The old man looks wildly about him, grasping at the American’s shoulder, and slightly shaking him, sobbing querelously:
What a silly childish tale
To tell a Venetian ear!
The Colleoni armed,
Astride his savage horse
In the Campello there—
A Mercenary, yet,
Filled with Italian pride,
Would fling you back on your words—
Your coward, lying words.
For Italy, retreat?
For Latin blood—retreat?
Was any retreat for France?
For Belgium any retreat?
Another stand perhaps,
Another flash of the eyes,
Another gritting of teeth,
Another steeling of heart,
Another bracing of flesh,
Another surge of the blood,
Another smell of the fray,
Then hell to the weltering hog
That plunges forth on our land,
Gnashing his filthy tusks!
Gas and fire and cold,
Water and steel and smoke,
Roaring fires of hell,
Vermin, disease and wounds
Against them—Latin blood!
Oh! that I had wells of it,
I, a bloodless man,
Faltering—old, and weak,
But I mind me how once it burned—
Fire, blazing and quick—
Floods, scarlet and hot—
Flowers, passionate sweet—
Spirit, dauntless and bold—
Instinct, sure and keen—
Supremest Latin blood!
The old man paused, breathless and trembling; his hand drops weakly from the war correspondent’s shoulder; he draws himself up, saying with gentle dignity:
I LOSE my manners, Sir;
But you will see the truth.
Our life lies in the folds
Of the sweeping allied flags.
We are made of Latin blood,
Blood on whose rising tide
Rides the ark of ideals,
Instincts of Liberty—
Freedom’s flowering stars.
Yea—I have Latin blood;
For me there is no retreat.
The American, silent and touched, looks quietly at him; there is sympathy and understanding in his face, yet he remains coolly reflective. The old Woodcarver staggers to his stool, and begins fiercely cutting at the shapeless block of wood. All about the small cavelike shop the sun strikes the smooth glistening bodies of wooden angels, the golden brown nakedness of little cherubs.
The American also sitting down rolls and lights a cigarette, the child collecting shavings and bits of wood from the floor, sits in the doorway sorting them and arranging them in patterns.
The American quietly inhaling his cigarette:
Your city is very drear.
The houses closed and blind;
The opal waters grown dun
With the muddied silt that comes
From the Piave’s plains.
You carve while the cannon booms;
Under your knife there grows
A figure, supple-soft,
Springing from uncouth wood,
And you give it branching wings,
And fashion its gentle face
As though there were angels still....
You go on making angels.
Do the angels know, think you,
Of all the passion and hate,
And waste and cursing and lies,
And pride and fierce world-strife,
Back of the making of wars?
These angels, do they preen
Their wings over it all,
And smile upon us men?
The old Woodcarver for a moment drops his head; he passes his hand across anguished eyes; then he points to the child sitting in the doorstep, and puts his finger on his lip.
Woodcarver, fiercely: