which Lowrie thinks would be very useful. I gave him my views and those I had gathered, not entirely in accord with his, and suggested he visit the Cadore to see whether an ambulance could be placed there to advantage. Father Minozzi, he tells me, is a good man who has exhausted the resources of his friends and supporters. General Capello, Commander of the Second A r m y , whose headquarters is at Cormons, is seeking donors willing to establish and run ten Case del Soldato at an initial cost of two thousand lire apiece. T h i s information will interest Florence. O n the way to U d i n e I saw some small buildings close to the railroad tracks, camouflaged by roofs of different colored tiles, and

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eaks of which mark the Italian line in this sector of the front. Until last month it was under the command of General Tarditi, and the lapidi of the "V Gruppo Alpino" on many splendid stone and cement buildings, bridges, viaducts, and fountains point to the work of his men. After driving to the end of the road on the slope of Tofana di Rozes, Carrobio took me on foot to the base of the Lagazuoi. Lagazuoi Grande is still in the hands of the Austrians, but Lagazuoi Piccolo, which juts out bravely and impertinently from the

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bigger peak, has been held by the Italians ever since General Tarditi blew off its summit last June. From every available point on the trench running up it hang huts for troops; and, at the foot, the Alpini are constructing a village of barracks and ricoveri, including a small steepled church, typical of the churches of this region. While we were looking at the Austrian line on big Lagazuoi, some bearers passed with a man on a stretcher, whose hand had been lacerated by a bullet from his gun that had gone off when he slipped and fell on a rock. Carrobio asked him if he felt very badly, "I have only fever, Sir," he replied, as if that were a child's ailment. On the way back we turned off on a side road and drove part way up to the Castelletto, the peak of Tofana di Rozes mined and blown to bits by the Italians last year. Returning to Cortina, we stopped at a small village of repair shops, amazingly trim and neat, laid out on the slope of a hill and connected by broad paths of sod. Here carpenters, smiths, turners, masons, and mechanics make and repair, with the aid of electric energy generated by water power, everything conceivable from teleferiche to "Svolta Pericolosa" signs, even bricks and the newly devised cages that are filled with stones and used to make trench walls. The captain in charge, a tall, heavy, red-bearded man from Novara, "resting" here after months spent on top of the mountains, presented me with an alpenstock made by his men—a beautiful bit of workmanship. A young artilleryman accompanying us said that, whenever the weather threatens an avalanche, the bearers of supplies to mountain posts tie long colored ropes around their waists, with the hope that, if they are buried under the snow, these "tails" will stick out and attract the attention of rescue squads. During the winter sentinels at high altitudes are kept on guard for an hour at most; for only five minutes, sometimes. I lunched, as Carrobio's guest, at a hotel in Cortina, a lively little town, almost unscathed by war. The "kellerina" serving us and the other waitresses took very good-naturedly the "patriotic" teasing of Italian officers lunching there, who bantered them on the prospect of becoming Italian.

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After luncheon we motored northward on the road leading to Schluderback, stopping in full view of the Austrians on Monte Cadin, whose vedette we glimpsed through our glasses. If the massif of which Monte Cadin forms a part could be taken, the Austrian "eye" overlooking this valley would be totally blinded. T h e road running ahead of us into No Man's Land, over which not a person passes, looked strangely deserted. In this sector of the Cadore the Fourth Army has pushed twelve kilometers beyond the old boundary line; in some other sectors, twenty-five. We motored back to Cortina and thence up a splendid road, made out of a mule path, to Passo T r e Croci, where a flourishing little army village has been set up around three wooden crosses marking the spot on which a widow and her two children, overcome by the tormenta, were found, kneeling in prayer, dead. From Passo T r e Croci we drove down and up to Lake Misurina, a resort belonging to the past. At the largest hotel, a badly battered building, we stopped to see General Invrea, an affable old soldier, who invited us to take tea with him and his staff. Afterwards we walked "towards the enemy," along the beaten road flanking the Paludetto, a marshy stretch of ground dented by exploded and unexploded Austrian "305's," whence we saw a superb covered communicating trench on the southern slope of Monte Piana, the foremost Italian line in this sector of the front. From Lake Misurina we motored to Auronzo and then to Padola by a new road which traverses beautiful green country and reaches a height of over four thousand feet in its run of fifteen kilometers. From Padola we sped south through lovely, busy villages to Pieve di Cadore, on through Longarone with its pretty girls to Belluno at the rate of 90 kilometers an hour. T h e second day may truly be called a Garibaldian Day. From Belluno we motored to the Valle del Cordevole, through which runs a winding stream. Beyond the somewhat bleak and forbidding spot where the Forte di San Martino blocks the contracting valley, our road led out into the conca of Agordo, through the busy and crowded town of the same name, and on to the lake of Alleghe. We stopped here at the villa of the Comando of the Corpo d'Ar-

1 9 1 7 73 mata, situated in a garden of shaded paths and a singing fountain, and then proceeded northward to the poor, tiny village of Sottoguda, with narrow, cobbled streets and picturesque mountain houses hanging on a green slope, where we drew up at the modest headquarters of Colonel Giuseppe Garibaldi. "Peppino" Garibaldi might pass for an American. He looks more like a serious, thoughtful civilian than a soldier. Mr. Lowrie, who has been visiting him, tells me he took up a military career only at the instance of his father. His face is genial rather than strong, though I do not mean it is weak. He is simpatico and businesslike, but he shows traces of his father's flightiness. Mentally he is of higher calibre than his brother, Major Sante Garibaldi, a member of his staff, a very pleasant but not convincing young man. At a delicious luncheon, covered by the three lire per capita a day allowed the Ufficiale di Mensa, we met the officers of the staff, below the average, I thought, of most of the officers I have seen at the front. The chaplain, a bearded Domenican from the Convent of San Domenico, was evidently respected; he not only stood teasing well, but parried it adroitly. He is a brave fellow, Garibaldi says, who always stands by his men in engagements. When I asked Garibaldi what his soldiers needed, he replied "socks," and then whispered, "eight hundred red woolen shirts." Six hundred have already been smuggled to him in Red Cross supplies. He would also greatly appreciate, as a gift from America, a pallone frenato—a balloon—by means of which he is sure he could land a couple of men on a "step" of a mountain he wishes to scale. After luncheon Garibaldi drove us up Monte Toppa. On the way we passed Col di Lana—his Col di Lana which he and his men captured in 1915. It fell again into the hands of the Austrians, but was recaptured with the aid of Gelasio Caetani who blew off its top in 1916. On the road up Monte Toppa, one of the steepest and most dangerous I have seen, soldiers were busy repairing damages caused by washouts and slides resulting from a recent storm which had torn up great tracts of tall, old trees. What must this road be like in winter? Even our Lancia balkedl From the summit of Monte Toppa we saw with the naked eye

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the undulating Austrian line running down from the Dente del Sief to the Lagazuoi which we visited yesterday. After our return to Sottoguda, Carrobio and I motored westward through the Serrai di Sottoguda, a cleft between two gray mountains, filled by a rushing stream until the Italians diked it and built a road beside it. T h r o u g h this picturesque passage we reached the foot of the Marmolada. Here began the most interesting, perhaps, of my Cadore adventures. T h e Italian camp on Pizzo Serauta, a peak of the Marmolada, is between 9,000 to 10,000 feet high. T h e Alpini reach it on foot in from six to eight and a half hours, according to the weather. It may be reached also in cages operating on three teleferiche comprising the longest and most acute-angled system of wireways on the Italian front, in which passengers are hoisted 8,000 feet up from the starting point. T h e first lap, swinging in the pleasant sight of green mountain slopes, is the steepest but the least nerve racking. T h e cage in which we started proceeded a few yards, stopped, swung idly, and then, after much parleying below, slid back to the point of departure. T h e corporal in charge of the teleferica, having noticed that the lower end of the cage, against which our feet were braced, was not clamped tight, had pulled us down, fearing we might slip out! Our ride of fifteen minutes on the second teleferica was not reassuring, for we were told before starting that the motor was not running "quite right." T o make it more pleasant and cheerful, the sun disappeared and rain fell. U p we went, however, somewhat jokingly, with a disquieting, hesitating limp now and then, not in a cage this time, but in a wooden box, a cross between a coffin and an ammunition box. T h e view became more and more superb, a sea of mountain peaks and clouds, with nothing to left and right but sheer rock except an occasional lingering avalanche of snow. Swinging along this brink of destruction, whence the objects below looked horribly small, I was neither dizzy nor afraid, only tremendously impressed by the scene. W e waited at the third teleferica to give the right of way to a load of snow coming down to be melted into water for the use of troops at one of the lower mountain posts. T h e n up again we went for six minutes; and that rise seemed as if it would never

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end! We landed on a narrow ledge in the midst of a snow flurry, where the enemy may, if they wish, hurl shrapnel, and ascended a flight of high, narrow steps, some open, some covered, cut in the rock on the edge of the mountain. We ran up the open ones to avoid being peppered by the Cecchini, the Austrian sharpshooters. On a little saddle at the top stood a tiny, wooden shack, with two freshly killed fowl hanging from its eaves. T h e shack was the headquarters of Major Menotti Garibaldi, the commander of this post and the most genial and efficient-looking of the Garibaldis I have met; his post is the highest but one on the fighting lines of the Allies. Ezio Garibaldi, who was badly wounded early in the war, is stationed here with his brother but was away on leave, having been slightly wounded two days ago. Imagine the Italian side of this peak, held by Menotti for over a year: a mass of sheer whitish rock cut by steps, trenches, and paths, edged here and there by bags filled with sand or stones, honeycombed at different levels by tunnels and caverns, and hung with shacks sheltering men, food, and munitions, and, over it all, a great, shifting wind scattering a mixture of hail and snow, through which the sunlight momentarily breaks, changing entirely the aspect of the scene. Then imagine some six hundred staunch men blasting, drilling, cutting steps, placing poles and rails on every possible foothold of this peak, and other men sleeping, resting, or doing all sorts of jobs, from cooking to manning guns, in tunnels and caverns which are stacked with rifles and tin boxes containing gas masks, inscribed, "Chi lascia la Maschera M U O R E " —he who throws away his gas mask dies. While we linger in a small cavern, an observer signals that some Austrians are passing through trenches on the glacier below. Garibaldi bends, turns a lever, and pat-pat-pat resounds in the cavern, as a captured Austrian Gatling fires on its own men. We walk out of the cavern, and Garibaldi gives me his strong hand to swing me up quickly to the observatory on top of it, before the Austrians have time to fire. Behind its parapet of sandbags we crouch and peep over at the Marmolada glacier, cut and crisscrossed by Austrian trenches and reticolati running down to the valley and up to a rock, on our left, too steep to hold the snow, which rises

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skyward, bare and cruel. On that bare height, separated from us only by a narrow gorge, is a small saddle, a tumble-off place where birds cannot live, and in its lee, hanging on—the Lord knows how —are two wooden shacks, above which lie the Italian front-line trenches, thirty or forty metres distant from the enemy's. Up there, on this eerie bit of rock, many hand-to-hand combats take place, lately the Austrians have been shooting at hours usually observed in quiet by both sides. Garibaldi put an end to this bad habit the other day by bombarding the Austrians for two hours, during which he plainly heard their groans and cries. As we were inspecting a new path hewn out of the rock and leading to the uppermost line, a soldier approached, saluted, and said very quietly to Garibaldi, "So-and-so's hand has been blown off, blasting." Garibaldi asked briefly one or two questions to identify the man, then excused himself and left us, saying, " T h e good men always get it." Later we heard groans while passing the infirmary, a trim little shack built against the rock, where the stump of the man's arm was being dressed before he was sent down by teleferica to the foot of the mountain whither an ambulance had been summoned by telephone. This tragic conversion of a sturdy Alpino into a mutilato, who, on his transference to the normal world, must face the end of his career and real life, ran its course in quiet and orderly fashion. No anaesthetic was used in dressing his wound. Lowrie tells me that he saw a man's arm amputated the other day without an anaesthetic, while some of his comrades stood near by, knowing that, if their turn came, they, too, must face the same ordeal. Among Garibaldi's prisoners have been some Russians captured while carrying supplies to the Austrian trenches—a new and civilized mode of employing prisoners of war! Sweets and little comforts for his men at Christmas time would be welcome, Garibaldi agreed. They should arrive early in November because, by the end of that month, the camp is often snowbound. During the endless hours of the succeeding months, fighting lets up and work slackens, though a minimum of both goes on under cover of the snow. A food reserve for sixty days is always kept on hand.

19 17 77 After tea we said good-bye, descending easily, despite the blowing snow, to Teleferica No. 2 and then to No. 1, where we were told we must walk the rest of the way on account of the increasing strength of the wind which might cause the cable of the empty, counterbalancing cage, ascending, to catch on some projecting point of our cage and dash us into space! So, we walked forty minutes down a mountain path, passing a solitary grave, gathering mountain flowers, and finding a helmet that Carrobio suggested I keep. At the foot of the path we forded a torrent, entered our car, and drove back to Sottoguda, where we picked up Lowrie, shook hands with Colonel Garibaldi, and sped off to Belluno. On the third day we motored along a frightfully precarious road recently carved out of the mountains, whose dangerous points are eloquently indicated by signs, "Tenere al monte." It leads through lovely country to the town of Canale San Bovo, which formerly belonged to Austria, though it is very Italian in appearance. Before the war it could be reached only through Austrian territory. A very courteous Colonel of artillery entertained us here with the best coffee I have tasted in Italy. He told us that a recent raid of Austrian planes had resulted in the death of thirty mules and their two attendants who were found holding copies of the Corriere they had been reading. Neither men nor animals showed any external marks of death, having been killed by internal ruptures caused by concussion. From Canale San Bovo we motored over a well-graded road, through a pleasant, peaceful, cultivated green valley to Fiera di Primiero, a trim, smiling little town. After stopping at a suburb, Transacqua, to see a peasant girl, a ward of Mr. Lowrie's, we drove northward on wooded hills, the timber on which is less severely cut than that at Camaldoli, midst scenery more and more beautiful and stretches of woodland quite parklike, dotted with the blue and yellow tourist signs of prewar days. Although there are no visitors today, the woods are alive with encampments, depositi, stables, case del soldato, hospitals, trenches, fortini, and what not. As we approached the town of San Martino di Castrozza, the delicate hues of the Pale di San Martino rose on our right, above the clouds. Beyond this resort, in which all the hotels have

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been burned or destroyed, the aspect of the countryside became bleaker and more desolate as we approached the first-line encampments on Passo di Rolle. Here Captain Niccolini of Verona received us and walked forward w i t h us to the entrenchments, where, in sight of the enemy, we took photographs of the Colbricon, the Castellazzo, and the Pale di San Martino. A f t e r returning to Fiera di Primiero, we motored, on a splendid new road thirty-six kilometers long, over Passo di Cereda to A g o r d o , and on to Falcade A l t o to lunch with the Contessine Di R o b i l a n t at their ospedaletto da campo. T h e y received us very kindly, though we were three hours late in arriving. A m o n g their patients are three A l p i n i injured by a mine that blew up while they were reconnoitering in the vicinity of the Austrian lines. T h e faces of two are badly burned, and the skull of the third is fatally fractured, it is feared. T h i s was the day I enjoyed the least because I was far from well. Mr. Lowrie evidently noticed that I was in bad shape because he said to me, "Speranza, you must have Scotch b l o o d — t h e way you hold on. A n y h o w you look like R o b e r t Louis Stevenson." AUGUST 7 . BELLUNO

O n stopping at the C o m m a n d of the Fourth A r m y today to study the map of operations, get some data, and say good-bye to Carrobio, I was ushered into the office of General M a r i o Nicolis di Robilant, C o m m a n d e r of the Fourth Army. T h e room in which he receives visitors is highly decorated, but he himself, pale and older in appearance than I expected, is a very simple gentleman, with kind, gentle eyes, a great shock of hair, and a very pleasant personality. In the course of our conversation he said he was quite sure the enemy would not be able to break through the Italian lines because of the present organization of defense and the facilities afforded by the roads for making quick spostamenti of troops. Considering the war from the point of view of a "mathematical probl e m , " he thought it w o u l d certainly be won by the Allies, though perhaps by other than military means, frontal attacks b e i n g costly and yielding little, as the present offensive on the Anglo-French front shows. T h e General is more hopeful of victory on the vul-

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nerable fronts of the Balkans than on the battle lines of the west. He considers the prohibition of supplies to neutral countries the greatest single contribution of the United States to the war. General Di Robilant, who was at one time in charge of the Turkish gendarmerie, holds the rank of Pasha. He has been decorated by France and Belgium. His family motto, "Pugna et tutela," lie applies successfully to the Fourth Army over which he presides. A U G U S T 9 . UDINF.

On the 8th of August, not feeling at all well, I hired a motor to take me to Udine, a lovely trip via Vittorio and the green mountain lake in its vicinity. AUGUST

12

How strangely one's imagination acts at times in a centre of action and power such as Udine! Today, for instance, I feel as if peace were near. Reasons? None—all are against it. Straws? Many. Sonnino, who has been at a gathering in London commemorating the third anniversary of the outbreak of the war, has made an unprecedentedly long stay away from home. He, other cabinet ministers, and ambassadors are now here. This assembly of notable men may mean war as well as peace; and yet, considering the peculiar atmosphere of the Italian front, "peace" seems the word to use. T h e front never looked so defensively impassable, so well stocked, so perfectly manned, and, at the same time, so placid. That biggest of all offensives, variously timed as taking place "a week hence," "within ten days," was sometime ago "postponed for a month," a month now nearly up. Hearley of the United Press, who arrived today, says the railroad traffic shows no evidence of impending belligerency; but reports are circulating to the effect that passenger trains will be temporarily suspended for the purpose of placing the railroads at the disposition of the Command. Now some things are certain. Germany has officially staked her success on submarines. These have failed as a decisive factor. Her offensive strength has certainly not manifested itself lately; indeed she has actually retreated. Woodrow Wilson's preparations must cow her, and the debacle in Russia, throw a strange but potent

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light on the divine right of kings! If the Italian front is now so well organized, what must be the martial potency of the British? Hindenburg is alleged to have said a year ago of Germany's military position that it was brilliant but had no future. It has ceased to be even brilliant. Today the Teatro del Soldato is having its first test. Army engineers have built theatres at advanced posts and constructed portable ones. Renato Simoni, dramatic critic of the Corriere della Sera, is directing the performances. He tells me that he intends to confine the programs to light, pleasant plays, but use the best artists. T h e best indeed! Yesterday I saw a lady in black meandering along a street with a companion—a lady with the loveliest eyes: Eleanora Duse who will be one of the first stars to appear. AUGUST

15

Udine is seething with distinguished persons. Poincare, president of the French Republic, is here as the King's guest. Sonnino, whom the papers report to be in Rome, is still in Udine. Pierre Loti, the picture of weariness since his motor trips to the front with Captain Pirelli, is leaving this morning. Poor man! he is old and frail looking, especially in comparison to his orderly, the strongest, most vital-looking French peasant I ever saw. In strange contrast with the many diplomatic and military figures in Udine is a small group of actors who are going to play in the Teatro del Soldato. One of them, Miss Perry, an American singer, floated by me yesterday in the Croce di Malta—a vision of Broadway face and American gown. McClure of the London Times woke me up the other night at midnight to ask me to go the next morning to the review in honor of Poincare, but I couldn't make it. Italian machines, passing over Udine day and night lately, have been doing a gTeat deal of damage to Pola, I understand. Yesterday the G'azzettino di Venezia, which usually arrives early in the day, did not come until the evening. I heard an arrival at the hotel say that Venice had been bombed, but not seriously damaged. T h i s morning's bulletin, though restrained in tone, admits a num-

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01

ber of dead and the damage of several buildings in Venice. Several of the raiders were brought down. Udine is the noisiest, most talkative, and liveliest town imaginable. In a tenement across the way from the Croce di Malta, a caged turtledove coos sadly all night. She looks exactly like her mistress, who not only cares for her house and two babies but takes in laundry. T h e picture of that woman's activity and margin of ease, as she sits at a window with her babes, awaiting "il papa" and talking long distance with her neighbors down the street, fascinates me. The neighborhood encircling the Croce di Malta with a rim of slipshod Venetian ease is most picturesque. Its people are the happiest in town, for the coming and going of the inn's distinguished guests serve as a perpetual entertainment. There are side shows also. T h e other morning the official dogcatcher of the town, fat, cruel, and stately in his uniform and striped green cap, appeared in the street below my window with two boys, dressed like their master, wheeling a closed handcart. All three carried wicked looking lasso whips. Stopping in front of a tenement opposite the Croce di Malta, the dogcatcher summoned a tenant to the door, who paid with infinite scorn a fine of five lire to free his dog, impounded for having been caught unmuzzled. Thereupon the boys opened the cover of the cart, and a happy mongrel jumped out, wagging his tail to a welcoming neighborhood. Poincari himself had not a finer welcome! Now and then the attendants of the hotel—Piero, the fat, loquacious headwaiter, and the gentlemanly man-of-all-work—worn out by their continuous relations with "the great," flow over to the Caffe della Nave to be natural over a cup of coffee, or to an osteria to have a drink; flow over too often, of course, and show the result by their increased loquacity. In the hall of the Croce sit all the "grabbers." Two or three Red Cross women—they are Contesse, I think, but poor class—sit there day and night on the chance of seeing or greeting some notable person. T h e most aggressive accosts every well-known man who arrives with the remark, "You don't remember me, but . . ."; whereupon the man she has ad-

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dressed shakes hands with her politely, and down she sits satisfied, wagging her tail happily, as it were. T h e diplomats are leaving. I looked out of my window a while ago and saw Aldrovandi in a motor, the picture of weary indulgence with a foolish world. Later, while I was talking to Palazzoli outside the Ufficio Stampa, someone waved to me in friendly fashion from a half open limousine. It was Aldrovandi, and, besides him, the car held Sonnino, looking quite happy, and De Martino. Afterwards I saw President Poincare going to the station. He was sitting beside the King in a touring car guarded by scouting airplanes and followed by two motorloads of his military and civil staffs and a couple of cycling Carabinieri. As Poincare lifted his soft black hat repeatedly to the cheering crowd in the Municipal Square, his good, chubby, but not overbright face looked very serious in contrast with the King who seemed very much at his ease, as are all the officers of the Italian Army nowadays. Today I saw a car, flying two small American flags, on which was the inscription, "American Ambulance." No one knew whence it came or to what organization it belonged. Discussion is rife over the advance notice in the papers of a papal peace note to the belligerents. T h e Giornale d'ltalia gives it quasi-official importance, and all the papers handle it with gloves. AUGUST l 6 . GORIZIA

With Hearley and Lieutenant Barcolla of the artillery I drove to Gorizia today. We stopped at Cormons to get a permit to enter it. T h e approach to Gorizia by way of a heap of ruins called Lucinico and through a district pierced by shell holes and crisscrossed by defenses, in which both houses and bridges are destroyed, prepares one for the sight of a ruined city. T h e streets, however, have been so cleared and cleaned and the guttered houses so patched that it presents a fair appearance, fairer probably than the facts warrant. A few stores are open for the use of the twenty-two hundred civilians inhabiting it. Its most traveled streets are heavily patrolled by Carabinieri. While we were waiting at the gates of the city to have our permits examined, we overheard a sentinel,

8 1 9 1 7 3 looking at us, say to a comrade, "Are these borghesi Austrian?" "Austrians going into Gorizia!" exclaimed a Carabiniere. Driving through the town, we passed the cafe where the Italians found, on the day they captured Gorizia, luncheon spread for some Austrian officers. The old castle on top of the hill, the gray Franciscan church, and the long, red-roofed seminary I saw last year from Gradisca have been badly damaged by fire. We lunched witli Major Gadasso. Both the villino in which he lives and the battery lie commands are hidden from the Austrians by a heap of devastated houses. Our luncheon out of doors was punctuated by shots from his battery and shells from an Austrian "305" occasionally bellowing over us but striking far beyond. Had the Austrian gunners on Monte San Marco but known the location of our luncheon table, they could easily have enfiladed it. After luncheon we walked to the former barracks of the Kaiserjaeger, a tall, damaged building on the outskirts of the city. From the observation post on top of it we saw the Italian lines on the lower slopes of San Marco and the Austrian on the upper, within rifle shot of us. Their proximity surprised me. Before we took our leave, the officers insisted on treating us to asti spumante in their messroom, which is furnished with odds and ends from the ruins. When I rose and drank " A gli Artiglieri Italiani," the strains of the "Star Spangled Banner," "Dixie," and "Yankee Doodle" floated out of a newly acquired gramophone. As we drove out of town to visit a model battery, I noticed posters on the walls, "welcoming" a detachment of French gunners. The main building of the battery is using the machinery and tackle of a former Austrian slaughterhouse, in which it is located, to turn the Italian guns. Upon a table beside each gun lies, indexed and ready, all necessary calculations for shooting at any Austrian point within its range, and, in handy deposits, is stored a huge supply of shells. The battery is magnificently ordered, each gun having a stupendous ricovero for its gunners. Its various units are connected by narrow garden paths and substantial trenches, radiating from a cement fortino. From Gorizia we drove south, past the cruel rocky slopes of the ruddy Carso, on which fantastic, military colonies, engaged with

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the activities of barrack life, are strung out like drab futuristic pictures. On the ridges above them trenches and gun emplacements are being bored and blasted, and, on the plains below, roads constructed, and cemeteries, walled, tended, and decorated. In some of these latter little chapels are being built. From one of the hills overlooking Lake Doberdo we plunged into a cruel, zigzag trench washed out by torrential rains, in which we dropped from one level to another by sprinting down a slope open to fire from the Hermada on the opposite side of the lake. Under a blistering sun we skirted the dismal lake, a cruel, offensive marsh at this season of the year, mercilessly unprotected from the shells of heavy calibre Austrian guns, one of which fell just ahead of us, throwing up a high geyser of marshy water. Beyond a wellkept grave inscribed, "Ad un Eroe Dimenticato," we climbed a Carsic slope burning ruddily under the sweltering sun. Higher and higher we went, past men stringing telephone wires, building shacks, blasting rocks, and carrying supplies. A very trying walk through a winding, jagged trench led us to the artillery observatory of Quota 144, in charge of the Bersaglieri, one of whom I overheard say quite sneeringly, "Even civilians come to the trenches," and another, "Here come the journalists; we must appear full of enthusiasm." Below the observatory lay the Vallone, with the remains of Jamiano and the front lines of the Austrian and Italian trenches enveloped in its gray, ugly silence. Behind it rose the Hermada looking more like an uninhabited hill than the terrible fortress it actually is. Through another trench, over which Italian projectiles whizzed unpleasantly, we walked back to the lake, reskirted it, climbed up the zigzag trench, and regained our motor, half dead with heat and effort; but the drive back to Udine, through Gradisca, a smiling town once more, and a dozen other towns, redeemed or Italian, happy, sociable, full of character and go, refreshed us. AUGUST

17

Today I leave the front, tired, but with increased knowledge of it and its problems. I want to see the new wounds in poor, glorious Venice, and shall stop there on my way to Milan.

ι9 I 7 Before I left I called on General Delme-Radcliffe, head of the British Mission at the Italian front, to whom Norah Brooke had given me a letter of introduction. He has been absent from Udine for some time. H e is a nice man, almost nice enough to be a Colonial instead of an Englishman! Square-headed, with a serious, earnest face, he received me in his shirt sleeves in the midst of a mountain of work. T h e quarters of the British mission are a model of simple and plain living. I bade good-bye to the Stampa, where a group of men, in bitter agreement, were discussing the inopportune publication of the papal peace note at this moment when a big offensive is about to be launched. " H o w will the soldiers fight," said one, "if their heads are filled with the idea that the Pope can give them peace without fighting?" McClure tells me that " T h e T h i n g " is on within three days. Perhaps, but who can tell with any certainty? A U G U S T L8. V E N I C E

Commander C telephoned, asking me to come and see him at the Arsenal. W e talked about the war and the Pope's peace note. He holds most strangely that France put the Pontiff up to it. Lieutenant Ferrando, in charge of the photograph department of the Arsenal, gave me a number of splendid photographs of Venetian subjects, and showed me many others, among them some interesting ones of the Madonna dell' Arena in Padua, with Giotto's famous frescoes covered, as they are now, by bombproof curtains. I also saw some "riservatissime" of the last raid on Venice. This attack lasted from 3 A.M. to 10 A.M. AS soon as the light permitted, Italian aviators rose and gave battle to the relays of Austrian airplanes flying over the city. They shot down four and forced three others to descend. T h e twisted wing of one of them sticking out of the waters lapping the Fondamenta Nuove drew many Venetians to look at it before the end of the raid, and, as soon as it was over, the " Q u a tosi, per do palanche andemo a vMarlo" of the gondoliers induced a number of them to visit "la tomba del velivolo austriaco"; but later these same Venetians watched respectfully, with uncovered heads, the gondola bearing

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the bodies of two Austrian aviators who had perished in this plane to the cemetery on the island of San Michele. One bomb hit the Arsenal, but did not damage it badly. Another demolished an old tenement in Campo dei Mori, under the debris of which men, women, and children were buried. A third struck the Scuola di San Marco, which is used as a hospital for civilians. It destroyed the precious coffered ceiling of the Sala, killed two patients, and wounded twenty-one. T h e photographs of the Sala, showing heaps of human flesh and plaster lying on the floor between the twisted beds, are awful. I heard confirmed, while I was in Venice, the story of the refusal last May of a Sicilian battalion to go to the aid of the soldiers attacking the Hermada. AUGUST 2 1 . VARESE

"Our tariff has not been increased since the war," said an intelligent looking porter to me, as I entrained for Varese in the station at Milan. " T e n centesimi a valise and many less travelers than formerly; yet the price of food has gone up tremendously. I make about two lire a day, and my one substantial meal, a lunch of bread, salame, and a glass of beer, costs a lire and sixty-five centesimi." His words, spoken in the tone of a man explaining rather than complaining, made me wonder, as I have often wondered before, how some Italians live, keep clean, and appear reasonably happy on their daily earnings. T h e electric train to Varese carried a typical Milanese human freight: industrial engineers and men of affairs, wearing clothes businesslike in type but flashy in appearance, and a good deal of jewelry. They were interested but not excited by the news in the papers of the initiation of a great Italian offensive. From the car window I saw many factory chimneys cutting the sky. Varese is cool, busy, and crowded, with signs of war peculiarly its own. Going u p to the hotel, beautifully situated on a hill outside the town, I met thousands of workmen pouring into town wearing brassards that testify to their employment in war work. T h e way they suddenly appeared and swept everything before them reminded me of the going-home hour in downtown New

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York, but, here, numberless speeding bicycles add to the rush a new and dangerous element, which New York has so far been spared. I passed several broad wagons, drawn by stout horses, carrying wings of airplanes, and, as I drew near the hotel, I heard a peculiar, rattling sound reminiscent of the front—the sound of a machine gun being tested, I learned later. AUGUST 2 4

There is nothing in Italy quite so un-Italian as a smart hotel patronized by Italians of a sort. This Teutonic-looking structure in which I am staying attempts to be half Waldorf-Astoria and half Monte Carlo, with comic but very expensive results to its guests who imagine they are living in an atmosphere that is English, but which is simply not Italian. They eat badly and pay enormous prices; they play tennis (during the one cool hour of the day) because it's fashionable; and they wear the grandest clothes after the manner of workmen tricked out in their Sunday best. In the end, however, their Italianism gets the better of them, and they drift into the national game of conversazione, which they keep up until two in the morning. Every afternoon a blond, young man, Fulcieri Paolucci di Calboli, the son of an Italian diplomat, comes up to the hotel from the Varese hospital in a limousine. He is a mere boy, with a very gentle, sweet face, and on his breast is the ribbon of the gold medal for military valor, the highest decoration for heroic conduct. He cannot move because a shrapnel shot in his spine has paralyzed his legs. His mother wheels him about in a chair, around which cluster a bevy of girls, including Contessina Porro, his fiancee. Florence's first letters came yesterday from Rome, where she went to attend to some business for me, after meeting me in Milan and urging me to come here to rest. She forwarded my mail, a strange assortment of cards from men, women, soldiers, and civilians, and some splendid Cadore photographs from Mr. Lowrie. AUGUST 2 7

Last night I was introduced to Contessina Porro. She resembles her father, General Porro, second in command of the Italian Army.

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Her opinion that the offensive would soon be over because its objectives had been reached gave me the chills. Today, however, comes news of the capture of Monte Santo. T h e accounts of the great battle going on at the front elicit no enthusiasm from the men here. T h e y are deep in business, and their conversation relates only to money, exchange, profits, and losses. Talk of New Yorkers! These men would shock a curb-broker at the lunch hour. Perhaps the proximity of Varese to Switzerland has some bearing on their attitude. Chiasso, the customs station is only a stone's throw distant, and all the mountains leading up to the Swiss frontier are fortified. A gun on the roof of the skating rink of the hotel points toward the Swiss skies! Most of the soldiers here look like picked men; they are Guardie di Finanza—of course! SEPTEMBER 5

Before leaving Varese I ought to make a few thumb notes. Its atmosphere is strangely out of harmony with the rest of Italy, more sordid even than that of Rome. T h e mixed group of guests in the hotel consists of industrialists, borsisti,

and aristocrats, with a few American expatriates, neither

fish nor fowl, flitting along their edge. Among the aristocratic names with which this place bristles are Princess Massimo, the "Victorian" mother of Prince

Colonna,

Mayor of Rome, who dresses in black and invariably speaks English; the Melzi of Milan; the San Martino e Valperga; the Di Brazzä Savorgnan; Contessa Caracciolo di Melito, an American; and a certain Contessina who would easily pass for a cook in America. Duchess Josephine Melzi d'Eril Barbö, with a court at eightyseven, is a book in herself. Bright, full of fun, Milanese to the core, she is the picture of a past generation, as she drives through the streets in her red-wheeled landau drawn by heavy coach horses. She remembers vividly the tumultuous revolt of the Milanese against the Austrians in '48. A search for the family tutor, who disappeared during one of the first days of the revolution, brought to light eight bodies of citizens thrown by the Austrians into a

8 1 9 1 7 9 lake on the grounds of the Castello. The Milanese went mad with delight on the day their enemies were driven out of the city. She and her father, who forgot to take off his nightcap in the excitement of the moment, joined the throngs in the streets, embracing one another in a delirium of joy. An unmarried daughter of the Duchessa by her first husband, Contessa Giulia, is the radical of the family. She minces no words in describing the failure of the nobility to perform their duties in this war, the women especially: "They weigh and consider a donation of 100 lire, but think nothing of spending 100,000 on a piece of fur." The Duchess took me to tea with another of her daughters, the wife of a retired Colonel who has a villino here. Very kind all the Melzi have been. They have given a little brightness to Varese. It Avas wise for me to come, perhaps, but my stay here hasn't helped my health very much.

