I do not believe any man could ever have hoped for a finer task than mine. I, who have often considered life not worth living, congratulated myself on this undertaking in which I should have the opportunity of creating my masterpiece. But before attempting the marvelous game from which I was certain I was never to return, I wished to visit Venice once again, I wished to draw again from the memorial and eternal glories of these monuments the deep joy of such a life instilled in stone as but rarely it is possible to instil in men. How often while contemplating the architecture of St. Mark’s have I said to myself that we have the right to make men die because we also know how to make them live, but no right to destroy memories because we cannot build them again. How could one reconstruct the glories of fourteen centuries of domination?

With Bottecchia and the De Carli brothers I went to visit Venice for the last time. A light naval motorboat carried us swiftly along the short stretch of water separating the mainland from the city on the sea. It was a clear day; the bluish surface of the basin of St. Mark glittered under the first light zephyrs of May, and, stirred from time to time by smarter puffs, the little waves broke crisply against the sides and over the bow of our skiff. The symmetrical form of a swift torpedo-boat, whose slender sides were moulded for speed like the tendons of a grayhound, was outlined against the curved horizon flecked with frail diaphanous clouds. Amethyst and cobalt, purple and gold mingled in the rapid, ever-changing water swirls about us, intersecting now and anon shattered into fragments that in turn recreate new gleams of loveliness of color and new plays of light. The cold, viscid seaweed stood erect in midstream eagerly awaiting the caress of a passing keel, or hid its dark mass among the shadows of the Cyclopean walls from which the swift foam of the eddies is hurled back. The spirals of a slender column resembling a wistaria vine descended as far as the odorous musk along the bank, while two gentle peacocks, reclining upon marble, wound their sinuous necks about a byzantine image before which wavered the flame of a votive lamp. Our gondola glided silently along the tortuous canal of the dead city. Now and again we passed a heavy stone railing before which dancing statues seemed to suspend the invisible garlands of a distant minuet, or such a heavy iron gate as pricks the pale sky with its pointed blades, or a cypress and a rose bush closely bound together in a single embrace for centuries, with their long, green foliage resting on the water. The Lombardesque eagles curved under the cornice of Casa Vendramin uphold the festoons of stone and on the porous, stained marble one can always read the phrase of the Latin psalm “non nobis, non nobis.” Yet, even for us it is springtime; even for us it is sweet to think it is springtime and that we shall be able to die in springtime.

The gondola drifts slowly between the palaces resting on the water. The Ca D’Oro outlines against the sky its designs of Romanesque acanthus. The Pesaro Palace opens its gigantic stalactic gates into the shadow of its deep courtyard. From under the curved arch of the Rialto a tear still falls. The erect, angular obelisks of the Palace of Pappadopoli pierce the sky as though in defiance of the enemy, and from the high belvederes two somber cannon raise their sinister mouths in air.

On the deserted “fondamenta” there appears the slim figure of a woman enveloped in a shawl and she advances tranquilly gazing towards the East. How calm, how sacred her demeanor! Nothing of earth is there about her body; all her sinews seem set for the same struggle, all her nerves seem tautened by the same love. Her gesture is not new. It has been beheld before on earth. The Virgins of the Carpaccio know it; it has been known for the past fifteen centuries by the women of Venice accustomed to await the advent from the sea of their greatest griefs and their supreme joys. For those women, for the children who have been tortured on the other side of the Piave, I am determined that this pure image of Venice, this pure image of our race shall not suffer contamination.

