Were I a painter of subject pictures, I would exhaust all my skill in proportion and perspective and atmosphere upon the august seat of empire, I would present it gray and dignified and immense and respectable beyond any mere verbal description, and then, in vivid black and very small, I would put in those valiantly impertinent vans, squatting at the base of its altitudes and pouring out a swift, straggling rush of ominous little black objects, minute figures of determined women at war with the universe. She worried for her father in Mantua, 28 hoping that he was still alive. But he tells them that I am a spy. “These clothes are French, and I’m sure this floppy bow would make a Frenchman of me anyhow. ” He looked at her very gravely. But there was no feeling of remorse; there was only the sensation of exaltation. The challenge gave her courage. “That’s not. Why shouldn’t we be martyrs? There’s nothing else for most of us, anyhow. ” “Why on earth—? A man ought to be labelled. Any man might have endeavoured to protect himself in this fashion, a man with no one to care, with an unnameable terror at the thought (as if it mattered!) of being buried in alien earth, far from the familiar places he loved.
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