SEPTEMBER ΙΟ Tomorrow I leave for Rome. The rapid progress of the Italian offensive has slackened, but the fighting around San Gabriele must be very fierce. The Duchess was in fine fettle when I called on her to say goodbye. While I was with her a telegram was handed her, announcing the arrival of one of her secretaries on the morrow. She gave orders to stop another who had just left, but it was too late. "Just as well," said she. She asked me to promise that I should stay with her whenever I came to Milan. "We have a room for forestieri outside of the house, perfectly independent, with a fireplace and plenty of wood. I have enough wood to heat even my hothouse." Contessa Giulia did not allow this remark to pass in silence, for she objects to using fuel for such a purpose in the present scarcity of it. "How could she allow the lovely, rare plants to die of the cold?" exclaimed her mother, who went on to tell me that she expects to evade the law forbidding her to transport wood from her tenute in Tuscany by offering to share it with the Prefect. Her latest plan, on which she is working with some engineers, is to raise sugar beets on her Paduan estates, with the aid of water

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power. "So I'm not worried about sugar either," said she, as I bade her good-bye. I paid a few other calls, and now I'm ready for Rome. SEPTEMBER

13. ROME

In the train going to Rome I fell into conversation with some business men of the north. They all agreed that the high wages and expensive manner of living of the esonerati are a just cause for discontent on the part of the soldiers. Why not militarize the factory workers, make them live in barracks, and drill on Sunday? They criticized the appointment of technically untrained men as food controllers, and cited a number of losses for which inexperienced men have been responsible. At Vercelli, for instance, hundreds of quintali of rice, stored on a defective floor, and quantities of bacon, stacked instead of hung, were ruined. SEPTEMBER

19

My first impression of the notice in last night's papers of the inclusion of Alessandria, Genoa, and T u r i n in the war zone was that it corroborated current rumors of the Allies' intention to mass troops in Italy preparatory to an attack in force on the Austrian front. Alessandria has already been used as a base for the "mobile army" of French and English soldiers in Italy, and Genoa and T u r i n could very well serve as bases for a large number of troops. But I am afraid its meaning is less cheerful. There is considerable unrest in Italy. I know that bread is scarce in San Domenico, and I hear it is elsewhere. T h e lack of it may be due to poor organization or to the obstructive methods of the neutro-socialists who wish to foment popular discontent by preventing the distribution of food. T h a t something serious happened in T u r i n is not only implicitly admitted by the heavily censored press and the removal of the Prefect, but corroborated by an American acquaintance shut u p there for a week in a hotel, who says four hundred persons were killed in the streets. Her report is probably much exaggerated, but I have no doubt riots occurred. T h e government has certainly been weak. It has catered to the

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imboscali and highly paid esonerati and played into the hands of the troublemakers who are certainly getting bold. T h e circular issued by Lazzari, secretary of the Regular Socialist Party, comes pretty close to sedition, and the facts unearthed by the Popolo d'llalia tend to confirm reports that Turati's threat, "Peace before winter or revolution," is gaining a hearing. Yet I see no signs of a popular revolt. T h e attacks in the press on Minister Orlando for his weakness in dealing with internal enemies are indicative, no doubt, of the crisis in the Cabinet, which has been patched up by the removal of Corradini, Orlando's Chief of Cabinet, and Vigliani, Chief of Public Security. A t Florence's invitation Colonel Buckey, our new military attach£, in whose office I am going to work as a volunteer, dined with us tonight, and we made friends. SEPTEMBER 21

A t io A.M. today I reported at the office of the Military A t t a c h i in the Albergo Reale and began my duties in the Intelligence Department of the United States Army. After making some brief outlines of plans, Colonel Buckey and I went to buy furniture and stationery for the new office. Viva Γ America! OCTOBER 8

Captain Post, Colonel Buckey's assistant, and I have arranged our joint office dos-ä-dos, with a screen between us. My daily r&um£s go on. I have not felt very well, but a letter from Florence, who is closing the villa at San Domenico, cheered me. Norah Brooke is with her. General Delme-Radcliffe intends to stop in Florence to see Norah and Florence and help them with their plans for the front. Good luck to the General! OCTOBER 9

Young Lane of the Embassy and Captain Post dined with me this evening—a pleasant, quiet evening. I hear that one or two of our fellow countrymen in Rome are suspected of being proGerman.

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A letter from Florence describes General Delme-Radcliffe's arrival at Villa Torricella at Ι A.M. and his adventures in getting there. I called on the Richardsons in the charming house they have taken in Via Piemonte, a lucky find. OCTOBER

ΊΟ

A quiet day largely spent in waiting for Dr. Bignami to come and see me. * OCTOBER

11

Hustling along Via X X Settembre this morning to the Ministry of Munitions, with Colonel Buckey and Colonel Westervelt who has been sent here by Pershing on a D£port gun mission, I was happy in the thought that I was being of use to my country. Colonel Mazzoni, secretary of General Dall' Olio, Minister of Arms and Munitions, told us that Italian 75 mm. Diports are manufactured in Spezia and Genoa, and projectiles for them in Turin. He promised to arrange for Colonel Buckey and Colonel Westervelt to visit these factories as soon as the Ambassador obtains leave for them to do so from the Foreign Office—a mere formality. Permission to see the guns in field service will have to come from the Comando Supremo, througli Colonel Vacchelli of the Ministry of War. T h e substantial changes made in the original Deport by Italian engineers have resulted in producing the best field gun in service, Mazzoni thinks. In reply to questions by Colonel Westervelt, Mazzoni said that between 300 and 500 batteries of these guns could be manufactured in Italy for the United States, provided materials for making them were furnished and every skilled Italian workman was mobilized, or they might be made in the United States under the temporary direction of expert Italian engineers, with the consent of the Minister of Munitions. He promised to send drawings and specifications of a Deport gun and literature bearing on it to Colonel Buckey, and, if the United States should decide to buy one, to deliver it to him or ship it anywhere within two hours after receiving the order.

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From the Ministry of Munitions we went to see Commendatore Ettore Zoccoli, director of the Press Office of the President of the Italian Cabinet, to ask what information he could furnish our Military Attache. Only advance news of Cadorna's bulletins and special articles of a popular character, he said, but he would refer Colonel Buckey's request to General Garruccio who is coining to Rome shortly to organize a bureau of military Allied intelligence of a very confidential character. Meanwhile, he advised Colonel Buckey to get in touch, through letters of introduction he would give him, with the press bureaus of the Ministers of the Interior, Marine, and Propaganda. As his own special function is to "inspire" articles and furnish data for them, he can arrange for the publication of any information the American Embassy wishes to bring to the attention of the Italian public, without referring to its source. Stressing the climatic advantages of Italy, Zoccoli outlined a plan he has submitted to Baron Sonnino for training American soldiers in Italy this winter, with the aid of a large number of minor officers in the technical branches of the Army, who will be released from Alpine service during the cold months. Zoccoli stated positively that a new Italian offensive would be launched shortly. OCTOBER 12

This morning I took F to the Embassy, to give the Ambassador an account of an interview with Cardinal Gasparri that took place before Wilson's reply to the Pope's peace note and was canceled after it. F says the Vatican has ceased to be neutral; its only interest is to save the Hapsburgs. This afternoon I went to see A at the Consulta, to find out why Colonel Buckey's permission to visit the war factories has not yet come, in spite of the Ambassador's urgent request for it. A rang his bell awhile in vain. Finally, an attendant answered it and was sent in search of the Ambassador's letter. "You are a mysterious person," A said to me, "but we know everything about everybody. For instance, one of your Em-

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bassy has a German maid." He looked quickly at me, then glanced at some war dispatches, and read off the names of six ships sunk yesterday. T h e Germans, he says, are breeding infected mice to drop on England. "Why," said he in his jerky manner, "doesn't America send spies to Bulgaria, Turkey, and Austria to find out the real conditions in these countries? She could do it better than any other country." "Perhaps she has sent them," I answered. " N o , " he replied. " W e are sure she hasn't." Throughout the interview, during which he complained of his hard life, his manner was unpleasant, as always, and yet peculiarly friendly. Despite his youth and strength, the atmosphere he distills is not unlike that of a cellar, compared with the ideal spirit of my countrymen in this war. He asked whether I could send him the American version of Von Jagow's statement that Italy wasn't worth spending money on. "Yes," said I, adding, "there are three ways of interpreting it." " N o , " he laughed, "only two; what's the third?" " T h a t there are too many friends of Germany here." He held up Iiis finger. "That's a jail offense," said he, and with that I left him.

OCTOBER 13

I have had a busy day, arranging for Colonel Buckey's visit to Spezia and the Trentino, getting out my daily intelligence bulletin, and helping frame the weekly cable to the War College. R o m e is still talking of an Italian operation at the front, but there are rumors of an Austro-German offensive on the 19th. I am sending two Spalding bats, a baseball glove, and a catcher's mitt I had the good luck to find in Rome to the American aviators training at Foggia; also all the American magazines I could pick up—very few indeed.

October 14 Marchese De Rosales, who has just returned from the front, tells me that he hears the Italian offensive will be postponed on account of the shortage of wheat; for the government must use the ships at its command to import grain instead of supplies for making munitions to replace those it would lose in the offensive. T h e number of victims in the T u r i n riots were thirty-seven

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dead and over four hundred wounded, Rosales says. Some officers were killed in cold blood, and one unarmed captain was beaten to death. Over a thousand Fiat workmen involved in the uprising have been sent to first-line trenches in Albania. An investigation has revealed that the organizers of the riots had planned to repeat them in Genoa, Naples, and Milan, with the help of Swiss money —German, of course. Rosales believes that the present scarcity of food is due partly to poor management and partly to the unexpected consequences of the food-control measures. Fifteen chili of sugar a montli formerly sufficed his own little village because only his family, the curate, and one or two other persons were in the habit of using it. Since the introduction of sugar cards one hundred and forty chili are required to meet the demands of the peasants, who do not use their quota, but sell it. Also, there is no doubt that the peasants hoard a great deal of produce illegally.

OCTOBER 16 On my press pass I attended the opening of the Chamber. T h e legislative hall was well filled, and the ministerial bench, complete, crowded indeed with the extra members who do not hold portfolios. T h e prime minister, Boselli, showed strain, I thought, but the other ministers seemed as vigorous as ever, notably, Sonnino. A quiet session of formal commemoration and routine business was expected, but it gathered force very quickly when Modigliani took the floor and protested against the silence of the government on the ministerial crisis that had occurred during the vacation. What about Orlando's removal of his Chief of Cabinet and Chief of Police in spite of his announcement at a secret session of Parliament that he would not throw overboard any of his personal aids? "And why," asked Modigliani, "has Canepa, Commissario dei Coiisumi, resigned and General Alfieri been appointed to fill his place? Has the government nothing to say about this important change?" With this question he lost his restraint and shouted, "Canepa is out, but Cadorna remains." He was hissed, but he continued to attack Cadorna for placing Genoa and Alessandria under martial law in order to control not revolution but legitimate strikes. T h e

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longer he spoke the more his speech lost of force and substance, and, in his rising excitement, he showed himself to be the demagogue he is. Boselli virtually refused to take up his challenge, but caught rather quickly, I thought, at a resolution of the Socialists, proposing an immediate discussion of the recent internal crisis of the Cabinet, a question he had asked the Chamber to postpone until tomorrow when the ministerial request for temporary control of the budget will bring under scrutiny the actions and policies of the government. He would accept a vote on this resolution, Boselli announced, as a test of confidence in the government. T h e new " 4 5 G r o u p " of Giolittians, formed to defend the rights of Parliament, were in a pickle, visibly so, because, though their role is to oppose the Ministry 011 such a motion as this, they knew their parliamentary power would be lost, if they should side with the Socialists 011 a question so absurd. T h e government was sustained by two hundred and twenty-eight votes against fifty-one. [Between October 16 and November 1, a period that included the Caporetto disaster, Mr. Speranza was too ill to make even the briefest entries in his Diary; all of his scant strength was given to his daily reports for the Ambassador and the Military Attache. Unfortunately copies of these reports from the time he began them in September to November 1, 1917, which might have been substituted for Diary entries, are not available.] NOVEMBER 1

Orlando heads the new Cabinet; Sonnino retains the office of Foreign Affairs; Nitti has been appointed Minister of the Treasury, and General Vittorio Alfieri, Minister of War. English and French troops are being dispatched to Italy. For some days the Embassy did not receive the usual daily confidential reports of the Comando Supremo. Yesterday they were resumed under the dates of October 26, 27, 28. Included in them is the Austrian bulletin of October 26, which, in substance, runs as follows: the Allied Austro-German offensive "shook" the Italian lines on a front of 50 kilometers, carrying the middle Isonzo line beyond Caporetto-Auzza, and the line on the Bainsizza from San

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Spirito to the region of San Gabriele; the Italians are evacuating the conquered territory; the situation on the Carso "remains" unvaried, though, here and there, active fighting is in progress; great confusion exists among the retreating Italians, many of whose units, completely cut off, have been obliged to surrender; a vast amount of artillery and war material has been seized, one Austrian division alone having taken seventy guns southwest of Tolmino; up to date thirty thousand Italian prisoners and three hundred guns have been captured. NOVEMBER 4

Every large city in Italy is raising funds and organizing relief for the refugees from Friuli, and patriotic manifestations are taking place throughout Italy. Rumors are current that Giolitti intends to make his appearance at the reopening of the Chamber, after a long absence from it. No one thinks that Giolitti will take an unpatriotic stand, but his reentry into political life may preface a return to Giolittian methods —this is the danger, a danger far more subtle than a coup d'etat, which would be impossible today. Orlando explains an exchange of telegrams between Giolitti and himself by saying that, on assuming the post of prime minister, he sent a telegram of good will to every ex-premier of Italy. NOVEMBER 5

Attempts made by the enemy to cross the Tagliamento have been checked. Italian airplanes have flown over the left bank of the Tagliamento and destroyed a number of depots filled with munitions not removed during the retreat. A quasi-official report of the Stefani. News Agency states that the live force of the Austro-German army is composed of German troops and that the meticulous plans for the offensive were prepared by the German staff. At a three hours' Cabinet meeting yesterday Orlando made a report of his visit to the front which "promises well for the ulterior development of the defensive along the so-called line of the Tagliamento."

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NOVEMBER 6

Florence and Norah Brooke have gone to the Central Station to meet the refugees from Friuli. T h e Austrian bulletin of October 3 1 , included in the confidential reports of the Comando Supremo, states that the Italians defended the Bainsizza plateau foot by foot and that their violent resistance at many other points had to be broken. Both the Austrian and German bulletins report the capture of 60,000 prisoners, 500 guns, and 26 airplanes. T h e Italian Government has contributed twenty-five million lire and the King, half a million, for the relief of the refugees. That the routine life of the country is following its usual course in spite of the crisis is shown by a report of the Department of Agriculture on the recent vintage, which notes the excellent quality of the wine and active trade in it. NOVEMBER 7

With the simple courtesy and natural friendliness that have so graciously marked his interest in me, Mr. Page called the other day and stayed for an hour. I was deeply touched by the friendly air of his visit and his words of praise for the work I have been trying to do out of my waning strength. I am giving him, he says, what he has sought since he came here as Ambassador. " H e gathers together," he told Miss Baskerville who was present, "everything imaginable out of the papers, blends the result with other information, and gives me a daily political and military report, which is a clear and reliable synthesis of facts and opinion." Copies of my reports go, I understand, to the Intelligence Service headquarters of the American Expeditionary Force and to the War College in Washington. A survey of the press shows that the old journalistic lines are holding. T h e liberal, independent, Reform Socialist, Freemason, nationalistic, and so-called interventionist newspapers are clearly preparing to combat any manoeuvres for a separate peace. T h e neutral Giolittian papers, the Stampa of T u r i n and the Mattino of Naples, are silent on political topics. T h e Giolittian Popolo Romano is steering a middle course. T h e Socialist Avanti! is keeping

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Avanti! with articles against Samuel Gompers, "a Jew who has succeeded in securing the dictatorship of an organization prevailingly Irish and bigoted." AUGUST 2 1

The Fremdenblatt remarks ironically of the British official recognition of the Czecho-Slovak nation that England, in despair at not finding another state to set against the Central Powers, has created one and made it an ally. AUGUST 2 2

The campaign against Sonnino conducted by the Corriere della Sera hinges on the Cabinet's alleged dual attitude toward Italy's foreign policy regarding the subject races of Austria-Hungary. Orlando is said to favor the so-called "Pact of Rome" engineered by Dr. Trumbic and Deputy Andrea Torre at the semiofficial Congress of Oppressed Peoples in Rome last Spring, and Sonnino, to insist on "standing pat" on the Pact of London. Certain it is that Sonnino will and should insist on the recognition of the Pact of London until such changes in it as may be deemed expedient have not only been agreed upon but formulated. AUGUST 2 9

A cable today from Edith tells us that "Lathrop has sailed." Thus, as Nellie Ryerson puts it, "Just as Bowles Colgate sailed to America from Europe, while on vacation there as a boy, to volunteer in the Civil War, so Lathrop sails to Europe from America as a volunteer in this war." A good tree again and always. May he keep well! AUGUST 3 0

The British have actually crossed the Somme and are threatening Hindenburg's line. Other and more conclusive events are on the horizon, I am sure. I should not be surprised to see the war end this year. The reports that the Italians will start an offensive before long are very likely true. They have fought hard in previous years during the late summer and early autumn days. C , who is here from Rome, says the Italians are discon-

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tented at the small number of American soldiers in Italy. It may be true, but I find that C , dear and pleasant as he is, is at best a " R o m e " reporter, with little knowledge of Italy or Italian opinion outside the Capitol. A questionnaire from Washington on the liberal, imperialist, and social-revolutionary forces in Italy has set me to pondering on the lack of political development in Italy. The want of schooling, the economic struggles of the proletariat, the rapid growth of population, the political, religious, financial, and economic problems of the relatively young Italian nation, the force of tradition, and the centuries of political serfdom and foreign misgovernment have contributed to keep power in the hands of relatively few persons, but the instinctive common sense of the Italian people constitutes a static force that acts as a check on sudden and violent changes. It colors with reasonableness the actions of nation and government, prevents empty theories from being palmed off as facts, and serves as a balance wheel. Because of this basic common sense it is safe to say that the majority of Italians are liberal. T h e essential temper of the Italians, mental, spiritual, and political, rests on the principle of "live anutlook and now a calm, sunny stretch inviting one to loaf and b e lazy, the loveliness of the view increases, hills and villages spreading to right and left, and tilled fields, with vines trimly stet, receding into the flat campagna. Many of the trees on the wooded slopes of Monte Cavo have been felled, but not those bordering the road. All have a wintry aspect. A t the foot of the V i a Triumphalis is a wayside shrine, with its poor box forced open, though I doubt if a penny has been dropped therein during d i e last quarter of a century. Here Florence and I sit awhile on a mossy rock baking under the sun, 011 which lizards, like ourselves, are lingering; but, in the deep woodland shade across the road, icicles are hanging from the rocks. Such in Italy is the contrast between two sides of the same highway! O u t of the brush j u m p two vigorous looking Rumanian soldiers, one with a long rope of ivy twisted around his body. Full of life they j u m p like stags from rock to rock, in search of ivy and laurel to make ropes and wreaths for the all-day festival their regiment is going to hold tomorrow at Hannibal's C a m p — a n explanation that accounts for the Rumanian soldiers we saw drilling there, as we passed. T h e y come from Transylvania, or, as one said, from Austria—Rumanian irredenti, I presume. T h e other, darker than the average fair-haired Rumanian here, tells us in fairly good Italian a strange tale. His grandfather, an Italian soldier, who deserted while fighting against Austria many years a g o — i n 1866 probably—was sent by the Austrians to Transylvania, where he married and settled. And now his grandson, an Austrian soldier, who either deserted or was made a prisoner while fighting against Italy in this war, is back 011 the lull of triumph of his forefathers! T h e Via Triumphalis was not ringing today with a sense and stir of victory as on my other visit to it. It made a sweeter, gentler impression. Everything about it was lovely, but simple with the graceful and gracious touches of spring. It was not "Roman," but human—a road of loveliness rather than of greatness. Nemi's Castle looked like a toy, Lake Albano a pretty pond, and the Castelli, a string of houses 011 low hills. What dwarfed them was

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the great view in the background, for the day was so clear that the sea, with its curve of white along the shore, was clearly visible as far away as Terracina. How I loved that unexpected sight of the sea! It seemed more mine than the Castelli and Lake Albano. From below came the sound of quick steps, heavy on the Roman paving stones, and a fair-haired boy of ours, a Captain in the First Army in France, passed us. W e greeted him. Farther up we met another American, two or three generations earlier than that of the young Captain, straight, proper, lonely, a chip of New England, mellowed but not changed by long association with the Campagna: Professor Peck in immaculate linen and black tie, lunch bag in hand, returning from inspecting Monte Cavo in preparation for his lecture there next Tuesday. T h e r e was something pathetic in his greater knowledge of its history than the thousands who claim it as nationally theirs, as well as in his loneliness and in his affection for what is not and never can be his. On reaching the summit we found the young American officer just about to leave. Standing under those mystically splendid oaks that face, like two vases, the former altar of Jupiter, he had been looking out on the world, alone. T h e sense of something strange and lovely was upon him, and he spoke. It was evident that all his Yale learning, whatever the measure of it, had not meant to him as much as today's brief experience. T h e ruins of Rome hadn't seemed anything like as fine as the view from here, he said. W e told him that he and his comrades had won the right to walk up the Via Triumphalis, and when he grasped the meaning of our words, he smiled, a fine, young American smile. T a l l , strong, lithe like a young blond god, unconscious that altars of glory and greatness, such as this, belong to him and his generation rather than to scholars or even to the people on the Seven Hills of Rome, he was like a ray of sunshine under the cold umbrageousness of the ancient oaks; and so I shall always think of him and of his smile to Florence. She and I sat awhile under the shelter of the wall of massive rocks enclosing the grounds of the deserted monastery. T h e n she helped me to climb over it—for I have still very little strength

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to see its garden, an abandoned plot of laurel and box hedges, which could be made very beautiful. Down we went, meeting two women ascending, a lady and a sharp-looking hatless companion, the keeper of the little hotel on the summit, going up, with the first guest of the season, to open it, as we learned from two women following, one carrying on her head a basket and the other, a small trunk, slight impedimenta that did not hinder them from stopping to have a little conversazione with us. Then, on they went, up the Via Triumphalis, whereon great men have trod, with laurel crowns on their heads, but with no such burdens as these women carried in the year of our Lord 1919. Striking into the brush, we zigzagged down hill until we came to the old road—then a bite, a hot drink, and home again. MARCH

31

The Italian press is taking a more favorable view of the United States and President Wilson's principles. It would be interesting to know why the anti-British propaganda is being led and fed by the Corriere della Sera. Yesterday was marked by considerable social unrest in Milan, Genoa, and Rome. In Milan, two hundred workmen, including ex-war prisoners and mutilated soldiers, marched to the prefect and appealed for relief. In Genoa, there was a socialist demonstration, with cheers for Lenin and Trotsky and speeches in favor of Bolshevism. In Rome, meetings of school teachers were held to protest against the government's inaction in relieving distress. On the other hand, Italian interest in Bolshevism is beginning to assume the form of serene analysis. This is significant and promising in a country whose people are easily moved by sound arguments. Distinct changes in the tenets of Russian Bolshevism are noticeable, due to the failure of some of its Utopian social theories —changes that are confirmed by travelers returning from Russia, who report a political and nationalistic trend in the Soviet Government. The Italian Government announces that, during the month of April, bread will be of coarser quality, owing to the shortage of

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grain. This is a small matter perhaps, but it may increase discontent in a country where bread is really the staff of life.

APRIL ι T h e Corriere della Sera appeals to serious British public opinion to take a stand against the aggressive anti-Italian attitude of the Northcliffe press and prevent a break in the traditional AngloItalian friendship. It refuses to believe reports that the British oppose the cession of Fiunie to Italy because of selfish business interests, but is surprised by England's attempt to hinder Italians from joining their mother country. Not even the British Empire, it points out, can afford to endanger a friendship helping to safeguard those British holdings in the Mediterranean that constitute the connecting link between Great Britain and her colonial empire: for England is not at home in the Mediterranean as are Italy and France. She is a guest in Egypt, Cyprus, Malta, and Gibraltar, whose people neither speak nor think in English. Italy does not believe in reprisals, but the people of London and Manchester who favor auto-decision for the Jugo-Slavs but not for the Italians would do well to remember that very unpleasant consequences might result for the British Empire, were the formula, "the Mediterranean for Mediterraneans," adopted by countries bordering that sea. Pourparlers concerning a conciliation between the Italian Government and the Vatican are said to be in progress. Turati, leader of the parliamentary group of the Official Socialist Party, has consistently used his great prestige to prevent his party from resorting to violence, but his denunciation in the Avanti! of the supine attitude of the governing classes and their failure to take account of the needs of today reveals a shift in his position. T h e time has arrived, he says, with the Allies allowing vindictiveness and lust for power to prevail at the Peace Conference, for the masses to decide whether they will passively submit to decisions that will undoubtedly lead to war in the future or whether they will resort to force, if necessary, to combat them. Turati reaffirms his opposition to the policies of Sovietism but stresses the necessity of taking measures to prevent "Allied Prus-

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sianism from sowing the seeds of new international conflicts." As the Socialists did not hesitate to choose Wilson rather than Lenin, so they will not hesitate to choose Lenin rather than Clemenceau, and the people will have to take the consequences, however untoward these may be. Although the "Unione Italiana del Lavoro," the labor organization controlled by the pro-war Socialists, comes out strongly against the failure of the governing classes to meet the needs of today, it refuses to sanction the general strike threatened by the Regular Socialist Party, which it regards as a preliminary move in a campaign to establish an oligarchical dictatorship of politicians in Italy, under the guise of a proletarian one. APRIL 2

There is a general consensus of opinion that President Wilson's prestige has suffered greatly from partisan opposition in the United States. T h e American people, as one correspondent in Paris sees it, are resigned to following Wilson into the League of Nations on condition that they are free to act as they choose in North and South America and are not bound to take a stand with the European powers in Europe—a negation of the spirit of the Society of Nations. T h i s rise of parochial interests, noticeable in England as well as in the United States, marks a decline, Italians think, in Anglo-Saxon statesmanship, for neither the United States nor Great Britain can be at peace unless continental Europe is. T h e essential strength of President Wilson's conception of the League depends upon its being carried out in its entirety. T h e r e is no doubt that the Covenant, daily revised by Anglo-Saxons desirous of avoiding responsibility for the future, has been greatly weakened as a peace-enforcing weapon and deprived of much of its human and ideal content. T h e waning influence of the League and of the President has, of course, encouraged his European opponents to push their own plans. APRIL 3

O n March 29 two companies of Italian marines landed at Adalia in Asia Minor.

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A t an important meeting yesterday in Genoa, Italian manufacturers and producers requested the government to remove all restriction on trade, assure raw materials to industry, secure revenue by fiscal measures instead of by the proposed state monopolies, increase transport facilities on land and sea, and improve the currency system. T h e y expressed the belief that Italian industrial laborers are not Bolshevik in tendency and that differences between employers and workmen can be adjusted without difficulty. APRIL

4

T h e report from Paris of the opportunity given the Jugo-SIav representatives to present their claims to the Big Four, or rather without one of them, for Orlando absented himself from the hearing, increases anxiety over the outcome of the Italo-Jugo-Slav territorial controversy. It is reliably reported that the Official Socialists will issue a manifesto reciting the failure of the Wilsonian principles and urging the proletariat of all countries to call a general strike in token of their intention to insist on a just peace. APRIL

5

T h e Italians are not only somewhat uneasy over the audience granted to the Jugo-Slavs by the Big Four but they are disappointed at today's reports that the Paris Conference has postponed the consideration of Italian territorial claims, which they thought would be settled this week. Yet they seem hopeful of obtaining a substantial portion of what they want, even Spalato. T h e vice president of the Italo-French Association in Paris says that the recent rise of foreign exchange in France and Italy is of political origin, being a reprisal of the Anglo-Saxons for the refusal of their Latin allies to purchase merchandise of them. T h e executive committee of the Official Socialist Party is well entrenched, with the adherence of the parliamentary group of the Socialist Party, the Confederation of Labor, and the Socialist Press to its revolutionary plans. It lacks funds, however, and, without money, will not be able to call a general strike. If Deputy Morgari returns from his visit to Russia witli Soviet cash, revolu-

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tionary socialism may assume a threatening attitude. Bolshevism, however, has very little chance of success in Italy. Class spirit is incompatible with the Italian temperament, and the geographical features of the country are not favorable to widespread disorder. Because of the physical, climatic, and economic differences between north and south and the division of the peninsula by the Apennines, what happens in one part of the Kingdom is of little concern to the other parts. T h e danger of the present situation lies in the dearth of strong leaders, the lack of organization in the bourgeoisie, and the weakness and ineptitude of the government rather than in the radical tendencies of the masses. If the Italian claims at the Peace Conference are granted, the power of the extreme socialists will be weakened; if they are not, it will be strengthened. Meanwhile, a fairly well-organized Catholic labor group is coming out strong against Bolshevism. This afternoon Florence and I left Rome by car for Viterbo, Toscanella, and Corneto. On the way we met a faun—a boy goatherd wearing goatskin breeches and carrying on his back the trunk of a small oak tree. T h e streets of Viterbo were gay and crowded. T h e Grand Hotel was apparently empty, but it had only one room at our disposal until we disclosed ourselves. T h e n we could have had a dozen. T h e barracks on the Piazza della Rocca, opposite our hotel, were lighted tonight—a clear night, with a starred sky and a new moon. Vignola's simple and dignified fountain in the centre of the piazza lulled us to sleep with its play of waters. APRIL 6

All day out, a "Florence Colgate Italian day"—Viterbo, Toscanella, Corneto Tarquinia, Monte Romano, Vetralla. On a perfect but solitary road beyond Porta Fiorentina we drove through long stretches of country over which broods a Maremma-Etruscan desolation. Only in a few cases did trees and cultivation speak of recent labor. At length a turn of our road winding up hill discloses a ravine, green and watered, across which rise the ruined towers of Castelluccio, the ancient Municipio of Toscanella. Entering the gate of

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the town, from which mediaeval walls r u n off right and left, we stop at the Albergo Regina to order luncheon and annex a dozen little boys who offer to escort us to the Basilica of San Pietro. One with pink socks, clean as can be, carries my coat and scarf, and another, taller, preferred by Florence, carries her handbag. Outside the town walls we climb to the Basilica. T o the left of the courtyard in front of it rise twin towers and to the right, the remains of the Archbishop's palace, with low double-arched windows. Here, guarded by a modern Madonna, lives the custode of the Basilica, hams swinging from the ancient eaves above his head a n d a little black and white pig playing beside the episcopal door. Between palace and towers stands the noblest basilica I have ever seen with the exception of that at Aquileia. Its nobly proportioned interior, with columns, low stone seats outlining the sides of the m a i n aisle, and triple-arched apse, has been stripped of all decoration b u t some mosaics and early sculpture, such as the beautif u l marble carving of simple and lacelike design in the apse. Both this church and the one below it, Santa Maria Maggiore, which is reached by a road flanked by Etruscan remains, were once in the centre of the town, b u t are now well outside its walls. Toscanella is a town of twists and turns and little piazzas, with a very tall clock tower and fine old architectural bits here and there. Peculiar to it—at least I do not remember seeing them elsewhere—are stone balconies shaped like the upper part of a r o u n d baronial tower, jutting out from the corners of palaces at the height of the first floor. After an excellent luncheon and some delicious \vine, we had an interesting talk with Mrs. Martin of the Red Cross, who came to see us and told us the story of her stay here, told it simply and well. She was accompanied by Tito, a little boy of Toscanella, whose mother died of influenza while her husband was at the front. O n e day, on her rounds, Mrs. Martin found T i t o mothering the babe of the family. T h r o u g h o u t the epidemic he played a man's part, taking charge of his five brothers and sisters to the best of his ability. Florence asked T i t o what he usually ate. "Bread," he answered in a tone that implied this was the only food worth

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mentioning—the only one he knew probably. His father, a mutilato, is now at home. Throughout the scourge of influenza, which killed as many as twenty-four persons a day in Toscanella, the inhabitants were heroic and splendid. T h e pharmacist, one may say, died at his post, with a long line of persons waiting for him to fill prescriptions. There was only one doctor in the town and no caskets. A soldier, whose two sisters died while he was at home on leave, placed the body of one in a casket he made but could not finish for lack of materials and carried the other in a shroud on his shoulders to the cemetery. He himself died afterwards. A touching story was that of a young man and a girl, devoted lovers always. He went to the war, was wounded, and came home. While ill of the peste in their marriage bed, they agreed that whichever felt the end approaching should make a sign to the other to close his or her eyes. The husband gave the sign and died. His wife, who had closed her eyes as agreed, died a few days later, without having opened them again, even to see her children. One day Mrs. Martin found a man sitting disconsolately outside his house, in which he could no longer stay, for it contained the bodies of three women of his family who had been dead several days. There were so many orphans in the town that the surviving mothers divided their breasts between the motherless babes and their own. As we drove out of Toscanella, we saw a number of Etruscan sarcophagus lids on the walls of a palace in the Piazza Municip a l and one carelessly thrust inside the dirty entrance of a common house on a side street. From Porta Romana we took the road to Corneto—took the wrong road and found ourselves in a maremmalike wilderness. After retracing our course, we sped to Corneto through quite uninteresting country until we entered a ravine, green and lonely, with nothing as a sign of human life but an occasional charcoal maker's fire smoking, like a funeral pyre, on the ridges of the wooded hills above it. The silence was so deep that it seemed as