The clouds of springtime fled rapidly overhead; piling one upon the other into white heaps, swollen to huge proportions. Occasionally a strip of azure disclosed itself and then an oblique ray of light shot through, coloring for a second the vivid faÇades of the palaces. A boat filled with cabbages, of the large white-headed variety from Verona, passed near us and scattered the fragrance of the country. Ca’ Foscari stood out, with its broad face and large windows rimmed with gold, and farther on glittered the statues of the Contarini Delle Figure palace. A solitary aeroplane which had arisen from Sant. Andrea described slow curves overhead, accelerating and retarding the run of its motor. My faithful friends, my trusted companions were in the boat with me. We had come to Venice in a moment of expectation, during a respite in the struggle, to derive from these memories the strength to accomplish our undertaking, now almost wholly matured in my mind and become the favored child of my imagination. Every day I outlined it and reshaped it with great love; daily I examined its weak spots with affectionate care; daily my assurance revived; every moment I tormented and tortured myself with new doubts so as to be certain that I might not be cheating myself, that I would not fail. At night, before sleep overtook me, I felt the beautiful armored creature alive in my flesh; I felt in my rapid pulse the whirlwind of its strength ready to hurl itself like an arrow which cannot fail; I was conscious of the calculating cunning, the vivid joy of doing evil, the perfervid pride in being able to do harm. The terrible anxiety of expectation burned into my forehead like a sledgehammer shaping a red-hot point. Every remembrance, every grief, every bit of beauty, became fused, became amalgamated in a mould which I alone should be able to direct, and if at times within my weary breast there glistened tears of my great love, them too I seized, them too I hurled against all doubts, against all envy, against death. I did not feel that sleep which enervates and softens, that sleep into which I have often abandoned myself with voluptuousness, but instead my being grew tense, ready for the supreme effort. I felt that I loved even my body because it was my faithful instrument. I reflected upon the play of my muscles, the expansion of my chest and the elastic tenacity of my fingers, and I stretched and turned, ran and leapt like a mastiff who, indomitable, struggles with every part of his body—with paws, tense shoulders, arched back, curved loins, and ravening teeth.

We alighted in the little square in front of the statue of Marco and Todero. The broad, heavy architecture of the ducal palace had been covered by sand bags, and at the end towards the Porta della Carta the very church itself was hidden beneath the weight of the beams and the scaffolding. I would not be able then to see her again as I had often seen her resplendent in her mosaics under the beams of the distantly setting sun! I would not be able to snatch away with me a last image of her to treasure for the days in which I was to tempt fate. Along the stairway of the Giganti, along the gallery flanked by statues, we passed into the Sala del Maggior Consiglio. All was changed; everything had been moved and I no longer recognized the splendid symmetry which used to animate the wall behind the throne; no longer did I see the great world maps which amused me so as a child; no longer did there hang from the wide ceilings in magnificent perspective Michelangelesque limbs and torsos of the valiant men who assured to Venice the glory of the seas. The gold of the frames which at other times held the jewels of the spouse of the Doge and the purple mantles of the counsellors of the Republic seemed to have lost its brilliancy. A wrinkled old guardian in whom I seemed to recognize the face of one of those oarsmen from the galleys of Saint Mark guided us through the spacious rooms. His step was measured, his heavy voice was a melody which let its notes fall on my memories. I did not heed his words but something of them entered into my mind and vivified my memories. Up a steep and winding stairway we climbed in the Piombi and visited the cell where for many months Silvio Pellico suffered indescribable tortures at the hands of the Austrians. The emotion of such a remembrance renewed the strength of the hatred against the century-old enemy.

A curved flock of wings greeted us as we left the palace. The pigeons flew in groups towards the Procuratie. The square was almost deserted but among the few passersby I recognized the slight figure of Luisa. Luisa was a schoolmate of mine; with her I read my first wonderful books, with her I shared the great and pure joys of art.

“How pleased I am to see you here again.”

“The soldiers’ duty is not to leave the trenches, but the duty of the citizens is not to abandon their city and I see you have been faithful to your trust.”

We took once more the lonely way which passes across the parks whence the merry chirping of myriads of birds reached us. Near the Academy the children were playing on the ground near a well; I am not certain whether it is imagined or real, but their game seemed hasty and nervous, their movements hurried as if in fright. Perhaps they had not slept because last night the enemy bombarded Venice. I asked Luisa why she was not afraid to leave her child in the city and she answered me that all the poor women of Venice had not been able to send their children to places of safety and there was therefore no reason why the rich should claim this privilege; furthermore, she scarcely knew how to leave Venice nor to entrust her child to anyone else; in any case they would be struck together and would together perish.

We had almost reached the Chiesa della Salute near the old abbey of St. Gregory where we often used to go after school. The round glazed doors were closed. We could not enter, but peering through the many-colored glass we could imagine the forest of agile little columns which support the wonderful pointed arches.

“You have been my friend and confidant since my earliest years and I know you can preserve a secret. Within a few days I shall send you a postcard on which will be written, ‘arrivederci’ (may we meet again). I entreat you to think a great deal of me in those days because I shall be in danger, because I must succeed, because I want all these wonders to live beyond our memory, because I want Venice to live forever after us.” She smiled back slowly for she had understood. Then with the fall of dusk we returned towards Saint Mark’s which no longer glittered in the evening lights, but whose purple marble and stained glass faded away and mingled with the distant red of the sunset.