Part 2

And the pigeons all alone, Circling the dreamy domes Of the Salute, there.... Why! look you! They fly so high, That earth-eyes cannot see; They lose all sight of lands; They feel the boundless air-- Air of the universe; And the little plans of men, And the little lands of men, Like stupid little maps, Like little colored charts, Spread out under their wings So little and so brief.... Each nation for itself, Each mortal for himself, All working different ways, Striving against each other, Pulling away from each other, Until some great Snarl comes, And all are choked to death By the tangle in their hands, And the tangle in their minds.

The birds feel boundless air-- Air of the Universe, Air of unbounded Life, Freedom and liberty; They see the first faint dawn Of a Boundless Peoples’ soul, Freed for a mighty world-- World-Race, World-Life, World-God. And on the sun-pathed clouds, That toss like high white seas, The dauntless birds fly out, Out to a rimless Space, Out to the path of Worlds, And the solemn ways of stars, Where they glimpse God himself; And like a precious message, Heaven-indicated sign Under their small sweet wings, They hold our dream for us.

Then we take to the air.... Battalioned aeroplanes, Squadrons of flying men, Winged holy priests, Winged lawyers and doctors, Winged men and women, Flying up from the earth Into pure unmeasured air, Where not a house can pry With narrow stupid eyes, And cramping stifling roof; Where not a printed word Sprays poison of old thought Over the sky-cleansed Mind. Where the clean squadrons fly, Like soaring splendid birds, Comes knowledge and buoyancy. There is the liberty, The freedom and the power, Prescience and omniscience, The Vision and the gift And the prophecy of birds.

The American, tossing away the stub of cigarette, reflectively surveys the speaker.

American:

Strange how he talks, This old Venetian man, This Carver of Wood-angels, Seeing the glorious planes Charging over the world! A child-like, passionate theme. Strange how the Carver talks!-- So talked the flying men, Victor Chapman himself, Dark as a gypsy prince, With mind so just and stern, Exact and science-full; Chapman, adventurer, Into the enemy lines, Gallant plane-fighter, Bronze plume-spreader, Wild wing-worker-- Once said a thing like that. Pegoud, though such a man Through all his fighting fame, And such a soldier, too, With duty in his eyes, France alight in his face, His body like a tool, The spirit used and kept Light and sharp as steel To be used for the piercing of air, Like lance darting at fate-- In one of his laughing moods Pegoud said things like that.... Like eagles in their hoods, Poised on their swooping planes, The aviators know Things not far off from that. The solemn flying men, The spear-eyed avions, Whose radiant, soaring wings Gild the blue summer air, Who take the surf of clouds, And thread the net of stars, Emerging into Space, Keen for new reckonings-- New delicate balancings, Keen for new sciences And new far beckonings. They break all barriers, Sweep all boundaries, Surmount all mountains, And soaring over seas That have for countless years Ensnared the minds of men To barter and piracy-- They give the new air-path To Peace and the interchange Of mutual benefits. Chapman, Pegoud, Gunymener-- They all said things like that, They were too busy killing, To make the thing come true; (And others were busy killing Chapman and Pegoud,) So their soarings ended soon, They folded their wings and slept.... But from their Grand Parliament, Their high and scatheless Parliament, Their steep-ascending Parliament, Senate of silver wings, Pageant of balanced Thought, Aerial conference, Congress of flying men, And forward flying minds-- Come many, many thoughts And many many dreams And thrilling glorious hopes.... Thus, all that battle now, All that struggle now, And all that are dying now, All that are starving now, Do so smiling and strong, Do so happy and sure, Knowing that this age stands On supremest level of all-- Highest peak of man’s mind, That dares his nature down, Fastens his blood in leash, Refines his passion, until It calms under his hand, And goes to _war with War_.

There is a sudden tremendous sound of guns. The child flings himself on the floor in fear; he crosses himself and lies there looking pitifully up to the walls where the wooden angels poise. The Woodcarver stops his work, and regards the child with a drawn white face.

Woodcarver, shuddering:

Christos!--A bitter sea, That booming sea of guns. Yet men dare to swim through The Surf of mittrailleuse, The solemn tides of blood, The still, white foam of fear, The cold blank sands of death.... Yea, men dive into it, Men swim into it, Forging beyond its depths To Something seen ahead, Until their feet touch shore. Oh! that the shore they touch Would be the coasts of Peace!

American bitterly:

Still the guns boom and boom Over the minds of men, Drowning the wills of men, The thinking powers of men. So they boomed in the days When the Fallieri fought, When Colleoni took The desperate cities’ pay, When the Hohenstauffen clutched Italy’s throbbing heart, When wily Metternich Closed up the mouths of men And universities. The black glutted guns Boomed for Garibaldi, And for Gambetta’s cause. For that Napoleon, Who dickered in big wars-- With the great solemn head And little pompous frame And cold and martial eye And strange abnormal dream.

The whole world loathed the sound Of the sea of Mittrailleuse, The roaring cannon-waves. Yet on the swimmers came, And dove through the frightful Surf, Until whole millions lay Like dead fish in that sea, That broke in barren waves Upon posterity. So shall the millions die In this chartless blasting Sea, Till someone finds its Source-- The Power in Berlin, And binds his pilfering hands, And heals his crazy brain, And ends his Mania.... Till someone leads the world In a new solemn Vow And endless chanting hymn, A vow such as this--

A vow that every race And every blood shall sign And seal with the memory Of children who have died, Of torment and of fright; Of Women who have died, Bearing the children of rape; Of Men who gave their lives, Fighting the filthy wars, Of commerce and of greed; Under so high a word, So clean and pure a word As Patriotic faith! A vow that shall be sealed By the whole world, rising Requiring this one Thing, Saying--“And with Him go The marshalled powers of killing. With him go out the Guns, With us come in the Wings; Bearing us on our Thought The kingdoms of our Mind And wisdoms of our Soul!”

As the American finished, the Woodcarver looks shrewdly up from his work:

Is that how America talks? How is it in your land? Your people bright and gay And full of sprightliness. The keenness of their face, The quickness of their mind, And their slowness to all passion.... Their big ambitions, and Their proud impulsiveness.... America, fine and free, What does she think of guns And working out a thought With a massed artillery?

The American, lighting another cigarette, ruminatingly regards it, and the old Italian smiling shakes his head and poises a half shaped figure of Christ in his hand, saying:

Nay, Nay! She does not know Your land of tapering towers And groves of shining lights, The women light of foot, Men white-haired but young-faced. Your land knows not the guns, Your land sends ships and men Fuel, clothes, machines And gold, and curing Of medicines, and stuffs; Every device of strength, All scientific ways, To heal and mend and save. Yet your land does not know The devastating hell Of war, and war for War-- The hells that took the bloom From off the women’s faces, And blasted children’s minds In every other land. Your country does not know Pray heaven she shall not know!

With a groan, the Woodcarver once more takes up the Christ, he runs his skilful sensitive fingers and supple wrist along the thin side of the young crucified figure. The American lost in thought staring at him. At last the latter as if speaking to himself thinks aloud, says softly:

“Our land sends ships and men, The youth of the country’s loins, The precious toll of her towns, The noble gift of her hills; Men who were born to peace, Who curse vile trickeries Of hateful modern war; Who trusted with smiling face, A certain honesty, And could not fathom hate, And could not relish greed. Ship after ship has sailed To carry them to their graves, The smiling sacrifice Of this despairing age.”

The Woodcarver looks up, in a kind of awe, as the American relates:

They sail out on the night, The young unhardened boys, Whispering goodbye To headlands and to Home, To sweetheart and to wife, With lips of passionate youth-- Set to a priestly task Of waging _war on War_. On stranger foreign soil They laugh in sordid tents, Go down into the trench, Or Sail the gallant air, Making their _war on War_. Yea, the world might once have said That we were long in peace. No longer can it say America knows not war.