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if we must be near a necropolis of the Etruscans. These people loved, I am sure, lonely stretches like this, solemn and sombre rather than poetic. I think of them as the Puritans of the Latin world. Beyond the ravine a plain opens out, above which, on a straight ridge, lies the Queen of the Maremma—Corneto Tarquinia, with numberless towers. A long winding road leads up to a new and horrible gate, but within it there is much of beauty and quaintness. Palazzo Vitelleschi, just inside, is being well restored. T h e loveliness of its faςade is due not only to the dignity of its proportions, but to the warmth and charm of its graceful ornament and magnificent double-arched windows. In the courtyard of the palace is a colonnade supporting a loggia that runs around three sides of the first floor and is connected with the fourth side by a rampart. At the front, on the third floor, is a most perfect piazza, in the American sense of the word, open but sheltered, being closed at the ends and covered by a roof of wooden beams, which rests on four graceful columns. The view from it must have been lovely when there were fewer buildings in front of the palace than now, for the sea is close at hand and the waves are visible. On the top floor of the palace is a room used in papal times as a school for French officers, with charts of the metric system and arithmetical problems still hanging on its walls. T h e palace is now used as an Etruscan museum. Some of the recumbent figures on the lids of the sepulchres are unusually fine, one of a woman being almost Greek in execution. T h e clearly cut hieroglyphs on the tombs look as if they were meant to be read backward. How strange it is that no one has ever been able to decipher them! Beyond a castle gate at the end of the town we came upon Santa Maria di Castello in a little walled piazzetta—a quaint far-off kind of a place, with round and square towers and crenelated walls falling away from the church which stands, as it were, on a platform. T o the right of it a road slopes down to a turreted gate through which one sees the country below as in a framed picture. Both the piazzetta and the church, with its rectangular

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fa9ade, plain, early, graceful, and appealing, are pretty well r u n d o w n and abandoned. T h e apse of the church is curtained off and used as an office by the quartermaster of the battalion of Granatieri stationed here. T h e r u n from C o r n e t o to Viterbo, in the growing twilight, led us first past the remains of a large Etruscan necropolis, the little buildings of w h i c h give access to the Etruscan underworld; then across great sweeps of undulating pasture and cultivated fields, with not a house in sight. Beside the road asphodels were blooming, delicately silver and pink in the chastened light of a day flickering out. A p p r o a c h i n g M o n t e R o m a n o — a town b u i l t across the road on a plateau between two h i l l s — w e saw a small wild pasture dotted with flowers of deep purple and other spring colors, like the foregrounds in certain pictures of the Madonna. From M o n t e R o m a n o the road winds in and out to Vetralla, a dark town on a rise of ground, also barring the road, around which we had to drive in order to enter the valley beyond it. T h e short run thence to Viterbo was marked by a real splendor of red sunset, a veritable flood or sea of scarlet light, tingeing heaven and earth. Viterbo, I hear, is famous for these sunsets of bright rich red, w h i c h are caught by the waters of the city's many fountains and reflected in them. APRIL

7

W e gave the m o r n i n g to browsing around Viterbo, with Florence's sure instinct leading. From the Piazza del Plebiscito w e wandered d o w n V i a San Lorenzo to the D u o m o , stopping n o w and then in open doorways to look at strange mediaeval courtyards in some of which were outside staircases of lovely lines. T o the left of the D u o m o is a palazzina, with a loggia under a low arch of very dainty conception and design. Such arches as this are very characteristic of the architecture in Viterbo. T o the right of the D u o m o stands the Palazzo Papale, \vith a terrace a d j o i n i n g it, adorned with some lovely lacelike tracery and a really beautiful fountain. In the large council hall of the Palace we met a wedding party of several persons, including an American soldier — w h o , fortunately, turned out not to be the bridegroom.

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In the Duomo, a little boy, a serious-faced urchin of fourteen years, bounded out of the sacristy and announced himself as the sacristan. With real Ciceronian esprit, he toted us around, turning a weary gaze at anything later than the fourteenth century. In a chapel on the left of the apse, undergoing restoration, he showed us some old frescoes, and, behind a small and beautiful ancient stone altar, a rack—or what is believed to be a rack—for flambeaux, supported by two slender columns. T h e little sacristan, now officially recognized as our guide, accompanied us on a giro of the quarter of San Pellegrino to protect us from the street gamins following forestieri through this section of the city, a section so mediaeval in atmosphere that it seems like a dream. In the afternoon we hunted for an antiquarian whose shop, we were told, was near Ponte Tremoli. We found him but no willingness to sell his wares. On the trip back to Rome our car stopped, owing to a slight break in its mechanism, in front of the Osteria Pesca Cavallo, not far from La Storta. While the car was being repaired, we sat in the kitchen of the Osteria and talked to an old woman and' her very pretty daughter, a widowed contadina, whose fine features were ennobled by a black kerchief covering her real gold ringlets, a very paintable figure and a woman of fine character, I should judge. Her mother told us that one night, years ago in January, a capanna near here, in which she lived and had given birth to her children, burned to the ground, leaving herself and five little children, one a babe fifteen days old, "naked on the road," in the midst of a tramontana—wintry wind. APRIL 8

Italian faith in the recognition of Italian territorial claims at Paris has weakened during the past two days, especially since the return from Paris of ex-Premier Salandra. He came back, it is said, because of ill health, but the general belief is that his return signifies his protest against the events happening in Paris and his desire to separate his own political responsibility from that of his fellow delegates. Most of the newspapers take the stand that President Wilson and Lloyd George have combined to impose

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their will on France and Italy. This move, they agree, is a legitimate diplomatic procedure, but it lacks the idealistic features that the peoples of continental Europe thought assured by Wilson's presence in Paris. T h e Corriere delta Sera attributes the weak position of the Latin delegates at the Peace Conference to their poor play, especially in failing to adhere honestly and wholly to the American program. Had they done so, they would now have the moral force and right to insist on the United States giving a practical example of its own adherence to it. When President Wilson saw that he could not realize his entire plan, he preferred to make substantial modifications in it rather than isolate himself. He therefore allied himself with Great Britain, without which he could not have secured even a moderate success. This Anglo-American collaboration explains, according to the Corriere, the failure of the President to live up to some of his specific promises and also his willingness to overlook the sins of his British ally. Nevertheless, despite failure, mistakes, and selfishness the Corriere believes that the world is marching on toward a new vision and that eventually ideas, which are stronger than men, will prevail. Certain subtle signs indicate the growing anxiety in Italy over the progress of Bolshevism and the agitations of local socialists. This anxiety is increased by the fear that Italy is being abandoned by her allies and becoming economically and financially isolated, a fear that will have a very bad effect, if it takes root, on the present sensitive situation. T h e proprietors of the large metallurgical factories in Turin are closing them because of demands by the technical foremen. Some twenty thousand workmen have been thrown out of work. APRIL g

According to the Italian press, the principal opposition to granting Fiume to Italy comes from the American delegates. President Wilson's alleged plan of making Fiume a free city suits nobody in Italy, the desire for its annexation being far stronger and more widespread than that for the acquisition of Dalmatia. The newspapers say quite openly that, no matter what the Peace

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Conference may decide, Italy will insist on having Fiume. In the expectation of trouble tomorrow, Lenin's birthday, the government has refused permission to the socialists and laborites of extreme tendencies to make a demonstration in Rome, on the ground that the interventionists have asked permission to hold a counterdeinonstration at the same time and place. Organized labor has replied to this refusal by issuing a call for a twenty-four hour strike, beginning at 6 A.M. tomorrow morning, and by deciding to stage a demonstration in spite of the government's prohibition. It is likely, therefore, that tomorrow will see the first test of strength between organized order and what may be called organized disorder. As the government will certainly be able to quell any disturbance, the importance of the demonstration lies not so much in its success as in the strength it may disclose of discontented elements in the population. T h e situation in Italy today, though not serious, is far more uncertain than it has been for a long time. APRIL

ΊΟ

T r a d e , both import and export, is now open between Italy and German Austria, except for certain merchandise still considered contraband. Grossich, president of the Council of Fiume, has telegraphed to Premier Orlando in Paris a copy of the resolution adopted by the Council, protesting against any solution of the future status of Fiume except that of annexation to Italy, in accordance with the desire of its citizens, as announced in the proclamation of October 30, 1918. APRIL

11

Rome, yesterday, in the grip of a twenty-four-hour strike, presented the appearance of a deserted city. Most of the stores were closed, trolleys did not run, and business in general was at a standstill. T h e citizens, who have full confidence in their troops, felt no real anxiety, I am sure, about the consequences of any outbreak. T h e i r supreme anxiety, of course, is over the apparent dead-

3 3 1919 ° lack at the Peace Conference on Italy's Adriatic claims. They dread a decision that the Italian delegates could not accept because they fear that England and the United States might attempt to force Italy into submission by economic and financial measures.

APRIL

12.

PERUGIA

Florence and I made an early start from Rome today in our car weighted with extra gasoline, luggage, and food, and flying, as usual, a little American flag. We have had a truly lovely day, picking flowers along the way and enjoying sweet visions of Etruscan Rome and gracious Urnbria. Skirting that noblest, because sturdiest monument of the Campagna, Mt. Soracte, we made a quick, cool run to Civita Castellana, where we found Palm Sunday marked by lively trading on the piazza. After buying a booklet of "Sonetti Americani," dedicated to Wilson, which we saw in a shop window, Florence and I walked to that friendliest of churches, the Duomo. Its beautiful and welcoming portico has a roof of open rafters. T h e interior of the church is horrible, but its exterior, rich in sculpture, with a cypress, straight and silent, peeping out of some inner court, is a dream of architectural loveliness. A couple of nuns, with hands clasped, walking in front of the church added a touch of the past to the picture. From Civita Castellana we tumbled down into the road leading to Umbria and stopped for a picnic luncheon on a green hillock this side of Borghetto, on the line between Latium and Umbria. Sweet Umbria spread before us in gracious peace— Ponte Felice spanning the Tiber and Via Flaminia running, white and graceful, up, down, and away. On a green knoll in front of us some sheep were grazing beside a tall tower, the remains of the mediaeval castle that commanded the pass at Borghetto. T h e hill on which we sat ran steeply down to a field where cattle and horses were pasturing, and between the bushes on its slope and all around us were wild flowers—deep purple blossoms, yellow ginestra blooming richly in the sunshine, rosemary sweetly and sturdily gray—and green of all tender shades.

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Beyond Ponte Felice we rose and rose to Otricoli, and thence drove, through a high ravine, with castles, chapels, shrines, quaint farmhouses, and lovely trained pigs on right and left, to Narni. This town, the birthplace of Gattamelata, was a revelation, with its double-towered castle and beautiful basilica dedicated to St. Juvenalis, restored in part to its early loveliness. Among the fine things in this church are a marble wall paneled in simple, heavily framed squares and an iron grille of exquisite design, surmounted by Lombard animals. Then Todi, right up to the door of it, after a lovely glimpse of its spires and towers from the road below, and on to Perugia. Stopping for tea near a charcoal kiln in the wildwood, we came across two black pigs, tended by a woman pigherd, enjoying a little mud hole made especially for them. Here we found those graceful lovely yellow primroses that are so truly Gentle Spring. As we passed Deruta, the kilns of the pottery gave out a big puff of smoke in a cheering wave to Florence. With the church bells sounding the Ave Maria, we drove on through the lengthening shadows of the quickly passing twilight to Perugia, beautiful and animated, with small crowds circulating in its streets. We stopped at the Brufani.

aprii. 14 Perugia is signorile as a city, but its aspect is somewhat brooding when the weather is as cold and blustery as it was yesterday. Florence and I had only a short time to spend there before starting for Cittä di Castello, to visit the Laboratorio di Tela Umbra a Mano. Thence we drove straight to Borgo San Sepolcro, saw the lovely laces made by the Marcelli sisters, and passed a very comfortable night in the Fiorentino Inn, toasting ourselves the next morning before a big open fire as we drank our coffee and talked to Rosso, the cook. At Arezzo, which is cold and blustering, but intensely simpatico, Romanin nearly has a fit because an employee of the Dazio stops our Corpo Diplomatico car to enquire if we have anything dutiable. At the restaurant of the Accademia, we hear

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Wilson discussed and defended. In the afternoon we drive along the lovely Pontassieve road, covered now and then by clouds which the sun disperses and lifts as we reach Florence, where we look out from our windows on the moonlit hills and the silvered sluice of the Arno. APRIL 1 7 . FLORENCE

T w o busy days in Florence, with splendid finds in old embroideries at Navone's. Branchi, a dear skeptical Tuscan and loyal friend, comes to see us. He cheers up during our conversazione and says good-bye, trusting Florence to send him news of my health. Cousie and Nellie are both well in their perfect home. Today, Holy Thursday, we stop in a church on Piazza San Firenze to see one of the seven Sepolcri that all good Catholics visit on this day. It is ablaze and rich with fresh potted flowers standing on a mat of white vecce. I wish I could believe and practice simply a religion of such lovely expression. Outside the church are pushcarts and pedlars selling Holy Thursday cakes, nuts, and sticks entwined with strips of colored tissue paper, intended apparently for children. Are they, I wonder, substitutes for candles in these hard times? In an anteroom of the church are some exquisitely carved escutcheons of passed worthies and bits of ancient sculpture, with a stepladder and an electric gauge hanging in their midst, as signs of modern improvement! At Bruscoli's and Gozzini's we buy some old books, and I begin collecting Alberi's series of Reports of the Venetian Ambassadors. We wander across the Ponte Vecchio, the sweetest of sweet places—I should like to have just one of the tiny houses on it—and up to Porta Romana, meandering and meandering until we are worn out. Out of our windows, Florence and I look at the beautiful city, at its roofs and churches and hills, and at the renaioli digging sand out of the bed of the Arno, with a great tower looking down on them. T h e Bersaglieri pass below our windows, their beating drums followed by the sound of bugles. T h e bells of Santa Croce

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ring the Ave Maria. How lovely they look in the twilight, tolling back and forth through the openings of the belfry; and oh, how sweet they sound! APRIL

18

We leave Florence at twelve by Porta Romana on the wellknown road to Siena and lunch in Tavernelle, at the Albergo Stella d' Italia where we stopped once before. T h e same girl, a little older, waits on us, offers us mantovana, a good Easter cake, and shows us photographs of the men of her family in uniform. Siena in the late afternoon, with a sprinkle of rain, is cold, but it is the hour of passeggiate; so Florence and I join the Sienese walking up and down the long street that traverses the town. How lovely it is—all of it—the narrow streets and the spacious piazza out of which rises the thin spire of the municipal tower. We reach the Duomo just as the office of the tenebrae is being concluded. T h e beautiful edifice is sparsely filled on this greatest of prayer days. It is sad to see faith and prayer, in the old forms at least, passing away. I regret their loss for myself—regret it even more as I enter the little church of Santa Maria della Scala, opposite the Duomo, and unexpectedly find them again; for here the faithful are kneeling beside the figure of Christ in fervent prayer. Babes in arms look wonderingly at the Crucified Christ, and children kiss his "hurt side" with effusion. All the glory and art of the services in the Duomo have apparently no meaning for these people, but the Christ and little Madonna of Seven Dolours in this Chapel they kiss with devotion and real trust. On the floor stand offerings of lighted tapers and lucerne—new to me as devotional gifts—with the visiting cards of their donors attached. Outside, on the piazza, a capuchin is looking approvingly at some altar boys playing with a big ribeca, the ecclesiastical instrument that makes the noise of confusion at the time of Christ's death. What an odd jumble of sentiments—immensely interesting, however, and more helpful perhaps to the masses than a fine and high-minded philosophy. A carved inscription, "Elemosine di Grano," on the marble wall of the adjacent hospital marks the slit in which the char-

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itably inclined of former days deposited gifts of grain, and, farther along, over the door of the foundling asylum, lies the sculptured figure of a baby in fasce on a tasseled pillow, an abandoned innocentino, his head turned disconsolately—a picture of desolation and life. No doubt the Church formerly did what we are trying to do in a hundred modern ways, but who shall say more helpfully? APRIL 20. EASTER SUNDAY A T ORVIETO

From Siena to Orvieto the ride, through arid country reminiscent of the desert backgrounds in primitive pictures of the temptations of saints, is monotonous except for occasional lovely hill towns and castles. W e wind in and out, up and down to Rapallo. In a quarry beyond it we find a little fireplace, light a fire, and lunch on an adjacent wooded slope abloom with white heather, vivid red cyclamen, and pale blue flowers. Afterwards we go on to Sinalunga and u p a long stretch to Chiusi, notable for its square tower and fine Etruscan tomb. Characteristic of this region are the oxcarts, reddish-pink in color, with panels of painted birds or flowers and slender curved shafts on the outer sides of the oxen that may be detached and adjusted to the back of the cart to support an overflowing load of hay or grain. T h e driver of the cart stands between the oxen on a long shaft of wood which serves as a pole. From Chiusi we climb to Ficulle, pausing at Cittä della Pieve, the birthplace of Perugino, to walk about its empty streets. A t a rustic forno farther along we talk to the tragic-faced old contadina in charge of it. Her son, reported cut in three pieces by the Germans, was restored to her, she says, through a miracle performed by "la beatissima Madonnina" to whom she took his photograph and poured out her grief. One day, not long after her visit to the Madonnina, while she and her husband were picking olives on a podere, a woman, running toward them from an adjacent hill town, shouted that their son was a prisoner and would be home by Pasqua—official news. T h e old contadina was so overcome that she fell flat on her face and could not get u p for fifteen minutes, though she knew, she said, that the olives

