The Colonel, being then a lieutenant, and loving his platoon, had joined with them and uttered, with the tone of command, “Evviva d’Annunzio,” thus absolving all those who had not listened to the discourse, speech, or harangue, and attempting, in the small way a lieutenant can attempt anything, except to hold an indefensible position, or intelligently direct his own part in an attack, to share their guilt.
But now he was passing the house where the poor beat-up old boy had lived with his great, sad, and never properly loved actress, and he thought of her wonderful hands, and her so transformable face, that was not beautiful, but that gave you all love, glory, and delight and sadness; and of the way the curve of her fore-arm could break your heart, and he thought, Christ they are dead and I do not know whether either one is buried even. But I certainly hope they had fun in that house.
“Jackson,” he said, “that small villa on the left belonged to Gabriele d’Annunzio, who was a great writer.”
“Yes, sir,” said Jackson, “I’m glad to know about him. I never heard of him.”
“I’ll check you out on what he wrote if you ever want to read him,” the Colonel said. “There are some fair English translations.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Jackson. “I’d like to read him anytime I have time. He has a nice practical looking place. What did you say the name was?”
“D’Annunzio,” the Colonel said. “Writer.”
He added to himself, not wishing to confuse Jackson, nor be difficult, as he had been with the man several times that day, writer, poet, national hero, phraser of the dialectic of Fascism,
