“Yes,” the subdued woman said dully, “I understand!”
“That story of yours doesn’t sound probable—and you have no papers.”
She sighed heavily without reply, but I thought it well to drive home the point.
“So you had better take the train home to-morrow and not get arrested as a spy.”
“Very well.”
Several hours later I woke from a dream with the song of a nightingale in my ears mingled with a confused reverberation. It was not yet day; in the pale light before dawn the birds were wheeling and crying in the little garden outside my room. I stumbled to the balcony from which I could see the round dome of the Salute against the cloudless sky and a streak of sunrise beyond the Giudecca. What had cut short the song of the nightingale? Suddenly the answer came in the roar of an explosion from somewhere within the huddle of Venetian alleys, followed by the prolonged shrieks of sirens from the arsenal and the sputter and crackle of countless guns. I did not have to be told that this was war! This was what those young officers on the Lido were expecting to happen before morning. Austria had taken this way of acknowledging Italy’s temerity in challenging her might: she had sworn to destroy the jewelled beauty of Venice, and these bombs falling on the sleeping city were the Austrian answer to Italy’s declaration of war!
Another and another explosion followed in rapid succession, while the sirens shrieked and the antiaircraft guns from palace roofs rattled and spluttered up and down the Grand Canal. Then in a momentary lull I could detect the low hum of a motor, and looking upward I saw far aloft in the gray heavens the enemy aeroplane winging its way like some malevolent beetle in a straight line across the city. The little balconies all about were crowded with people who, unmindful of the warnings to keep within doors, and as near the cellar as Venetian dwellings permitted, were gazing like myself into the clear heavens after the buzzing machine. Their voices began to rise in eager comment as soon as the noise of bombs and guns died out. I caught sight of Signora Maironi in a group on a neighboring balcony, looking fixedly at the vanishing enemy.
Presently, as I was thinking that the attack had passed, there came again the peculiar hum of another aeroplane from behind the hotel. It grew louder and louder, and soon came the roar of exploding bombs followed by the crackle of answering guns. One deafening roar went up from the canal near by, echoing back and forth between the palace walls. That was very close, I judged! But the signora, as if fascinated, stood there, gazing into space, waiting for the evil machine to show itself. Gradually the noise died down as the aeroplane swung into view and headed eastward like its mate for the open Adriatic. A last, lingering explosion came from the direction of the arsenal, then all was silence except for the twittering of the disturbed birds in the garden and the excited staccato voices of Venetians telling one another what had happened.
Yes, this was war! And as I hurriedly dressed myself I thought that Signora Maironi would be lucky if she got safely out of Venice back to her home. We met over an early cup of coffee. The signora, to my surprise, did not seem in the least frightened—rather she had been stirred to a renewed determination by this first touch of war.
“Return now without seeing my boy!” she said scornfully in reply to my suggestion that we go at once to the railroad station. “Never!”