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should be harvested quickly. She believed, she said, in the "beatissima Madonnina," in "il Nostro Signore," and, of course, in the saints, but she thought all the priests were "camorristi." On and up, after this conversazione, to Orvieto, where we had such a villainous welcome at the Palace Hotel that we repacked and moved to the Albergo del Duomo, "well spoken of" by Baedeker, a simple, pleasant inn, with trimmed cherry trees in blossom flanking the walls of its tiny garden. High Mass next morning in Orvieto Cathedral was a sad spectacle, with a listless and indifferent audience not filling one-tenth of the church. After luncheon we started for Rome, but a sign, "Per Bolsena" made us think of our boys quartered there during the war, especially of the three who had died. So we turned off our route, and, after a woodland drive, came in sight first of Lake Bolsena, placid and shimmering, and then of the Rocca, a slim tower. It took some persistent questioning and urging on our part to produce the custodian of the cemetery, but at length he appeared. We followed him over a rough country road to a walled cemetery, surrounded by vineyards and green fields, with a high iron grille for a gate, from which there is a view of the lake below and the hills and sky beyond it. The cemetery is divided into sections by "limaggio" hedges and adorned with flowers. In the centre is a chapel of severe lines. The terrace adjoining it is backed by a marble wall containing rows of vaults, over which are planted shrubs, flowers, and a graceful line of white Florentine lilies. Three of our boys lie here, the custodian told us, but there is nothing to mark their burial places except the words, "Cardori e Compagno, Aviatori," scratched on the mortar closing one of the vaults, probably by the mason who sealed it; nothing to indicate that these men died in the service of their country—no tablet or other mark. It is well that Florence brought them her thoughts to sweeten this bitterness. We passed a proud sweet hour here, listening to the praises of the boys sung by the village women who followed us to the cemetery—how they cared for the poverelle and played with the children, giving them pennies and chocolate, and never made any trouble, even when they

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came to town for a drink. After the armistice, they went away by night, because "it would have been too sad for the people to see them go." It was sweet to pass Easter Day in this place where our men had been, looking at their trim new barracks, following in their footstep«, and trying to imagine their thoughts, though the antennae of their wireless apparatus flapping loose on the tower of the Rocca emphasized their absence and made the scene a little sad. APRIL

24

I shall remember this morning at the Embassy as a very tense and dramatic one. Going with D' Atri to see the Ambassador, we found the reception room unusually crowded. Sitting around it were Red Cross men, civilians dressed up for the occasion, strange-looking Italians, half Albanian in aspect, and, near the entrance, General Ricciotti Garibaldi, with his crutches. After Garibaldi had passed into the Ambassador's room, in comes Borsarelli, Under Secretary of State, demanding an immediate audience. "I am on my way to His Majesty," he says, his face looking drawn and as ivory white as old parchment. D' Atri goes up to him, shakes hands, and asks, "Do you bring good news?" "Would to God I did!" replies Borsarelli. Garibaldi is ushered out, and Borsarelli goes into the sanctum, followed by young Biancheri, his secretary. After some loud conversation, the door reopens and Borsarelli takes his leave. It is now our turn—D' Atri's and mine—with the Ambassador, who is pale and apparently deeply moved. While he talks, rather brokenly in Italian, with D' Atri, he hands me a long telegram: President Wilson's "message" published by the press in Paris, which will probably appear in the Italian papers tonight. I have a sensation of sadness, for, thougli the argument of the President is cogent, its premises are not convincing. Then, too, the President's idealism does not ring as true as it did in the days before the incorporation in the Covenant of the Monroe Doctrine and the exclusion from it of the principle of racial equality. T h e President mentions Istria and the natural boundary on the north of Italy; his silence on other places is conclusive.

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" H a d Italy been my mother," said Mr. Page, with much emotion, to D' Atri, " I could not have worked harder to establish cordial Italo-American relations. I hope this decision will not sweep them utterly away." T h e Ambassador seemingly attributes the present situation to France's policy of preventing Italy from having friends. As we took our leave, he whispered to me, "Agitations are being organized. T e l l your friends to keep indoors for a few days"—kindly advice, but there is nothing to fear, of course. As we walked away from the Embassy, D' Atri and I discussed the political situation that will probably be the sequel of the President's move. Italians will rally around the government at first, but afterwards will they not ask why they were whipped up to demand over-much? And who, if the Cabinet falls, will form a new one to sign a peace that the country now refuses? In the evening we heard a rumor that the streets in the vicinity of the American Embassy and the Palazzo del Drago were barred by a double cordon of troops. It was true, some friends reported, that the entire section around the Embassy and the Palazzo was guarded and that the trams passing the latter were not running; but no one appeared to have any intention of approaching either of them. APRIL

27

Feeling has grown tenser, but it is distinctly personal. I can detect no anti-American feeling, but the sentiment against Wilson is very, very bitter—justly so. T h e Italians are not excited; they are deeply hurt. Orlando arrived yesterday. Wishing to see his reception by the people, Florence and I left our hotel a little before his train was due and walked toward the station. Via Santa Susanna was barred by a quadruple line of soldiers, through which Americans were allowed to pass on the supposition, I presume, that they were going to the Embassy in Piazza San Bernardo. T h i s piazza was a sad sight, empty and silent: no trams, no traffic, police and plainclothes men thickly sprinkled over it, and Grenadiers and Bersaglieri stationed at both of its outlets into Via Venti Settembre. What a difference beUveen its aspect now and at the time of

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America's entrance into the war when all Rome, cheering wildly for Wilson, was assembled on it! Inside the Embassy business was going on—a ghost of business. Mr. Page, looking worn and old, tried hard to stand up for the President, but it was clear he was not quite sincere and was casting about for something to which to anchor his views. Going on to Piazza dell' Esedra, we stepped into one of the wooden balconies erected at the time of Wilson's visit to Rome. "This is where we gave him the gold she-wolf," we heard an officer say. "We should have thrown it at his head." The piazza was only half filled with people, but the crowd in front of the station and in Via Nazionale was huge and impressive. Quiet, borghese, and well-dressed, the people seemed calm and resolute. After a long wait, a car coming from the station, with Prince Colonna, Mayor of Rome, on the running board, forced its way through the crowds. Outside sat Barzilai, stolid, bowing occasionally; inside stood Orlando, pale and worried looking, bowing constantly. T h e car held also General Diaz and one or two members of the Cabinet. It moved at a snail's pace through a cloud of officers, amid great cheers—a most impressive demonstration, not in the. least inspired or worked up. Other Italian cities are displaying a similar temper to that of Rome. Possibly no statesman ever failed to understand the psychology of a foreign nation as Wilson has. T h e amour-propre of the Italians is hurt. Even the Official Socialists feel the strength of the national union; they have taken a moderate stand—against Wilson, if not for Italy. We lunched today with Mr. and Mrs. Page and said good-bye. T h e number of Italian soldiers guarding the Palazzo del Drago has been reduced. Yesterday they were playing leap frog in the courtyard! Today they were sprawling around it or asleep. Luncheon was a meal of bitterness, though we all tried to be pleasant. "If the President had taken my husband's advice," broke out Mrs. Page, "this wouldn't have happened." Τ thought the President would be impeached, nothing less! General Treat is rescinding the order refusing permission to U.S. soldiers to visit Italy. All the military men have been exciting unnecessary alarm.

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The show of military protection during the past few days seems to be histrionic and unnecessary. Mr. Page told Florence that I had been the man on his staff nearest to him spiritually and the way I had worked, while ill, an inspiration to him. APRIL 28.

GENOA

Early morning found us in Columbustown. At the station in Rome last night we said good-bye to a number of friends, all good friends. We had a comfortable trip, and by seven this morning were running along the Mediterranean coast and catching glimpses of Ligurian towns, very different from Tuscan. At the Eden, where we stayed, Lathrop suddenly appeared, the real chip of the Colgate block in the great emergency of the war, as quiet and uncomplaining as Uncle Charley, and almost as gentle and sweet. We owe seeing him to Colonel Symmonds. May he be blessed and Major C damned! Lathrop was in splendid physical condition. Florence persuaded him not to wait and see us off on the Giuseppe Verdi because she thought the leave taking would be hard for us all. He was bound for Florence where he is going to spend the rest of his leave with the Ryersons. The good ship Giuseppe Verdi—the Joe Green as our boys call it—set sail this afternoon. We have pleasant quarters and are well taken care of, the Ambassador having telegraphed Consul Wilbur to see to our comfort. APRIL

30

At sunrise today we were lying alongside the three-kilometer breakwater that runs across the harbor of Marseilles. On top of the high stout wall protecting its outer edge runs a narrow passage for pedestrians, with low crenelated walls, like those of a mediaeval castle. Florence and I shall always remember the historic picture of our boys advancing over it, as they marched out of France and on to the Joe Green. First came the folded flags, then the endless khaki line, with red battalion flags flashing here and there, in a strong breeze, against the blue sea. Below, over a long broad pier on the inner side of the wall, moved Fords, military police, trans-

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port officers, Negro military stevedores, and trucks piled with officers' baggage, food, and what not. Florence and I stood beside the boys as they boarded the ship by a very steep gangway. Imagine the jocular and happy remarks! "Here we begin mountain climbing," said one as they started to go "over the top" on the last lap home. How irresistible was their happiness! Home! Home and the U.S.A., the best girl, Mother, Daddy, and God's Country, about which we shall hear—to our joy—all the way over the ocean. A Captain of the U.S. Transport Service in Marseilles—whose name I regret to say I do not remember—a very kind, thoughtful gentleman and real American, placed his car at our disposal for the day. Captain Post joined us and we started out for a tour of the city, with a dear boy as driver and cicerone. Despite a wonderful luncheon at Pascal's with white bread and excellent fish, served by waiters in shirt sleeves, I felt very sad in Marseilles. There were lots of Japanese cruisers in the harbor and men of every race under the sun in the city, but they did not look like men who had consciously fought to make the world safe for democracy! During the day we heard that the Italian Chamber had voted to support the government, thus meeting Wilson's challenge squarely. Shall we ever forget our departure from Marseilles, with a high wind blowing and little tugboats pulling hard to free the Joe Green from its mooring? Florence and I stood on the upper deck, looking down on the boys massed on the lower deck, on bridges, and on ladders. Suddenly a regimental band struck up the Marseillaise and 1,800 boys stood at attention. Then came our own Stars and Stripes, and the boys tightened and quivered. All straightened up, officers and men, and we civilians stood up straight too, hat in hand, for we had done our bit. Far away on the long pier, now growing slightly hazy in the twilight, two figures stood at attention, rigid and stirring, on that long stretch of roadway—the old Captain of the Transport Service and his aide, who had done all they could to ship us home comfortably. How American they were —Americans in Europe—a little isolated but brave and hopeful and true!

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MAY 4

By the time we reached Gibraltar, Mrs. Theodore Roosevelt, with a simple yet cordial courtesy, had made us her faithful friends; and when the moment came to land, she asked us to accompany her. We spent the day wandering through the main street of the town and lunching at the Bristol. While we were sitting afterwards in the garden opposite the hotel, a Mr. Hart, Captain of the S.S. Medina, waiting in harbor to coal, walked up to us, hat in hand, and respectfully addressed the ex-First Lady of our Land: " I think you are Mrs. Roosevelt; excuse me for speaking to you, but I am very homesick." He was a lovely type of breezy, capable, blue-eyed American gentleman-of-the-people, and we were stirred by his look of gladness at being "among his own." Late in the afternoon we wandered slowly back to our ship, and, slipping in and out of the coal bearers running up and down the gang planks, reached the deck. This job of coaling is a fearful one, unworthy of civilization, with hundreds of men doing work that should be done by machine. At 4 A.M. we lifted anchor and soon were beyond the Pillars of Hercules. g Life on the Joe Green, with 1,800 New York and New Jersey boys of the Lightning Division, has been lively—a continuous performance, with the band playing twice a day at least and the boys singing, cheering, boxing, and playing games. The officers, commanded by Major Baldwin, are a fine lot of men, not at all militaristic, joyous and nice. At Mrs. Roosevelt's request I have translated a manifesto of the Ligurian Union of Civil Mobilization, which she saw and procured a copy of in Genoa. Wilson, it says in part, after months and months of silence, has placed himself above all nations and issued a message that clearly incites the people of Italy to rebel against their government, convinced that his word will adequately recompense them for surrender to him and treason to their brothers. Nor is this all. He warns them that, if they listen to the cry of that most Italian of cities, MAY

1919 3»5 Fiume, he will not grant them peace—the peace that he alone, it seems, can bestow. In 1915 an alien, Prince Von Bülow, attempted to force upon Italy the will of his sovereign lord, and Italy gave him the reply he deserved. Wilson, who knows nothing of the soul and spirit of Italy, makes the same mistake. Let all Italians unite in an impressive and indignant protest! But let us make it clear that we distinguish between him and the Great American People who are and, we feel sure, will always be worthy of themselves, as they have always been. Mrs. Roosevelt is a "gentlewoman" of exquisite breeding, simple, sweet and brave. Entirely but not selfishly wrapped up in her family and the memory of her husband and child, she has told us very simply—at times, indeed, humorously aloof—a thousand tales of her life and theirs. Her friendliness and kindness has made the voyage dear to us. If we could have had Lathrop with us, it would have been a perfect home coming.

INDEX

Abbott, Grace, II, 154 Abruzzi, Luigi Amadeo, Duke of the, I, 38. 94 Accademia di Belle Arti, Florence, I, 391 Adam, Paul, 1,336 Adamello, Italian posts on, 1,150-63; communications with base, I, 4 Joffre, Joseph Jacques C&aire, I, 170 Jugo-Slavia, agreement with Italy recognizing vital interests of each, II, 149; Montenegro approves federation with, II, 205; extension in Dalmatia, II, 22g: American interest in, II, 241; territorial claims presented at Conference, II, 258; regiments made up from Austrian units, II, 263 Jugo-Slav movement, attitude of political parties toward, II, 189: recognized by Italy, II, igt: by Wilson, II, 200 Jugo-Slavs, distrust of Italians, II, 188; disturbances in Fiume, II, 212; rebuked by United States admiral for disorders, II, 263 Julian Alps, I, 36 Kelley, American consul in Rome, I, 188 Kellogg, Paul Underwood, II, 115, 117 Kipling, Rudyard, II, 61 Kitchener, Horatio Herbert Kitchener, F.arl, I, 41, 107, 170, 239, 287 Knights of Malta, Castle of, I, 394 l abor, demand for Italian, I, 32 Labriola, Arturo, II, 263 lace making, I, 397 I.agazuoi Grande, II, 70 Lagazuoi Piccolo, explosion of, II, 56, 70 I.a Guardia, Fiorello Henry, II, 111, 144, 156 l ane, Arthur Bliss, II, gi, 223

327

I.a η franco, Pietro, I, 26g Lansing, Robert, I, 132 I.apido, Vicente (of Montevideo Tribuna), I, 242, 250, 262, 263, 267, 268, 273, 278 I-arderello Power House, II, 40, 41 Latimer, Ralph R „ I, 65, 207 Lavoro, 11 (journal), II, 245 Law of Guarantees, I, 121; II, 130 Lawrence, David, II, 245 Lazzari, Constantino, II, 91, 133, 136, ir,6 League of Nations, Italian attitude affected by territorial ambitions, II, 123, 267-69; clerical press skeptical of plan, II, 17g; attitude of Italian people toward, II, 201, 228; Bissolati speaks in support, II, 245; self-interest in European support, II, 253; text of Covenant published, II, 256; turning into league of victors, II, 264; Covenant weakened by British and American action, II, 2g3; Monroe Doctrine incorporated in Covenant, II, 30g Leghorn, II, 33 Lenin, Nikolai, strike on his birthday, II, 302 Leo XIII, I, 14, 34 Leonardo da Vinci Society, II, 43 Liberia, newspaper of Trentino refugees, II, 144 Lido, I, 357 Ligurian Union of Civil Mobilization, II, 3'4 Linen, hand-woven, I, 397 Lloyd George, David, II, 6, 123, 128; dominating position at Peace Conference, II, 300 Lobbia Alta, I, 260 Lobbia Bassa, I, 257-61 Logan, George, I, 405 Logan Act, II, 5 London, prices in, II, 17 Loret, Mattias, II, 132, 133, 148, 225, 251 Lorillard, George L „ I, 160 Lo Scrovegno, I, 307, 308-9 Lothrop, Stanley, I, 132, 378, 380; II, 10, 11 I.oti, Pierre, II, 80 Lowrie, Walter, I, 181; II, 68, 77, 78, 87 Lubin, David, II, 146 Lucca, I, 378 Ludendorff, Erich von, II, 174 Lutoslawsky, Marian de, II, 17-19 Luzzatti, Luigi, II, 101, 110

3

28

Index

Luzzatlo, Bona (Wei11scholl), I. 279, 313: II, 8 Lyle-Smyth, Etta, II, 151, 159, 267 Lyman Law, SS., burning of, II, 19

Macchi, L u i g i , I, 197 Mackenzie, William, II, 144 McClellan, George Β., I, 76 M c C l u r e , W i l l i a m K „ (of London Times), II, 8, 80 McGinnis, Mabel (Mrs. Norval Richardson), I, 131, 132, 185, 204, 207 Macy, Henrietta Gardner, I, 349, 358 M a d o n n a built of glass tumblers, II, 194 M a d o n n a dell' Arena, I, 307 Maggiorotti, Leone Andrea, II, 55 M a h a n , A l f r e d T h a y e r , I, 33 Malvezzi, Lieutenant, II, 57 Mameli's hymn, I, 158; excerpt, I, 29 Mandates, II, 271 Manfredi, Giuseppe, I, 112 M a n g i n , Charles Marie Emmanuel, II, >9· Marangoni, Luigi, I, 354-57, 359-62 Marazzi, Fortunato, I, 233; II, 130 Marcesina, battlefield of, I, 324-27 Marconi, Guglielmo, I, 30, 132, 210 Marcucci, Alessandro, II, 11, 21 Margherita, queen dowager of Italy, I, 193; II, 16, 237 Marinetti, Filippo Tommaso, I, 116 Marne campaign, II, 174 Maroncelli, Pietro, I, 368 Marseilles, II, 312 Martini, Ferdinando, I, 112, 158 Martino, Giacomo de, II, 260 Masaryk, T h o m a s Garrigue, II, 226 "Maschere Veneziane," I, 67, 95 Mason, Gregory, II, 251 Massalubrense Convalescent Hospital, II, 170; Florence Speranza carries on art industry at, II, 171, 173, 182, 186, 193, 194, 207, 267; sale of articles made by soldiers at, II, 225 Mattino, Naples, II, 98 Mazzini, Giuseppe, program, II, 181; quoted, II, 138 Mazzoni, Colonel, II, 92 Meda, Filippo, II, 218, 220, 257, 265 "Mediterranean for Mediterraneans," II, 292 Mediterranean Sea, submarines in. I, 106

Melzi d'Eril KarlWj, Josephine, Dudicss, II, 88-90 Melzi family, II, 88 Mercier, D i s i r i Joseph, Cardinal, I, 121 Merriam, Charles Ε., II, 152, 155, 158, 178, 186, 196, 209; interviews Sonnino, II, 192 Messaggero, Rome, I, 193; II, 256; excerpt, II, 129 Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, I, • 17 Mexico, strikes in oil regions, II, 138 Miceli, Giuseppe (of Prensa), I, 263, 265, 3 ' 7 . 336 Milan, industrial situation in, I, 25; Speranza in, 1,42; revolt of '48 against Austrians, II, 88; citizen relief, II, 117; social unrest, II, 291 Milholland, Inez, I, 191 Miller, William (of London Morning Post), II. 3, 193 Millo, Enrico, II, 216 Miniero, Antonino, II, 194, 207 Minunni, Italo, II, 108 Minozzi, Father D. Giovanni, II, 68 Misericordia Society, I, 287 Modigliani, Giuseppe Emanuele, II, 95 Mola, General, II, 109 Molajoni, Pio, I, 31; II, 228 Molmenti, Pompeo, I, 113, 344, 404 Mombello, Federico, of SS. Taormina, I, 3 - 6 Monfalcone, I, 267-74; battle of, I, 27477- »79 Monopolies on necessities, II, 218 Monte Cavo, I. 183-85; II, 287-91 Monte Cengio, I, 330, 331, 332, 334, 335; II. 63 Monte Cimone, I. 330, 331, 334, 335 Monte K u k , II, 58 Monte Lisser, I, 324, 327 Montenegro, troops retreat before Austrians, I, 108; capture by Austrians, I, 153, 157, 159; federation with Jugo-Slav state, II, 205, 228, 253; claimed by Jugoslavia, II, 258 Monte Pasubio, II, 63-65 Monte Santo, capture of, II, 88 Monteverdi, II, 40 Monti di Pietä, I, 42 Morals, relation to civilization, I, 111 Morgari, Oddino, II, 294 Morning Post, London, II, 3, 193

Index Motpurgo, Salomone, II, 43, 6g Morrone, Paolo, I, 341 Mother Goose, related to Italian "Maschere," I, 67 Mugnone, valley of, I, 153-55. 3 8 5 Muletti, Carlo, I, 244, 245 Munitions, manufacture, II, 105 Murano, 1, 348 Music, Venetian, I, 72 Mussolini, Benito, attacks government through his paper, II, 106, 177; character, II, 168; depends on America for victory, II, 177; attitude toward Jugoslavs, II, 190; Doctrine of Fighters and Producers, II, 191; praises Wilson's political leadership, II, 195; favors League of Nations, II, 201; organizes Trinceristi, II, 281 Naples, Speranza in, I, 35-37 Napoleon, Italian campaign, II, 103 Narni, II, 304 National Association of Maimed and Invalided Soldiers, II, 196, 275 Nationalist Party, II, 184 New Europe (journal), II, 126, 130 Niblack, Albert Parker, II, 263 Nicholas II, czar of Russia, II, 18; favors liberal measures toward Poles, II, ig Nicholas I, king of Montenegro, I, 157, 159; favors federation with Jugo slav stale, II, 205; deposed, II, 228 Ninfa, I, 201-2 Nitti, Francesco Saverio, II, 112, 124, 158; appointed minister of the Treasury, II, 96; at Allied conference, II, 103; attacked by press, II, 106; disavows contraband scandal, II, 136; protests withdrawal of British and French troops from Italy II, 140; asks for American troops, II, 141; political ambitions, II, 142, 148, 160, 175, 213, 274; post-war economic plans, II, 218, 220; resignation, II, 264 Noale, 1,311 Nollen, John Schölte, II, 125, 230, 245, 250 Northcliffe press, II, 292 Suova Antologia, La, II, 11, 25 Observatory at front, I, 239 Officina Galileo, I, 157 Ojetti, Ugo, 1,87-90,143-46,227, 232; plan for field theatres, II, 57, 6g

329

Old men, activity as laborers, I, 377 Olevano, I, 177 Orlando, Vittorio Emanuele, I, 108, 196, 210; 11,97, 106, 112, 142, 166, 251; weak policy against internal enemies, II, g i ; government attacked in Chamber, II, 95; heads Cabinet, II, g6; report on military situation, II, 100; at Allied conference, II, 103; character, II, 110, 213; defense of war policy, II, 115; political strategy, II, 121; visit to England, II, 128; speech on war situation, II, 129; appeals to Socialists for support, II, 132; stresses solidarity of Italy and Britain, II, 144; weakened position of Cabinet, II, 157; at political apogee, II, 175; sympathy with subject peoples of Austria, II, 183; favors entente with Jugo-Slavs, II, 189: supports single command of Allied forces, II, 195; breach with Bissolati, II, 232; situation in Cabinet, II, 257; propaganda policy, II, 260; delays reform of electoral law, II, 266, 273: attitude toward League, II, 268; return from Peace Conference, II, 310; government supported by Chamber, II, 313 Orto Botanico, I, 309 Orvieto, Angiolo, II, 43 Orvieto, Speranza at, II, 307, 308 Outlook, II, 251 Pacca, Enrico Eugenio, I, 246 Pact of London, II, 183; Italian claims, II, 104, 123, 272; protection against peace move by Vatican, II, 105, 126, 130; inadequate to changed conditions, II, 189, 246; application to Asia Minor, II, ig7, 263; Fiume not included, II, 234 Part of Rome, II, 183, 189 Padua, Speranza in, I, 306-10 Page, Thomas Nelson, I, 11, 160, 165, 17072, 191, 194, 209, 375, 405; II, 4, 6, 7, 8, •07, 111, 112, 116, 140, 142, 147, 14g, 151, 160, 161, 178, 223, 309; Washington's Birthday reception, I, 185: opinion on Wilson note, II, 5, 9; opinion on American expatriates, II, 25; praises Speranza's Intelligence work, II, g8, 161, 209, 312; love for Italy, II, 152; character, II, 156, 161; asks appointment of Speranza to Embassy staff, II,

33°

Index

Page, T h o m a s Nelson (Continued) 162; break with Committee on Public Information, II, 210; Thanksgiving; service, II, 219; understanding of Italian claims, II, 233; advice on political tactics, II, 251; disappointment over Wilson's decision on Italian claims, II, 310; see also American Embassy Page, Mrs. T h o m a s Nelson (Florence Lathrop), I, 170, 405; II, 9, i n , 112, 114, 116, 126, 142, 147, 158, 162, 172, 193, 220, 223, 226, 239 Palazzo Doria, I, 167 Palazzoli, Domenico, I, 250, 253, 261, 262, »74, «79; II, 219, 220, 238, 245 Palazzo Van A x e l , Venice, I, 350 Palestine, opportunity for Vatican in, II, »79 Palestrina, II, 255 Pan-American Exposition, Italian art section, I, 115 Paolucci, Raffaele, II, 205, 222-25 Paris, bombardment by b i g g u n , II, 144 Paris Conference of Allies, II, 104 Parliament, Italian, I, 112, 189, 196-98, 199-201, 403-5; II, 95-97, 100, 110, 113, 115, 117, 128, 130-33, 136, 154, 157, 212, 216-19, 264-66, 271-75; misrepresentative of Italian people, II, 130, 188; new groupings, II, 213, 266; attitude toward League, II, 268 Parliamentary commissions of control, II, 106, 109 Parliamentary U n i o n , II, 10g "Partecipazioni," I, 93 Partito Popolare Italiano, II, 253 PaSic, Nikola, II, 215 Peace Conference (1919), Salandra's position at, II, 240; text of Covenant of League, II, 256; submission of Jugoslav claims to, II, 257; Italian territorial claims before, II, 272, 300, 303; A r a b movement before, II, 280; ItaloJugo-Slav controversy, II, 294; dominated by Wilson and Lloyd George, II, 300; weakened position of Latin delegates at, II, 301; see also League of Nations; Wilson, W o o d r o w Peasants, Italian, attitude toward war problems, I, 387-89 Pecori-Giraldi, Guglielmo, I, 325, 405 Pedrazzi, Orazio, II, 138

Pellegrini, Mario, II, 163 I'ennella, Giuseppe, I, 220-24 People's T h e a t r e , portable, II, 139 Pershing, John Joseph, II, 92, 105 Perugia, Speranzas at, I, 394-96; II, 303, 3°4 Petit Parisien, I, 336 " P h a r m a c y , " II, 139, 141 Piave, battle of the, II, 166 68, 203-7 Piazza, Giuseppe, II, 280 Piazza di San Marco, I, 45, 50-54, 56-57, 60-63, 92 Piazza San Lorenzo, I, 21 Piazzetta, I, 45, 48, 51, 53, 60-63; bombing of, I, 78-80, 91 Piccinini, Professor, II, 36 Piccolo (journal), II, 151 Picello (actress), I, 95 Pilsudski, General, II, 143 Piombino T r u s t , II, 38 Piombino Works, II, 35-39 Pirelli, Captain, II, 56, 58, 59, 62 Pirolini, Giovanni Battista, II, 211 Pisa, Speranza at, I, 379 Pitti, art treasures stored in, I, 382-84 Pius I X , I, 14 Pius X , I, 14 Piva, G i n o , I, 263 Pizzo Serauta, outpost on, II, 74-77 Piatt, Charles Α., II, 230 Poggi, Giovanni, I, 381; II, 43 Poincari, R a y m o n d , II, 80, 82 Pola, strikes, II, 157; Austrian warship torpedoed in harbor, II, 163, 205, 222«5 Poland, II, 225; situation in, II, 18; troops fighting with Allied forces, II, 133 Polish-American volunteers, II, 118 Polish Brigade, mutiny against G e r m a n command, II, 143 Pompeii, II, 209 Popolo d'Italia, II, 168, 177, 281; attitude toward Wilson, I, 405; II, 9, 195; hostility to government, II, 91,106; Mussolini article on doctrine of fighters and producers, II, 191, 193 Popolo Romano, II, 98 Poppi, II, 28, 29 Populonia, II, 39 Porro, Contessina, II, 87 Porro, General Carlo, I, 33, 87, 405; II, 87, 128, 193

Index Portugal, II, 108 Positano, II, 302 Post, Chandler R., II, 91, 105, 108, 116, • 21, 1 x 1 , 147 Posta Militare, I, 219 Pottery, peasant, I, 396 Prampolini, Camillo, II, 101 Prato, Carlo a, II, 134-35. 144. 1 5 1 , 158 "Prayer of a Horse to His Master," I, 238, 294 Prensa (journal), I, 263, 317 Press, Italian, imitation of American tricks, I, 26; attacks Germany, I, 107; reaction to Wilson peace speech, II, 9; a t t i t u d e on Italian retreat, II, 98, 101; efforts to combat influence of, II, 108; represses enthusiasm over requests for armistice, II, 196 Preziosi, Don Giovanni, II, 275 Propaganda, for United States a n d Wilson, II, 153; German, through Italian agents, II, 155; Italian, II, 260 Propaganda Conference, II, 160 R a t t i (of Idea Nationale), I, 263, 265, 336 Ravenna, Speranza in, I, 298-303 R e d Cross, American, see American Red Cross R e d Cross, British, II, 61 Red Cross, Italian, I, 16 R e d Cross depots, Austrian attacks on, I, 130. 142 R e d T r o o p s , II, 251 Reforestation, II, 51 Refugees, care of, II, 124 Rehabilitation work for wounded soldiers, I, 398,400; see also Massalubrense Convalescent Hospital Renzi, Baroness de, II, 158 Repington, Colonel, I, 337 Republic, movement for, II, 211 Republican party, Italian, II, 211 Reservists, American, see Italo-Americans Rest camps, I, 221-24 Resto del Carlino, Bologna, II, 9 Riano, II, 270 Ricci, Corrado, I, 299 Ricci, Elisa, II, 223, 225 Riccio, Vincenzo, II, 265 Richardson, Norval, I, 132, 133, 1 7 1 , 193, 204, »12, 403, 405; II, 3, 4, 5, 6, 92, 103, 110, 1 2 1 , 126, 133, 140, 143, 152, 153,

331

158, 162, 178, 2 1 1 , 219, 220, 232; character, I, 188; baptism of daughter, II, '47 Rideout, Melvin Β., II, 125, 181, 259 Rifugio Garibaldi, I, 252, 254, 257, 26· Risorginiento, II, 206, 285 Rtvisla Coloniale, Rome, II, 138 Rizzo, I.uigi, torpedoes Austrian battleship, II, 167 Rizzoli Institute, hospital in, I, 398 Roads in Alps, I, 247 Robilant, Mario Nicolis di, II, 70, 78, 79, 112 Rocca di Monfalcone, I, 273 Rocca di Papa, I. 183, 185; II, 288 Rodd, Sir Rennell, I, 158; II, 126; Love, Death and Worship, excerpt, I, 338 Romagnoli, Augusto, I, 188 R o m a n Question, I, 14, 121 R o m a n ruins, I, 89 Rome, Speranzas in, I, 10-16, 25-34, 37" 42, 108-29, 4°'~5; II· J-*4> 90-166, 209303; celebration of X X Settembre, I, 28-30; atmosphere compared with T u s cany, I, 390; scene in railway station, II, 13-16; celebration of United States' declaration of war on Austria, II, 111; demonstrations against government inaction, II, 291 R o m e o and Juliet, houses of, I, 366 Roncagli, Giovanni, I, 33, 38, 3g Roosevelt, Mrs. T h e o d o r e , II, 314, 3 1 5 Ropes, colored, worn by supply bearers in mountains, II, 71 Rosales, Marchese de, I, 398, 399; II, 3, 94, 105, 107. 1 1 1 , 230, 245 Rosales, R a m i r o de, I, 238 Roselli, Piero, I, 105 Rossetti, Raffaele, II, 205, 222-25 R u d i n i , Antonio Starabba, Marquess di, I, 15 Ruffini, Francesco, I, 187 R u m a n i a , declares war on AustriaHungary, I, 370: signs peace treaty with Central Empires, II, 138 Russell, Charles Edward, II, 178 Russia, pact with Allies, I, 129; conditions in, II, 17-19; d£b&de in, II, 7g; publishes secret Allied documents, II, 104; Czecho slovaks organizing Siberia against Lenin, II, 169; railroads in, II, «5· Ryerson family, I, 23, 92, 108, 142; II, 183

332

Index

Sacro egoismo, II, 184, 243, 256 St. A n t h o n y , Basilica, P a d u a , bombed, I I , 122

St. Mark's, I, 4 5 - 5 8 passim, 6 4 , 7 5 , 7 6 - 7 8 , 92; protection f r o m b o m b i n g , I, 47; I I , 53; Horses removed for safety, I, 47, 2 0 8 , 3 5 5 ; by moonlight, I, 6 0 - 6 3 ; r e p a i r work o n , I, 2 8 2 - 8 5 , 3 5 4 - 5 7 , 359-62'. ancient bones b u r i e d u n d e r , I, 356; inscriptions o n walls, I, 360; mosaic design changed for political reason, I, 361; income, I, 362 Salandra, Antonio, I, 35, 37, 38, 112, 158, 194; I I , 101, 166; government sustained, I, 120, 201; policy toward Germany, I, 163; a p p e a r a n c e , I, 196, 200; relations w i t h Giolitti, I, 265; fall of ministry, I, 291, 340; calls on young to rebuild E u r o p e , II, 216; opinion o n Italian situ a t i o n , II, 2 3 9 - 4 2 ; position at Peace Conference, II, 240: dissatisfied with t r e a t m e n t of claims by Peace Conference, II, 300 Salomone, Oreste, I, 264 Salonica, II, 6; conditions in, I, 406; Allies' withdrawal f r o m , II, 3 Salvemini, Gaetano, II, 244, 275 Sangallo, A n t o n i o da, I, 205 San Georgio, I , 78 San G i m i g n a n o , I, 2 8 8 - 9 0 San Giorgio di Nogaro, I, 2 3 9 - 4 1 San Lazzaro, A r m e n i a n monastery on, I, 358 San Marco, Rosa di, Contessa, Con Dio per la Patria, I, 338; excerpt, I, 339 San M i n i a t o in Vallombrosa, II, 51, 52 Santa M a r i a dei Miracoli, I, 98 Santa Maria delta Salute, I, 78 Santa M a r i a Formosa, Venice, I, 369 Sant' Apollinare in Classe, I, 301 Sant' A p o l l i n a r e Nuovo, I, 299 Santi Giovanni e Paolo, I, 96, 114, 344 S a n t ' Ilario of Montereggi, I, 147 Santini, Pio, I , 15 Santini, R a n d o l p h , I, 34, 117 Santini, Mrs. R a n d o l p h (Vera Gilbert), I, 6; I I . 55 San Vincenzo, II, 35 Sapienza, I, 186 Sarrail, Maurice Paul E m m a n u e l , I, 37t Sauro, Nazario, I, 370 Sail igers, tombs of, I, 365

Scalzi, C h u r c h of the, b o m b i n g of, I, 86, 88.

90,94

Scaravaglio, Aldo, I I , 60 Schanzer, Carlo, I, 32 Schiarini, Pompilio, I , 321, 335 Science, relation to civilization, I, 111 Scilla, Prince, I I , 42 Scriven, George Percival, I I , 159 Scuola dei Merletti, I, 346 Sea power, importance for war, I, 33 Secolo, Milan, I, 263; II, 106; excerpt, I I , >°9 SegTi, Salvatore, II, 225 "Sensafreu," I, 56 Serafin, T u l l i o , I, 22 Serafino, Padre, I, 90 Serpieri, Professor, I, 125 Serrati, Menotti, II, 179, 180, 258 Servia, Allied aid to, I, 42; lack of support f r o m Italy, I, 65; retreat before Austrians, I, 108, 160; refugees in Rome, I, 172; in C o r f u , I, 212; school for refugee children, II, 139; hatred of Austria, II, 150; financed by France, II, 195; influence over Montenegro's union with, II, 228 Settignano, I, 153 Sham battle, II. 66 Sheldon, Georgiana R., I, 18, 20 Shock, soldiers suffering f r o m , I, 19, 270 Siena, II, 306 Signorelli, Dr., I, 173, 175 Sillani, Tomaso, II, 221, 250 Simoni, R e n a t o (of Corriere delta Sera), I,43;

11,69,80

Simons, Algie Martin, II, 178 Skiatori, I, 256, 258, 261; II, 188 Socialists, Italian, II, 122; effect of p r o p a ganda on troops, II, 115; a p p r o v e Wilson's fourteen points, II, 123; similarity to I.W.W., II, 179; a t t i t u d e toward American socialism, II, 180, 182; prowar g r o u p supports League of Nations, II, 2 0 1 Socialists, Reform, II, 213, 268 Socialists, Regular Italian, II, 179, 212, 268, 272, 274. 292, 293, 294, 3 1 1 ; refuse to meet American Federation of L a b o r representatives, II, 182; " L e n i n i s t " victory in Congress of, II, 186 Societä per la Protezione degli Animal i, I, 2 8

Index Society of the Carbonari, I, 28 Soldiers' Mass, I, 230 Sonnino, Sidney, Baron, I, 38, 43, 157, 163, 210, 341; II, 79, 80, 8». 95. 96, 104, 112, 132, 13g, 148, 257, 286; appearance, I, 112, 196, 200; criticises England's attitude in Balkans, I, 158; policy of silence, I, 190; attitude toward Servia, I, 197; speech on G e r m a n peace offer, I, 404; reaction to Wilson note, II, 5, 7: estates in Tuscany, II, 34, 42: at Allied conference, II, 103; symbol of Italy-atwar, II, 106: approves Czecho-Slovak legion of Italian prisoners, II, 153; discredits Austrian peace efforts, II, 154; attitude toward Austrian subject races, II, 176, 183; character, II, 176; compared with Wilson, II, 213; renounces claim to Fiume, II, 234: attitude on Italy entering war, II, 242; confidence of Italians in foreign policy of, II, 267 Sorbello, Marchesi di, I, 209 Sorrento, Speranzas in, II, 166-209 Spalato, II, 294: Italians in, II, 243, 275; anti-Italian incident, II, 263 Spargo, John, II, 178 Speranza, Florence plan for Casa del Soldato, II, 56; help to Friule refugees, II, 98; luncheon for Carroll, II, 142; trip to Subiaco, II, 159; attends feast of the Madonna, II, 169; institutes art industry at Massalubrense Hospital, II, 171, 173, 186, 194, 207; teaches basketmakers new designs, II, 176; activities in Rome, II, 193; in Paris, II, 226, 231; trip to Chäteau-Thierry, II, 233; trip to Trieste, II, 250; see also Speranza, Gino Speranza, G i n o , departure from New York, I, 3; at sea, I, 4-10; in R o m e , I, 10-16. 25-34, 37-42, 108-29, 4 ° ' - 5 : π · 3-24, 90-166, 209-303; in Florence, I, 17-25, 42, 102-8. 129-58, 213, 291-95, s ^ ? 8 - 380-91; 11, 42-45. 46-50. 305; a t Naples, I, 35-37; at Milan, I, 42; in Venice, I, 43-101, 280-86, 342-63; II, 5355, 85; Christmas, 1915, I, 132; 1917, II, 116; trip to Monte Cavo, I, 183-85; II, 287-91; " O n Seeing Some English Red Cross Girls," I, 193; at Ninfa, I, 201-2; at Positano, II, 202; at Civita Castellana, I, 204-7; II, 303; sonnet, " T o

333

Florence." I, 212; in Udine, I, 216-19, 224-25, 228-31, 236-38, 250, 263, 277-79, 312, 316, 336-40; II, 55, 79-82; trip to Isonzo front, I, 219-42; II, 53, 55-85: at Aquileia, I, 225-27, 337; trip to Carnic front, I, 242-50; trip to Adamello, I, 250-63; visit to aviation camps, I, 263; at Monfalcone, I, 268-74; at San Gimignano, I, 288-90; at Ravenna, I, 298303; at Ferrara, I, 303-6; at Padua, I, 306-10; at Vicenza, I, 318, 328; II, 62: trip to T r e n t i n o front, I, 319-36; at Verona, I, 363-69; at Lucca, I, 378; at Pisa, I, 379; forbidden to write book on bombarded cities, I, 380; at Arezzo, I, 391-94; II, 24-26; at Perugia, I, 394-96; II, 303, 304; at Assisi, I, 395; at Cittä di Castello, I, 397; writes article for IM Nuova Antologia, II, 25; at Casentino, II, 27-32; at Leghorn, II, 33: at Piombino, II, 35-39; at Vallombrosa, II, 45, 50-53; trip to Cadore battlefield, II, 69-78; at Gorizia, II, 82; at Varese, II, 86-90; attached to Intelligence Department of United States A r m y , II, 91; daily Intelligence reports, II, 94, 96,98; illness, II, 96; praised by Page for Intelligence work, II, 98, 161, 209, 312; in Sorrento, II, 166-209; appointed assistant to Embassy, II, 173, 174; urges Division for Political Affairs for Embassy, II, 192: Thanksgiving, 1915. I, 108; 1917, II, 103; 1918, II, 21g: undertakes Italian press reports to American Mission, II, 226; interview with Salandra, II, 239-42; flight in dirigible, II, 243; interview with Bissolati. II, 247-50; at Frascati, II, 254; lack of appreciation for Romans, II, 255; attacked as unfavorable to Italy, II, 275; at Viterbo, II, 295, 299; at Siena, II, 306; at Orvieto, II, 307, 308; farewell to Pages, II, 311; on board Giuseppe Verdi, II, 312-15 Squitti, Baron, I, 159 Stampa, T u r i n , I, 250, 263; II, 9, 98, 214 Standard Oil Company, I, 191 Stanton, Sophy, II, 111, 126 Stars and Stripes, A.E.F. newspaper, II, '44 Steel manufacture, II, 36-39 Steen, van den, Count, I, 208, 211

334

Index

Stefinik, Commander, II, 127 Stefani News Agency, II, 97, 122, 193, 203, »45 Striken take possession of factory, II, 276 Stringher, Bonaldo, II, 245, 264 Stylus, The (magazine), I, 345 Submarines in Mediterranean, II, 154, >59 Sukhomlin, Vaseiii, II, 197 Supreme Council of War, II, 99, 101 Sussex, SS., I, 212; II, 8 Sweden, resents American food restrictions, II, 145 Symmonds, Charles Jacobs, II, 312 Tagtiamento line, II, 97, 99 Tarditi, General, II, 56, 70, 71 Teatro dei Piccoli, I, 120 Teatro del Soldato, II, 80 Teleferica, I, 247, 253, 261; II, 64, 74, 77 Tempestini, actor, I, 82 Tempo, II, 1 1 3 Temps, Paris, II, 271 Territorials, I, 21, 105, 109 Theatres, field, II, 57, 69, 80 Theodoli, Alberto, II, 263 Thomas, Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Η., I, 291, 37* Three Hundred Thirty-second Regiment receives gold medal, II, 260 Thunn, Carla, I, 105 Tiepolo fresco destroyed by bombs, I, 86, 88. 90, 94 Times, London, I, 207, 322; II, 80 "Tipperary," Italian version, I, 23 Tirpitz, Alfred von, II, 146 Tisza, Stephen, Count, I, 404; II, 153 Tittoni, Tommaso, II, 117, 271 "Tomaso, Duchess," II, 16 Torcello, I, 347 Torlonia, Mary Elsie, I, 193 Torre, Andrea, I, 185; II, 126, 139, 183 Toscanella, II, 296 Toti, Enrico, one-legged soldier, II, 23 "Tragic X , " I, 269-72 Train, Charles Russell, I, 185 Treat, Charles Gould, II, 193, 311 Trent, capture by Italians, II, 206, 210, 220 Trentino, need of Italy for, I, 36; art treasures sent to Florence for protection, I, 381; claimed by Italy, II, 104, 246, 272

Trentino front, I, 41, 105, 319-28, 329-36, 340; II, 218, 233; Asiago battlefield, I, 320; Marchesina battlefield, I, 324-27; Arsiero, I, 330; Monte Novegno, I, 33234 Trento and Trieste National Association, II, 227 Trevelyan, George Μ., II, 61 Treves, Claudio, II, 180, 211, 250; quoted, II, 1 3 ' Treviso, 1 , 3 1 1 Tribune, Montevideo, 1, 242, 250 Tribuna, Rome, I, 406; II, 9, 147, 177, 193 Trieste, II, 218, 275; claimed by Italy, II, 104, 246, 258; capture by Italians, II, 205, 2iu; influx of Germans into, II, 225 Trincea Joffre, I, 271 Trinceristi, program, II, 281 Triple Alliance, I, 35 Trumbic, Ante, II, 183, 215 Tunisia, II, 277 Turati, Filippo, I, 403; II, 91, 180, 197, 250, 268, 273; praises Italian unification in war, II, 217; relations with Socialists, II, 248; urges reform of electoral law, II, 265; rouses Socialists against government policies, II, 2g2 Turin, riots, II, 90, 94, 179 Turkey, asks for peace, II, 199 Tusini, Giuseppe, I, 240, 241 Tusculum, II, 255 Udine, Speranza in, I, 216-19, 224-25, 22831, 236-38, 250, 263, 277-79, 3 1 * · 3'6, 336-40; II, 55, 79-82; bombing of, I, 265 Ufficio Doni, II, 144 Uffizi, protection of art treasures, I, 38185 Umbria, hand industries of, I, 396, 397 IJnione Italiana del Lavoro, II, 168, 293 Unione Socialista Italiana, II, 163, 168 United Press, II, 8, 79 United States, regulation of status of naturalized Italo-Americans, I, 30; interest in European countries, I, 166; significance of industrial life, I, 177; declares war on Germany, II, 24; loan to Italy, II, 26; prohibition of supplies to neutrals, II, 79; organization of Army Intelligence Department, II, 91, 93; participation in Supreme Council, II, 101; declares war on Austria, II, 106,

Index 108; propaganda against, II, 122; « heat-growing on government land, II, 146; anniversary of entry into war, II, 148; resents attacks by A v a n l i ! , II, 148; war losses, II, 25g; mandate for Armenia, II, 271; Italian sentiment turns against, II, 277; favors Zionist state, II, z8o Universitä Castrense, I, 240 Universities, participation in national struggle, I, 30 Urban V I I I , I, 187 Usi Civici, I , 201 Vacchelli, Nicola, I, 217, 231, 263; II, 92 Vallombrosa, II, 45, 50-53 V a n Rensselaer, W i l l i a m S., I, 405 Varese, II, 86-90 Vasari, Giorgio, I, 393, 394 Vatican, income, I, 33; reaction to German peace offer, I, 402; peace note to belligerents, II, 82, 85, 93; desire for G e r m a n victory, II, 126; attempt to make R o m a n question an international issue, II, 130; political activities, II, 178; policies affected by fall of Russian Empire, II, 228; attitude toward Catholic representation in Parliament, II, 253: " T h e Question of the Holy Places," II, 279: foreign policy, II, 279; see also Benedict X V Venetia, under Austrian occupation, I, 368; restoration work, II, 284 Venetians, love for their architecture, I,

335

Vicenza, Speranza in, I, 318, 328; II, 62 Vico Pisano, I, 380 Victor Emmanuel III, king of Italy, II, 82; popularity, I, 13; II, 210; policy toward T r i p l e Alliance, I, 15: characterization, I, 143-46; revolution to overthrow, I, 170; at T r e n t i n o front, I, 321; approval of Wilson speech, II, 8; asks for American troops on Italian front, II, 109; reviews American troops, II, 178; in battle of Vittorio Veneto, II, 204; welcomed in Rome, II, 211: New Year reception, II, 237 Villa, Giovanni, II, 257 Villa Bondi, hospital, I, 155-57, 400 "Villa di Brooklyn, N.Y.," II, 187 Villa Pisa, hospital, I, 20, 400 Villa T r e n t o , hospital, II, 61 Vincigliata, I, 135, 151, 152 Vintage time in Italy, I, 376-78 Vita Italiana, II, 115, 275 Viterbo, II, 295, 299 Viti de Marco, Marchesi de, I, 162-65, 172, 207, 228 Viti de Marco, Marchesina de, I, 168 Viti de Marco, James de, I, 192 Vittorio Veneto, battle of, II, 224, 230 Vivanti, Annie, II, 58 Voce dei Popoli, II, 244, 266 Volpini, papal secretary, I, 14 Volterra, II, 41 Vorse, Mary Heaton, II, 244. 276 Voukosic, von, Captain, II, 224

73

Venezia Giulia, II, 272 Venice, in wartime, I, 17; Speranza in, I, 43-101, 280-86, 342-63; II, 53-55, 85; at night, I, 44-46, 50-54, 57, 59-63, 66, 7072, 73, 78, 96, 99, 100; protection of art treasures, I, 47, 114, 116, 350, 354-56; II, 125; anniversary of entry of Italian troops, 1, 63; alivencss behind closed shutters, I, 70-72; bombing of, I, 78-86, 106,281; art treasures sheltered in Florence, I, 381, 387; buildings damaged d u r i n g war, II, 54, 86; effect of raids on populace, II, 142 Venizdos, Eleutherios, II, 118 Verdi, Giuseppe, " C h o r u s of the Hebrew Slaves," I, 16; " H y m n of the Nations," 1, Μ Verona, Speranza in, I, 363-69

War medals, II, 260 Warren, Whitney, I, 405 Weillschott, Gustavo, I, 217, 21g, 225, 231, 237, 263, 267, 312, 336, 337; II, 56 Wells, Herbert George, II, 61 Westcrvclt, William I., II, g2 William II, emperor of Germany, I, 21; II, 210 Wilson, Sir Henry Hughes, II, 99 Wilson, Wood row, I, 107, 132; supports principles of international law, I, 165; note to belligerents, I, 405; II, 4, 5, 6; speech to Senate on peace, II, 6-8, 9, 128; war preparations alarm Germany, II, 79; reply to Pope's peace note, II, 93; asks declaration of war against Austria, II, 106, log; Fourteen Points, II, 123; readjustment of Italian frontiers,

336

Index

Wilson, W o o d r o w (Continued) II, 123; accused of failure to grasp Austro-Hungarian problem, II, 124; criticised in Chamber, II, 131; extension of war-powers, II, 166; Fourth of July speech, II, 172; help toward Bulgarian armistice, II, 193; Fourth Liberty Loan speech, II, 195; replies to G e r m a n armistice proposals, II, 197, 199, 202; disapproves federation of Austrian subject states, II, 200: asks acceptance of social responsibility, II, 216; arrival in Paris, II, 226; visit to R o m e , II, 232, 237-39; prevented from addressing people, II, 238; urges placing colonies under League, II, 253; Italian sentiment turns against, II, 277, 310-12, 314; prestige suffers from opposition in United States, II, 293; dominating position at Peace Confcrencc, II, 300; attitude toward Fiume, II, 301;

withholds approval of complete Italian claims, II, 309 Winner, Lightner, II, 151, 159, 160 Women, Italian, in agricultural work, I, 342; work at unloading ore, II, 37; porters at railway stations, II, 174 Wooden legs for soldiers, I, 400 World, New York, I, 242, 263 Y o u n g Men's Christian Association, II, '25 Zitmorsky, Polish deputy to Austrian Parliament, II, 132, 133, 225 Zanella, Riccardo, II, 244 Xanotti-Bianco, Umberto, II, 244, 266 Zara, II, 216, 246, 275 /.immerwald Conference, II, 123 Zionist state, II, 280 Zoccoli, Et tore, II, 93 Zupelli, Vittorio, I, 196, 210; II, 141