The American, after brooding upon the idea, takes up his argument more earnestly, continuing:

America does not know? I think we know too well, I think we know at last. Not with the passion that bursts From the brave tormented heart At sight of French fields torn And orchards murdered down; Not with the doomed despair Of Servia, race-extinct, Watching the women and girls, Packed like frightened beasts Herded, in slavish fear Of many shames and deaths, Looking back to the hills Where the bodies of murdered men Spell the End of the Race. Not with the frightful sense Of tangled pride and lies, And great undisciplines Of Russia’s wolving hordes. Not with that English heart That bears its burden dumb, And puts its sorrow by, And keeps its firm face fixed Toward its solemn duty, dumb Against outside attacks, Dumb under awful grief, Dumb under bitter trial, But with a knowledge strong Of the Faith that comes with death And with the Duty born Of a perfect fearlessness.... Not with passions like these America goes to the Test, But with new Law in her eyes And a new Dream in her heart-- Dying into her birth.

The Woodcarver drops his work. He folds his arms among the shavings on the table, and leans his head on them staring at the war correspondent, who sits shoulder dropped, knees wide apart, smoking thoughtfully, continuing:

America knows not War, As a lasting principle. But knows that War must be, Till the Germ of War be killed. Now that the way is seen, America comes forth, Makes that her battle-cry. We care for that, as we care For honesty in the eyes Of the children of our race, For fairness, squareness, right; The way we care for a road, That loops up through the hills Of our Rocky Mountain peaks, For a finely poised machine, For a finely written tale, For a deed done with despatch And sureness and brevity. We care for it, as we care For a plunge in a mountain lake, The smell of the woodland trail, The secret of purple tides, The science of charted stars. My country has a dream, The dream of equal rights, The dream of a greater self, Merging of Bignesses, Of Progress, Land and Men. The conquest of all fear For ourselves and for other men. My country cares for Peace; My country dies for Peace. But we care like the surgeon, who Hand steady and eyes set stern, Cuts without thought of shame Or pity or silly fears, Till the gangrene is excised; Cuts the dead flesh away And sees new healing powers New vigors and new healths. My country comes to yours, To all the ailing lands, And stands with face strong set, Jaws firm, eyes straight ahead, To do this surgery, And keep itself more clean To operate success, And know no poisoning. And, as the surgeon holds His body and muscles hard, His hands firm and true, As a mother’s with a child, And his eyes clear and kind-- So must we keep ourselves Strong for our mighty work; No poison of Greed and Self, No poisons of class and caste, But our hands tender and strong, Our eyes tender and cool, Our words humble and true, Our hearts--God help us!--pure.

As the American finishes, the child rushes, in wild excitement, crying:

“Master--O Master, there is a soldier come down from the front--one of the Bersagliere--from the floods of the Piave. He found a boat, and, with his one poor hand, he has rowed it down the lagoons. The boat is full of blood. His side--his eyes are bleeding--O Master--Master!” There is a startled whir of the pigeons flying past, as a man’s steps are heard dragging themselves over the stone pavement of the Calla. The child stands petrified at sight of the wounded soldier, covered with mud and blood, yet still wearing the draggled beaver hat with coque feathers, the long yellow gaiters and torn blue coat. He staggers in, makes the sign of the cross to the winged figures all about him, and sinks coughing on a bench. His head drops forward. The old Woodcarver falls on his knees before him, takes off his hat, and peers into his face. The American bends over him, takes a flask from his hip pocket, and pouring some of the contents on his handkerchief, puts it between the man’s shaking lips.

* * * * *

Woodcarver with horror:

“Holy Virgin, protect us! ’Tis Pietro! the Gondolier, Whose song was merriest On all the moving canals; Whose cry soared over the housetops And dreaming palaces Like a chain of golden moons. He was a supple figure, Leaning upon his oar, With his scarlet sash and his cap, And the saucy black on his lip, A merry scalawag. Virgin! but he has grown Older than any world; Older than anything Dug out of a month’s old grave, And set to live again.”

