Chapter 2

Hush! It is to calmHis timid, childish thought.The poor Bambino believesThese angels will keep him safe.It is to keep sereneThe thoughts ’neath his innocent curls,That I go on carving angels.

American, bitterly:

Yes—only I have beenDown in Servia,On Armenian plains.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. 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 child, looking up at them, chants dreamily:

Laws of humanity hold themSafe for the sunlit feeding,Protected always, and heedingLaws of the place that enrolled them;Spiral their flights, midst the steeplesPinnacles and Campanile;Silver fanfare of wings,Soothing the thoughts of the peoples.They spell Humanity, Love,Tenderness, Peace—But the airIs rent with wild thunder—Despair....Where is the end of it? Where?

The Woodcarver, lifting his face from his hands, looks anxiously at the child; he passes his rough hand swiftly over his eyes and smiles. Rising he pats the little shoulder of the child sitting in the doorway, saying laughingly:

Why their’s is a small Parliament.Peace to their soaring counsels!Weaving strange laws,Making a CauseFor the new born nations.Note how they fly,Tieing the sky,Looping the heavens,Wreathing the square,Binding blue airInto golden-garlanded sheaves!There are the glad manoeuvres,The shiftings and the shaping,The mist and the cloud-escaping.Higher they fly and higher,Looping their winged desire,While we stand down here gaping.

The Woodcarver stands by the child, tapping his shoulder gently, and with the other hand pointing out the difference in pigeon flight.

Woodcarver explaining whimsically:

There are the Ones, the Twos and the Threes,The ablest, sagest counsellors, these....The Threes soar higher than most,The Twos have a most responsible post,And the Ones—Oh! the separate lonely Ones—Dreamers and Hopers and Prayers, the Ones!Stretching their wings over the world,Wavering over Humanity, hurledMan 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! Look you! I am a manWithout kith nor kin;No wife, nor any childBut this adopted one,Whose parents fled away,And left him homeless here.And it seems to me that I dwellCloser to mine own heart,Where many counsels come,Than if a woman plungedHer fingers in my brain,And mixed my reason up.

The war correspondent laughs heartily at this, but the Woodcarver is quite serious. The old man stands slightly bent in the centre of the little place, regarding the stranger intently, and says slowly and gravely:

The lonely people knowMuch that is shut awayFrom those that go in crowds,Companioned all the time.And look you—when the massOf human beings act,’Tis on the thought of thoseWho sit high up, alone,Studying the Stars;Or sit low down, alone,Studying the Sands;Or middle way, aloneStudying the Times.

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 domesOf 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 wingsSo 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 deathBy 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 dawnOf 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 signUnder 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 earthInto pure unmeasured air,Where not a house can pryWith narrow stupid eyes,And cramping stifling roof;Where not a printed wordSprays poison of old thoughtOver 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 giftAnd the prophecy of birds.

The birds feel boundless air—Air of the Universe,Air of unbounded Life,Freedom and liberty;They see the first faint dawnOf 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 signUnder 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 earthInto pure unmeasured air,Where not a house can pryWith narrow stupid eyes,And cramping stifling roof;Where not a printed wordSprays poison of old thoughtOver 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 giftAnd 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 planesCharging 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 manThrough 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 keptLight and sharp as steelTo be used for the piercing of air,Like lance darting at fate—In one of his laughing moodsPegoud said things like that....Like eagles in their hoods,Poised on their swooping planes,The aviators knowThings not far off from that.The solemn flying men,The spear-eyed avions,Whose radiant, soaring wingsGild 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 sciencesAnd new far beckonings.They break all barriers,Sweep all boundaries,Surmount all mountains,And soaring over seasThat have for countless yearsEnsnared the minds of menTo barter and piracy—They give the new air-pathTo Peace and the interchangeOf 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 killingChapman 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 thoughtsAnd many many dreamsAnd 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 standsOn supremest level of all—Highest peak of man’s mind,That dares his nature down,Fastens his blood in leash,Refines his passion, untilIt calms under his hand,And goes towar 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 throughThe 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 depthsTo Something seen ahead,Until their feet touch shore.Oh! that the shore they touchWould be the coasts of Peace!

American bitterly:

Still the guns boom and boomOver the minds of men,Drowning the wills of men,The thinking powers of men.So they boomed in the daysWhen the Fallieri fought,When Colleoni tookThe desperate cities’ pay,When the Hohenstauffen clutchedItaly’s throbbing heart,When wily MetternichClosed up the mouths of menAnd universities.The black glutted gunsBoomed for Garibaldi,And for Gambetta’s cause.For that Napoleon,Who dickered in big wars—With the great solemn headAnd little pompous frameAnd cold and martial eyeAnd strange abnormal dream.The whole world loathed the soundOf the sea of Mittrailleuse,The roaring cannon-waves.Yet on the swimmers came,And dove through the frightful Surf,Until whole millions layLike dead fish in that sea,That broke in barren wavesUpon posterity.So shall the millions dieIn 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 worldIn a new solemn VowAnd endless chanting hymn,A vow such as this—A vow that every raceAnd every blood shall signAnd seal with the memoryOf 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 wordAs Patriotic faith!A vow that shall be sealedBy the whole world, risingRequiring this one Thing,Saying—“And with Him goThe marshalled powers of killing.With him go out the Guns,With us come in the Wings;Bearing us on our ThoughtThe kingdoms of our MindAnd wisdoms of our Soul!”

