I told Vera and Patsy Pietro’s story that evening. Vera’s jewelled hands flashed as she hid her face in them.
“I can’t bear it!” she cried, as if she felt the loss of Pietro’s hands in hers. “What was that you said to Rosalia—‘look forward, not back’? Remember the English verse Athol taught us.”
“The inner side of every cloud
Is always bright and shining,
And so I turn my clouds about
And always wear them inside out,
To show their silver lining!”
“Right!” cried Patsy, “look for the silver lining. If every cloud had one, it’s this that darkens Italy!”
Let us turn the cloud about, dwell no more on Italy’s anguish unparalleled, but on the silver lining, the love and help her sisters lavished upon her. If we dwell most upon our country’s share, it is because we know more of it—not to set it above the others.
The minutes of the meeting of the Ladies’ Auxiliary (I was the Secretary), held January 9th, contain this entry:
“Mr. Parrish gave an account of an interview with Signor Nathan, the Syndic of Rome, who expressed the opinion that if the American Committee had a considerable sum of money at its disposal, it could best be invested in buying lumber and building houses in the devastated districts.”
That was the seed,—a good seed that bore fruit. By far the most important work done by America for the earthquake sufferers was the building of these houses in the devastated districts. In this enterprise our Ambassador proved worthy of his high office, of the great trust imposed upon him; from the moment the plan was decided upon, he devoted every ounce of energy to furthering it both at home and abroad. The details of his work do not properly belong to those outside the magic circle of diplomacy; his was a labor of Hercules—only the old Greek hero had seven labors, and the young American, seventy and seven. He was fortunate in having Captain Belknap to carry out the practical part of the work.
It was to help Belknap that J. left his studio, the terrace where the tromboni were blowing their golden trumpets, and the bees from the priest’s hive hummed in and out the wall flowers. Patsy and I stayed in Rome, worked for our profughi, played with our flowers. The Andalusian carnations, sent from Spain by our friend Don Jaime, were an intense interest. It seemed at first they would die; with the first touch of the March sun, they took heart of grace and decided that life was worth while, even for an Andalusian transplanted to Rome.
Ignazio’s bills had been growing heavier and heavier every month; he had not grafted the promised number of innesti on the roses; there were other small grievances. In a moment of exasperation I resolved to put an end to these things. I surprised him early one morning as he was changing the earth of the big azalea; he was on his knees, patting the rich brown loam about the roots.