Edwina Stanton Babcock

“ The American:
I know not.
I know only,
All else is lost and fails.
I know new forces shape
Illimitable life
Out of infinite Mind.
He looks at the Bersagliere, touching him gently on the shoulder, saying softly:
’Tis a long communion table;
We all kneel at that table.{66}
It stretches through many lands,
It is spread in many minds.
How do we go from that table?
The bodies and blood of men
Must not be given in vain.
The American, turning to the Woodcarver, looks at him wistfully. He gestures to the winged figures all about, and says gravely and reverently:
Go on making angels! ”

“ Woodcarver, shuddering:{43}
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. ”

“ 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. ”

“ With sombre eyes he stares at the floor. Suddenly he notices a bit of wood lying in the shavings at his feet. It is a half-carved cross. The war correspondent, picking it up holds it loosely in his hand, ruminating. At last he puts it very gently on the table near the Woodcarver’s listless arm, and turns to the door, staring out to the grey vistas of the empty calles. As he smokes in silence the far-off guns boom steadily, and the whirl of grey pigeons comes once more past the little shop into the piazza. ”

“ The old Woodcarver staggers to his stool, and begins fiercely cutting at the shapeless block of wood. All about the small cavelike shop the sun strikes the smooth glistening bodies of wooden angels, the golden brown nakedness of little cherubs.
The American also sitting down rolls and lights a cigarette, the child collecting shavings and bits of wood from the floor, sits in the doorway sorting them and arranging them in patterns.
The American quietly inhaling his cigarette:
Your city is very drear. ”

“ With humbleness, like the humbleness of a weed,
And simplicity like the sun, and no other need
But to hold me free of pose and pretence and sham.
And then I should like to think such silent things,
As only the flowers think;
I should want the whole world to be greenly a wall of shine,
And I, leaning over, swimming in dreams of mine,
As a flower floats over a brink. ”

“ 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. ”

“ The American, half smiling at the child’s fantastic quality—half angry at his pathos:
Why! Look you, the peace of a dove
Were a witless, silly thing!{25}
Your doves there have their quarrels.
Notice that down-charged wing!
Hear that fretting and quarreling cooing
Trouble among the pigeons brewing!
The war correspondent laughs at his own impatience, then takes the child’s hand, stroking it tenderly and saying:
Now the peace of a dove
Is sent into the world
On stronger enduring wings—
The peace of a mighty world,
Rises on sturdier wings. ”

“ In blasted fields of France,
In England’s wooded ways.
Seeing many little forms,
The angels forgot to save.
The Woodcarver stops carving; he drops his head into his hand; the American bites his lips, and curses himself. ”

“ The American advances slowly; he is clad in khaki, and carries field glasses; his broad brimmed hat is worn down low over his eyes which, burned out and weary, are fixed on the Duomo of St. Marks.
As he notices the Italian flags, his lips close firmly together, and he looks down at the little American flag set in his button-hole. He stares around the deserted piazza and shivers. ”

“ The war correspondent closes his book; getting wearily to his feet he walks around the corner of the Palazzo Giustizia and gazes out on the Grand Canal toward the lagoons. He turns and looks sorrowfully toward the Bridge of Sighs, to the restored Campanile and the Procurate Nuova. The grey pigeons whirl around him; the child follows him.
Child looking earnestly at the American, points to the doves:
(Child, singing:)
There go the doves, the flowers of the water—
Leaves of the steeples and seed of the sea;
They know never our commerce nor barter,
Yet the doves are no longer free. ”

“ Where ferns their dewy plumage spread and preen;
Soft, myriad breaths of budding boughs exhale
On the spring world; a buoyant path of green
Makes sign by leaf and foliate flower-grail
Of exquisite re-capture of the frail
Fresh renascence of all that fair has been.
Nature survives. Lift then the haggard eyes
That watch Life on its dark death-shuttled loom!
Are ours the only forms that may not rise
Out of the Dark to unfrustrated bloom? ”