The Bersagliere sits panting, his eyes roll around the shop vacantly and wildly. Suddenly his glance falls on the half finished wooden Christ lying on the table. He struggles up, clutches it, and presses it to his lips. His hands close over it, his bleeding face breaks into pitiful sobs, and he moans like an animal.

The American, turning his head away, bites his lips muttering:

“Their Christ--Their Christ. They will all die for him; But Ah! it takes anguish, Anguish of many kinds, To make us humble enough To make us wise enough To try to _live_ for him.”

The war correspondent leaves the flask in the hands of the Woodcarver, who hangs over his friend like a woman, taking off the hat, smoothing the battered coque feathers, stroking the hair back from the bleeding brow. He pours water out of a flask, and bathes the grey shaking face; he finally draws a very small fragment of his black bread from his breast, and, with a strange passionate gesture of renunciation, offers it to the soldier, who wolfishly snatches, and quickly devours it. He groans with his eyes closed, then looks appealing up at the Christ in the Woodcarver’s hand, and crosses himself.

The Woodcarver in a low tone to the American:

_It is like the Sacrament._

The American: It is like---- It is like---- The war correspondent breaks off suddenly; he flings himself to the door clenching his hand. The child runs to him, beckoning and pointing to sky.

Overhead, far above the buildings, flies a squadron of airplanes. They are bronze, gold and silver in the sunlight. The correspondent looking at them with his field glasses, can distinguish them as Austrian planes. They drop no bombs. As they pass the war correspondent looks back over his shoulder at the Woodcarver--

War correspondent:

They drop no bombs on Venice, Do they treasure beauty still? So that they are loath to crush?

The Woodcarver:

They fly superbly and strong.

The American:

’Tis a short, glancing, fatal life, yet imperial as a God’s.

The Bersagliere, savagely:

“Well? Do they attack? Hell to their insolence!”

The child:

Oh! but see our pigeons fly with them!

The American:

Like the shadows of their souls.

The Woodcarver, somberly with mystic emphasis:

The planes are companied always By the souls of the young dead fliers, The air-men who have died, Not knowing victory, Who cannot rest in graves, But still ride on the air, Asking, How will it end?

The Woodcarver is still staring up into the sky. The child steals up to him, and slips his hand in his.

Woodcarver in a sort of chant to the child:

Yea, in the fair blue air, In the silken glass-blown air, Full of its flowery forms, Or un-embodied souls, These disembodied fly-- Asking, _How will it end?_ Myriad wonders soar, Fly with our flying hordes, The flying hordes of our foe, Asking, _How will it end?_ Youth with a smile on its lips, Youth with untired powers, Youth with its gallant need Of dying for a belief. Now Youth flies forward, Softly on lucid air, Lifting our earth-faces, Guiding our feet that walk In the old stubborn ways, Calling us to the air, Asking, How does it end?

What is the gain, asks Youth, That we died and never grudged Our generous young death, Unless you learn the Word, And learn that Nothing is, Nothing can ever be, Until men turn them to Their labors for a thing That shall be greater far Than any gain of war? Dead youth with untired powers-- Defeated of its life, And life it could have given-- Hangs on surrounding air, And tries to speak the Word, The new, all-languaged Word By which shall come release From the Torture of the World, The Battle cry of ... Peace!

They all cluster around the doorway watching the marvelous evolutions of the airplanes. The pigeons soar under them, and the child for the first time smiles--

The child, quaintly:

The birds taught them to fly. Will the sweet birds teach them peace?

American smiling, rumpling the child’s hair tenderly:

The scientists say, little one, That a bird develops far Beyond man’s imperfection. Who knows what we can learn, Now that we, too, have wings?

