Reports are dull reading, statistics worse—there is nothing quite so misleading as statistics—there are a few exceptions to this rule; the reports of the American Relief Committee are among them. The minutes kept by Samuel Parrish lie before me; they are as interesting as a novel. As interesting? Twenty thousand times more interesting. The story is told gravely and concisely, but the romance shines through the conventional terms, transfigures the formal statements; it has the life pulse of an old Greek drama; it moves with the inevitable sequence of history. The titles of Chairman, Secretary, Treasurer, are disguises like the masks worn by the Athenian players. They serve to hide the personality of the actor, leaving him freer to play the role for which he is cast. The characters speak their lines, the play moves steadily from the first lurid scene of the earthquake to the final chorus of Hope. After Nature had done her worst and the greatest disaster of history had stunned the world, the network of nerves with which America has enmeshed the globe, the telegraph wires and submarine cables, flashed the dreadful intelligence from nerve center to nerve center. Whether for good or for ill, we gave the world its nervous system; ours the responsibility for the quickened pulse of life! The cables were kept busy; message after message flashed from the Embassy at Rome to Washington, to New York, Philadelphia, Boston, San Francisco. That cry of the Calabrian exiles: “Do not forget to help Scylla,” touched the public imagination. I hear the thrill of it in all the messages that follow, the committee’s appeal to the American Red Cross, to the Governors of the States, to the people of America. The Ambassador and Mr. Parrish telegraph the President, Mr. Parish cables Governor Hughes and Mayor McClellan, Mr. Hooper calls on Governor Guild of Massachusetts for funds for a relief ship. Time is so precious they do not wait for answers; strong in their faith in America’s generosity, these men assume a personal responsibility for the great sums of money needed, so no time is lost in waiting for answers to their appeals. This is the secret of how the incredible thing was done; it was not only by the labor of these resolute men but by the faith that was in them that the country would “back” them, would make good all they promised.
“Theirs,” said the Roman American, “is an infallibility absolute as the Pope’s; they know that God and the American people are behind them!”
We were in Athol’s library Wednesday evening when J.’s sailing orders came. The large pleasant room was just light and warm enough. There was a wood fire, there were flowers—blood-red Roman anemones—there were books and pictures, there was Athol himself (the man of whose mellow culture and sensitive taste, the room was an expression) seated in a beautiful Savonarola chair at an ancient, perfectly appointed table, writing despatches with pen and ink on large foolscap paper.
“They have telephoned from the Embassy,” said Agnese, who brought the news, “that the Signore should be at the station at nine o’clock tomorrow morning. The Signora is invited to go as far as Civitavecchia with the Ambassadress and the other ladies to witness his departure—ah! sainted apostles! for that land of death!” Agnese disapproved of J.’s going down to Messina. “Give those unfortunates anything in reason,” she argued, “clothes, food, even a little money! But to go oneself, or even to allow one who is dear to go down to that—that pozzo d’infezione, ah! no, there is no reason in that! It is the act of the mad. Mama mia! Are there not enough dead already?”
“You will be too late for Messina,” said Athol, looking up from his despatches. “They don’t like having foreigners about; the English ships from Malta were there a week ago but they found they were not wanted! You will find more than enough to do at the smaller villages; they have been neglected. Have you any flannel shirts?”
“For the profughi, yes, but for yourself? You’ll need them and flannel collars; I can lend you some and a hold-all. Have you seen the last subscriptions to the Lord Mayor’s Fund?” He handed J. a London paper with the list of subscribers to the English Earthquake Fund. There was a generous rivalry of “who shall give and do most?” between the Americans and English that was heart-warming.
“You deserve a large share of the credit for this,” J. said; “I hope it will be set down to your account.”
Athol’s telegrams and articles were read by English-speaking people all over the world; they had great influence in raising the Mansion House Fund, and other contributions.
The next morning was gray and mild, a depressing sirocco day. Napoleone who drove us to the station was gloomy as Agnese about J.’s going to Messina. His clerical sympathies made him scoff at the value of all lay relief work.