I will write you again. I will come. I admire your constancy and the strength of your well-directed blows. Let me clasp your hand.
Yours,
Gabriele d’Annunzio.
From July to December the situation in Fiume grew more and more difficult. In the face of the determined attitude of D’Annunzio, Giolitti—to be faithful to the engagements assumed at Rapallo by Count Sforza—resolved to blockade the city. The results of the blockade were dubious; therefore the government made up its mind to occupy the city by a military expedition. They chose Christmas, because there were two holidays during which newspapers did not appear. Italian soldiers were being hurled against an Italian city, against a handful of audacious legionaries, ardent-souled Italians, the combatants of D’Annunzio’s brothers. Blood was on the streets. There were even dead. All Italy was saturated with deep indignation.
Thereafter a sense of remorse and conciliation took the upper hand. A formula was found. D’Annunzio gave up his authority to a committee of citizens and left Fiume. It had been held by him during sixteen months with invincible faithfulness. Now it was requisite to intrust its destinies to its best citizens and to the events which were maturing, inexorably. I wrote at that time a message which found an echo in all Italian hearts:
Beneath all the verbosity and the shuttle of mere words, the drama is perfect; horrible, if you choose, but perfect. On one side is the cold Reason of State determined to the very bottom, on the other the warm Reason of the Ideal ready to make desperate, supreme sacrifices. Invited to make our choice, we, the uneasy and precocious minority, choose calmly the Reason of the Ideal.
A few days later, on January 4, 1921, I commemorated the dead of the Legion of Ronchi by one of the most fervid articles I ever wrote. It ended with the following words:
They are the latest to fall in the Great War, and it is not in vain! The Italian tricolored banner hails them, Italian earth covers them. Their graves are a shrine. There all factions and divisions are obliterated. The dead of Carnaro bear witness that Fiume and Italy are one, the same flesh, the same soul. The opaque ink of the diplomats will never undo what has been sealed by blood forever.
Hail then to the Ronchi Legion, to the Duce—the leader, D’Annunzio—to his living who return and to his dead who never will.
They have remained to garrison the snowy mountains—Nevosso!