He turns to the Woodcarver pointing to the pigeons:

I mind me of one spring morning, When first I saw them whirl In their Winged Parliament; ’Twas May, and Venice was bridal. Bridal she always was, The fragile, aged city That keeps beauty within Her shadowy tragic heart. ’Twas May and Venice was bridal. Golden light on the housetops, Limpid green on the water; Palaces gleamed and thrilled, Pallidly swimming and breaking Into a lovely destruction, At every passing of oars Along their circling mirror.

The American, a look of ineffable regret on his face, recapitulates the beauty of Venice:

Ripples on white steps breaking, Wistaria over the doorways, A bright bird high in a window, Carved heads on colonnades, Musing statues smiling Through the tangles of a vine. In a hundred broken trances, A thousand flickering candles, In glooms of the sanctuary And burst of the priests strong song, In processions of Corpus Christi; A thousand broken reflections, Sweet cries of melon vendors, Swish of oars and of barges; A scented warmth with the plashing Of sinuous gondolas, Black and gold on the color, Fastened at the traghetti Lolling on freshening tides, White was the Della Salute, Bubbling with many towers. On the fluttering Giudecca, Bright with its tatters and patches, The solemn Redentore. On the ancient hooded Rialto Merchants clamoring still; On the shifting Schiavoni, Fluttering tourists and children, Eager, impressed and caught In enchantment older than love. Venice the aged queen, Took them upon her knees, And showed them her fabulous book Of melting picture-dreams, Of saints and gods and kings, Of martyrs, Doges, and Popes, Of painters and architects; Told them her amorous tales Of adventure and emprise, Of sea-fogs covering deeds, Strange and wicked and old, Of gallants in muffling cloaks, Of the lions’ mouths in the square; Told them her amorous tales, Saying, “All ends in Beauty,” And sent them out from her courts-- Whispering, “All ends in Beauty.”

Venice in delicate age, Beauty in power and age, Age like frost on the grass, Age like the age of the tree, Like a fountain that never dries-- Such was Venice that morn-- And the doves over it all!

The American suddenly turns, and shakes his fist in the direction of the booming of the guns. He faces the other two men demanding tensely:

Rheims had beauty like that. France had beauty like that. Belgium had beauty like that. What is the doom of the world? What must our science teach? What must religion work? What is it men need to know, Before beauty like this Can be spared to the hungry world, That needs to drink of the cup Of Beauty for its life?

The Bersagliere looks up; the cut on his forehead bleeds less freely but he holds his ragged handkerchief to it. As he speaks, he motions toward the unfinished Christ lying on the table--his voice a gutteral whisper.

The Bersagliere:

Never the hungry world, The desperate childish world, The feeble stupid world, Caught in its horrible webs, Of stupid desires and needs, Of pamperings and sloth, Of pride and avarice, Of class and snobbery; Never the world can be saved Until we look on this.

He reaches over, seizes the cross and embraces it, passionately continuing between moans:

In the trenches they say it, In the hospitals know it. Men have talked to each other, Lying sobbing with pain Under the misery Of stabbing knives of cold. Out under the stars, Where the broken bodies lie Of young men scattered stiff In terrible postures of death; Or sweet boys broken up In ghastly pieces of death. The broken whispers sob: _The body and blood of Christ._ “The body and blood of Christ,” It has been broken again, By all the simple people The patient humble people; A long communion table, Stretching out through all lands. The body and blood of Christ, Given to us again By these his ignorant men, Who when they crashed to death On mountain or on plain Resigned their souls to Him.

The Bersagliere raises his arm to heaven as if registering a vow:

Nevermore will I take The holy sacrament But that my lips will say, The bodies and blood of _men_, Never will I receive The wafer on my lips But after Christ’s sweet name, “Bodies and blood of _men_!” Bitter will be the wine Unless I murmur soft “The bodies and blood of men Who die, that He might live.”

Woodcarver regarding the stricken soldier. Ah! what does this chaos mean?

The American bites his lips and clenches his hand. Finally he turns to where the cross lies on the table, takes it up reverently and curiously, and looks at it as at some new thing.

The American, reverently: