The Drama of Three Hundred and Sixty Five Days/The Italian Soul
THE ITALIAN SOUL
That was the great and awful hour when Italy
stood on the threshold of her fate; but though
Great Britain's heart was bleeding from the
sacrifices she had already made, and had still to
make, and though Italy's intervention meant so
much to us, we did not feel that we had a right
to ask for it. And neither was it necessary that
we should do so. The treaty that bound Italy
to England was not written on a scrap of paper.
It was in our blood, born of our devotion to
humanity, to justice, to liberty, and to the
memory of our great men. Therefore, with the
world in arms about her, let Italy do what she
thought best for herself, and the bond between
us would not be broken!
How the sequel has justified our faith! And when the great hour struck at last, after ten months of suspense, and Italy—ready, fully equipped, united—found the voice with which she proclaimed war, what a voice it was! Eloquent voices she had had throughout, in her Press as well as in her legislative chambers—Morelli's, Barzini's, Albertini's, Malagocli's, not to speak of Sartorio's, Ferrero's, Annie Vivanti's, and many more—but it quickens my pulse to remember that it was the voice of a poet which at the final moment was to speak for the Italian soul.
Friends newly arrived from Italy tell me that not even in Rome (where one always feels as if one were living on the borderland of the old world and the new, with thousands of years behind and thousands of years in front) can anybody remember anything so moving as the substance and the reception of Gabriele d'Annunzio's speech from the balcony of the Hotel Regina. We can well imagine it. The spirit of Time itself could have found no greater scene, no more thrilling moment. The broad highway on the breast of the hill going up to the Porta Pinciana, faced by the palace of the Queen Mother and flanked by the gardens of the Capuchin monastery, with the Colosseum, the Capitol and the Forum almost visible to the right—what a theatre to speak in!
There were 5000 persons below, all "Romans of Rome," and the Queen Mother was on her balcony. But the orator was worthy of his audience, and his theme. He had the past for his prologue, and the future for his epilogue. Caesar, Brutus, Cicero, the story of the old oppression from which the world had freed itself after age-long tribulation, and then a picture of the new tyranny that was sweeping down from across the Rhine. What wonder if the warm-hearted Roman populace, to whom patriotism is a religion, were carried away by an appeal which seemed to come to them with the voice of Dante, Mazzini, Carducci, and Garibaldi from the very earth beneath their feet!
So on May 20, 1915, knowing well what the terrors of war were, and how remote the prospects of early victory, Italy took her place in arms by the side of the Allies. And now the heart of old Rome, so long perturbed, is tranquil. With heroic confidence she relies on her brave sons, led by her dauntless King, to justify her. And when she hears the truculent boast of our enemy that after he has disposed of Russia, he will destroy Italy as a Power in Europe, she answers calmly, "Yes, when the last Roman capable of bearing arms lies dead in Roman soil—perhaps then, but not sooner."