The whole world loathed the soundOf the sea of Mittrailleuse,The roaring cannon-waves.Yet on the swimmers came,And dove through the frightful Surf,Until whole millions layLike dead fish in that sea,That broke in barren wavesUpon posterity.So shall the millions dieIn 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 worldIn a new solemn VowAnd endless chanting hymn,A vow such as this—

A vow that every raceAnd every blood shall signAnd seal with the memoryOf 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 wordAs Patriotic faith!A vow that shall be sealedBy the whole world, risingRequiring this one Thing,Saying—“And with Him goThe marshalled powers of killing.With him go out the Guns,With us come in the Wings;Bearing us on our ThoughtThe kingdoms of our MindAnd 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 gayAnd full of sprightliness.The keenness of their face,The quickness of their mind,And their slowness to all passion....Their big ambitions, andTheir proud impulsiveness....America, fine and free,What does she think of gunsAnd working out a thoughtWith 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 knowYour land of tapering towersAnd 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 menFuel, clothes, machinesAnd gold, and curingOf medicines, and stuffs;Every device of strength,All scientific ways,To heal and mend and save.Yet your land does not knowThe devastating hellOf war, and war for War—The hells that took the bloomFrom off the women’s faces,And blasted children’s mindsIn every other land.Your country does not knowPray 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 trickeriesOf 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 sailedTo carry them to their graves,The smiling sacrificeOf 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 goodbyeTo headlands and to Home,To sweetheart and to wife,With lips of passionate youth—Set to a priestly taskOf wagingwar on War.On stranger foreign soilThey laugh in sordid tents,Go down into the trench,Or Sail the gallant air,Making theirwar on War.Yea, the world might once have saidThat we were long in peace.No longer can it sayAmerica 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 burstsFrom the brave tormented heartAt sight of French fields tornAnd orchards murdered down;Not with the doomed despairOf Servia, race-extinct,Watching the women and girls,Packed like frightened beastsHerded, in slavish fearOf many shames and deaths,Looking back to the hillsWhere the bodies of murdered menSpell the End of the Race.Not with the frightful senseOf tangled pride and lies,And great undisciplinesOf Russia’s wolving hordes.Not with that English heartThat bears its burden dumb,And puts its sorrow by,And keeps its firm face fixedToward its solemn duty, dumbAgainst outside attacks,Dumb under awful grief,Dumb under bitter trial,But with a knowledge strongOf the Faith that comes with deathAnd with the Duty bornOf a perfect fearlessness....Not with passions like theseAmerica goes to the Test,But with new Law in her eyesAnd 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 careFor honesty in the eyesOf the children of our race,For fairness, squareness, right;The way we care for a road,That loops up through the hillsOf our Rocky Mountain peaks,For a finely poised machine,For a finely written tale,For a deed done with despatchAnd sureness and brevity.We care for it, as we careFor 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 fearFor ourselves and for other men.My country cares for Peace;My country dies for Peace.But we care like the surgeon, whoHand steady and eyes set stern,Cuts without thought of shameOr pity or silly fears,Till the gangrene is excised;Cuts the dead flesh awayAnd sees new healing powersNew 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 cleanTo operate success,And know no poisoning.And, as the surgeon holdsHis 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 ourselvesStrong 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 thePiave. 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 merriestOn all the moving canals;Whose cry soared over the housetopsAnd dreaming palacesLike 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 grownOlder than any world;Older than anythingDug 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 enoughTo make us wise enoughTo try tolivefor 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 alwaysBy 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 needOf dying for a belief.Now Youth flies forward,Softly on lucid air,Lifting our earth-faces,Guiding our feet that walkIn 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 grudgedOur generous young death,Unless you learn the Word,And learn that Nothing is,Nothing can ever be,Until men turn them toTheir labors for a thingThat shall be greater farThan 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 WordBy which shall come releaseFrom the Torture of the World,The Battle cry of ... Peace!

What is the gain, asks Youth,That we died and never grudgedOur generous young death,Unless you learn the Word,And learn that Nothing is,Nothing can ever be,Until men turn them toTheir labors for a thingThat shall be greater farThan 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 WordBy which shall come releaseFrom 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 farBeyond man’s imperfection.Who knows what we can learn,Now that we, too, have wings?

He turns to the Woodcarver pointing to the pigeons:

IMIND me of one spring morning,When first I saw them whirlIn their Winged Parliament;’Twas May, and Venice was bridal.Bridal she always was,The fragile, aged cityThat keeps beauty withinHer 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 breakingInto a lovely destruction,At every passing of oarsAlong 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 smilingThrough the tangles of a vine.In a hundred broken trances,A thousand flickering candles,In glooms of the sanctuaryAnd 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 plashingOf sinuous gondolas,Black and gold on the color,Fastened at the traghettiLolling 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 RialtoMerchants clamoring still;On the shifting Schiavoni,Fluttering tourists and children,Eager, impressed and caughtIn enchantment older than love.Venice the aged queen,Took them upon her knees,And showed them her fabulous bookOf melting picture-dreams,Of saints and gods and kings,Of martyrs, Doges, and Popes,Of painters and architects;Told them her amorous talesOf 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!

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:

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