THE BOGEY-MAN OF EUROPE

Wanganui Chronicle, Volume 83, Issue 32, 8 February 1939, Page 3

THE BOGEY-MAN OF EUROPE

Interview With II Duce. Intense Interest in Other Men. His Method of Work

H E has become for many harmless citizens a kind of a superior bogey-man, a modern counterpart of the Napoleon of 1800, who was called "Boney” by the English, nursemaids, and invoked as a domon to frighten naughty children, writes Professor Walter Starkie in The Waveless Plain. The Press photographers have taken infinite pleasure in distributing all over the world distorted likenesses of the Duce. They touched up his pictures before publication, exaggerating the massive jaw, the snarling mouth, the grim frown, and of late, in order to underline grotesqueness, they add rolls of fat to increase the portliness of middle age. The journalists use their ingenuity in writing variations on the Duce’s Roman expressions. “He is a Roman,” they say, “therefore he must belong to the purple period when Nero rampaged (‘Mussolini fiddles, you know’). He had dredged Lake Nemi —naturally! That was where the sadistic Emperor Caligula sank Roman galleys with their crews on board to gratify his cruelty. He, too, wished that all the Roman people had but one neck that he might strike it off with a blow.” The night before the interview 1 received tragic news from Ireland. At noon that day (it was Sunday) Kevin O’Higgins, the Irish patriot and leader, had been brutally murdered on his way to Mass in Booterstown, Co. Dublin. The news overwhelmed me, because, only a few weeks before, my wife and I had spent a pleasant day with him and his family. It was with a heavy heart that I made my way towards the Palazzo Chigi, where the Duce was to receive me. I was ushered into a large hall where many people were waiting. There were ministers and civil servants dressed in black, some ladies, evidently journalists, and various military men in uniform. An usher every now and then would come to the door of the hall and shout out the name in a pompous voice. All of a sudden I heard him cry: “L’lrlanda.” “Strange,” thought I; “why should they call out ‘lreland’ surely neither Timothy Healy, the Governor-General, nor President Cosgrave is here.” The usher again cried out the name “Ireland,” and then catching sight of me, he came over and informed me that it was my turn. He led me along a passage, opened a

door, and bowed me into a room brilliantly lighted from the ceiling. At first I thought the room was empty, but then in the far distance, seated behind a diminutive table, I saw a small man gazing at me. As 1 advanced towards the table I felt myself growing smaller and smaller and the man behind the desk seemed to grow larger and larger, for his eyes gazed straight through me c.s I walked timidly towards him. Before I reached the table Mussolini rose and came forward and extended his hand, smiling pleasantly and asking me whether I preferred to talk in Italian, French, or English. I hastened to say that I preferr?! to talk in Italian, for my one fear was that he would insist on talki ing French, English, or German, and so I should lose some of the spontaneity of his native expression. His next words to me nearly made me jump, for it was as if he had been able' to read my innermost thoughts. “I have heard,” said he, “the news about the death of Kevin O’Higgins. I admired him.” He then went on to describe in a few words his impression of the dead Irish leader’s personality. As he spoke I marvelled at the uncanny suggestiveness of his remarks on Irish affairs. While he spoke his eyes bored into me like gimlets. I felt that the interview was beginning in a manner entirely different to what I had imagined. Where is the crown of bay leaves—where is the lofty Caesarism? I cannot see the halo anywhere. Instead, I meet a man who not only treats me with courteous familiarity, but shows a genuine interest in the affairs of my country. I had seen him in public dressed in various uniforms, in black shirt, and in stiff morning coat, striped trousers and butterfly collar. But to-day he was in a navy blue serge suit without any adornment save the tiny badge of the fascio. I could hardly recognise his face when seen at close quarters, so accustomed had I become to the mask of snarling scorn and tne massive jaw thrown out. To-day I was hypnotised by his large dark eyes which sparkled when his voice become animated. That voice had still a trace of metallic harshness, and the words poured out in jerky, rapid sentences which jabbed my sluggish mind. I should dread being a foreign ambassador or minister who would have to argue tete-a-tete in this lonely room.

It has not a shadowy corner in which one might hide from those piercing eyes. To argue with Mussolini would be as hopeless as to fence with him, for he is a past master in word-fencing—-no less than with the foil in his hand. Hence the uncompromising vigour of his speech and those rapid gestures which foreigners think imperious, but which spring from the most Italian necessity of expressing meaning, not only by words, but by the language of gesture. Gradually I began to feel more at my ease. The forbidding mask of unbridled power had disappeared completely. Instead, I found myself gazing into a most lively and winning countenance. His dark, vivacious eyes seemed to light up his face as he spoke. There was harmony in his face and movement, as though the thoughts in his mind set up an unending rhythm which sent numerous tiny electric currents of luminius strength through his frame. I then realised one of his great powers. He possesses the power of adapting himself to other men. He knows their moods, and being a virtuoso he knews how to play upon them, awaken them, and extract their inner thoughts. It is part of his greatness that he feels an intense interest in other men, no matter how humble they may be. His knowledge of life has not been derived from books, but from living personalities, both those with whom he can sympathise and those against whom he can sharpen his tusks in battle. I then recalled the early story which he had written describing the wild violinist who raises his public up to an orgy of excitement —a significant story, when we remember that he himself is a violinst. As I looked at his broad white hands with well-padded fingers, I said to myself that he had the touch of the violinist, the natural vibrato, which is a source of power when added to his supreme mastery of rhythms. I was afraid, however, to broach the subject of music, at any rate so early in the interview, because he might think the question frivolous. I then questioned him on his method of work, his recreations. He told me that in preparing his speeches on foreign affairs he sometimes would work ' far into the night in order to work out j all the details of a particular ques- ! tion. “But then,” he said, “sometimes it 1 happens that before I deliver the speech I receive news from abroad which annoys me. I then put away the speech I have worked at and go down and give the people twenty minutes of “parole di fuoco”—“words of fire.** Then he said in a softer tone: “But I always act on the speech I have prepared with infinite care.”