“ One People shall demand,
For the children still to be,
That Self shall be consumed
In the Passion No more War.
One Science dedicate
To a solemn World-emprise,
Spreading immortal health{65}
Over the whole of life;
That engines be dedicate
To the good and help of the world;
That crops be dedicate
To the strength and life of the world;
That gold be dedicate
To the power and might of the world;
That Mind be dedicate
To the reverent Law of the World.
They all regard him in wonder, until the Woodcarver demands,—
And what of race-pride?
Bersagliere:
And what of commerce? ”

“ 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. ”

“ 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. ”

“ 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.
{56}
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 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. ”

“ The American, drawing on the last bit of his cigarette, looks through the light cloud of smoke, and nods smiling.
The Woodcarver:
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 ”

“ All the men are on the lagoons,
With Latin passion and pride
Fighting the Prussians back;
But here in this empty place,
Thronged once by a brilliant world,
Stands a little Venetian child
Feeding the hungry doves.
Child, moving over near the American, curiously watches him at his writing. At last the little one sits soberly down beside the war correspondent, who smiles at him but goes on rapidly scribbling his notes ”

“ Where soaring birdmen fly—
On a splendid errantry,
The Parliament of Peace!
{26}
The child smiles doubtfully; but the tenderness in the war correspondent’s voice gains his confidence; he slips his hand into the stranger’s, saying almost gayly:
You talk like the Woodcarver,
A wonderful talk of wings.
Oh! come and see the Woodcarver,
And hear his wonderful things,
The way he reads the message
This dreadful war-time brings.
The two cross the deserted piazza toward the cálles where there are many little shops and booths now all boarded up; one, however, remains open. ”

“ And pride and fierce world-strife,
Back of the making of wars?
These angels, do they preen
Their wings over it all,
And smile upon us men?
The old Woodcarver for a moment drops his head; he passes his hand across anguished eyes; then he points to the child sitting in the doorstep, and puts his finger on his lip.
Woodcarver, fiercely:
Hush! It is to calm
His timid, childish thought.
The poor Bambino believes
These angels will keep him safe.
It is to keep serene
The thoughts ’neath his innocent curls,
That I go on carving angels.
American, bitterly ”

“ The canals are deserted except for one gondola slowly approaching a bridge. An American war correspondent wields the great oar unaccustomedly. The American steps out at a bridge; he makes fast the gondola; he walks slowly into the deserted piazza. Near the bronze base of the flagstaffs is a single child standing among the whirling pigeons. The child has a small bit of black bread in his hand; now and then he breaks off a tiny bit of the bread and throws it to the birds who come eagerly to him.{14}
Child looking at pigeons circling in the sky speaks as though to them:
Fly—Fly! ”

“ Man against man, gun against gun,
Waiting until the madness be done....
Further and Further away from dust,
Higher and Higher and Higher and Higher,
Every separate, keen-eyed flier,
Their’s is the flight of trust!
The Woodcarver turns shamefacedly back to the American, who smiles understanding his little diversion.
American—You speak quaintly, in childish parlance; but I like the fancy. What was your drollery about those who fly singly?
The Woodcarver, his dark eyes lighting with imagination, stands before the stranger arms akimbo, explaining,—
Woodcarver shyly:
Why! ”

“ Marks and the Palazzo Giustizia are nearly covered by sandbags and scaffoldings. The statues are all removed from their pedestals. The four famous bronze horses are once more removed; also the giants on the famous clock tower. The winged lion of St. Mark and the little St. Theodore and his crocodile have been carried to places of safety. From the bronze flagstaffs in the Piazza of St. Marks the Italian flags are flying. From afar off there comes the slow booming of guns. Suddenly the piazza is a whirl with pigeons. The guns sound like huge bass chords ”

“ 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{53} 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 work of wings is never done.
That, me-thinks, is a wise small song.
Who gave it you to sing?
{20}
The child stands gazing up at the American; he keeps mysterious dark eyes fixed upon him answering solemnly:
The Woodcarver,—he sings
A song of many lines
And all about the doves.
“Pigeons,” he sings, “are wise
They know their way so well,
For they mark it out by stars
And spiral paths of air;
They know their way so well,
And their way is always home
To quietness and peace—”
The child, keeping his eyes gravely fastened on the war correspondent, chants with a weird insistence ”