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him anxiously, fearing to be scolded for his awkwardness,



450



SOLDIERS' GRAVES



but no one had noticed. Near the entrance of the cemetery
the exercises were going on. The light breeze brought some
of the phrases to his ears ..."... over our fair land . . .
the last meed of true devotion . . . with unflinching heroism
to defend the right. . . ."

Turning their backs on the scattered graves where they
had left their wreaths, the little boys straggled back to-
wards the entrance. In front of them 1 a group of people
stood about the minister who was finishing his few remarks
with a solemn dip of his voice intended as the transition to
the benediction . . . "unfailing grateful remembrance of our
fallen heroes," he said and stopped to draw breath.

Back of the little boys, the dead soldiers had all taken
up the cry of the last awakened, the strongest, the best, the
one who had always till now been silent. Now they knew
what it was that must be said and heard. "Blood ! Blood !
Blood!" they screamed after the harmless little boys, trotting
light-heartedly through the flickering tree-shadows.

The minister slid into the benediction ; "and now . . ."
he raised his hand and lifted his face. The little boys stood
still and looked down at their shoes, ". . . the peace of God
which passeth all understanding . . ."

"Blood! Blood! Blood!" screamed the dead soldiers
soundlessly.

The exercises were over. The little boys swarmed up
over the sides of the automobiles and perched three deep
on the seats. Some of them took off their neck-ties and put
them in their pockets. The little sick boy's face shone.
Some one had carelessly given him a flag to keep (they were
bought by the dozen anyhow, and one more or less . . .).



He had never had a flag of his own before. He waved
it with all his might as the Ford turned and started back
down the hill. It had been the happiest day of his life.
For once he had been an accepted part of things. He
thought with pride of the great stone monument where he
had laid a wreath. None of the other boys had had so
fine a one. It came to him that he too would like to be a
soldier when he grew up. And have, perhaps, a fine marble
monument put up to him when he died. A throb of pain
from his knee made him look down with apprehension. No,
it had not soaked through his trouser, yet.

The dust cloud dying away in the distance marked the
departure of the last Ford. The dead soldiers lay silent,
fumbling with their dead hands to draw up over them
once more the blessed black of oblivion. Nothing else in
all the year could reach them to rend asunder that shelter-
ing pall ... if only no little boys came near them, little
boys with clear eyes and honest faces and kind, small, harm-
less hands. Raw and shaken, the dead soldiers huddled
down under the shreds of their torn forgetfulness.

The thrush rolled his rounded liquid note into the silence.
The trees and grass and all the rooted things quivered and
glistened with vitality. In the hot sun the flowers of the
wreaths, their life oozing from their amputated stems, be-
gan to hang their heads and die. The little new paper-crisp
American flags, bought at wholesale, stood stiffly at atten-
tion. The last cloud of dust died away in the distance.
The cemetery lay quiet.

The soldiers, having been remembered, were now once
more forgotten.



The New Day

Song of the German Youth Movement

By HERMANN CLAUDIUS
Translated by ANNA L. CURTIS



Side by side as on we pace,
And the songs of old are singing,
All the woods with magic ringing,
Can we doubt that we are bringing

New Day to the human race?

Toilsome wears the week away
Work that from our lives is taking
Toll 'til Life itself is shaking-
No one thinks complaint of making

Joyous smiles our holy-day.

Green of birch and green of seed,
As, with gesture of beseeching,
Mother Earth her full hands Teaching,
"Thou'rt mine own", her constant : .-aching,

May man recognize his need.



Glance and step and word and song,
As in ancient tales enshrining,
Still, their strong arms fast entwining,
Shall, uplifting, thrilling, shining,

Bear our joyous souls along.

Man and woman; woman, man,

Call not Water now and Fire ;

For our bodies we aspire

To new peace; our thoughts are higher-
Free our gaze, on woman, man.

Side by side as on we pace,
And the songs of old are singing,
All the woods with music ringing,
Can we doubt that we are bringing

New Day to the human race?



Daggers and Dreadnaughts



By JEAN HARRIS ARNOLD




TRANGE rewards come sometimes to those
obstinate folk who insist on hanging on to
both the past and the present, refusing to
curse the one and bless the other and let it
go at that. Sometimes they see the two make
such violent contact that the sparks fly.
Now sparks are not illuminating, but they show which way
the rider is going that mysterious rider, the carrier of
human destiny.

So it happened that I was rereading the Electra of
Euripides (don't be alarmed it was the Gilbert Murray
translation which anyone can get at the library) at the time
the daily papers were full of the Snyder trial. Not the
pleasing cleverness of The Private Life of Helen of Troy
but the rough facts of human sin and sorrow had brought
the ancient story sharply up to date. No one could help
being struck by the similarity of the two tragedies even in
their gruesome details. As the art editor, after an evening
of social pleasure, was attacked at night in his own bed by
his unfaithful wife and her lover, strangled by picture wire
and beaten to death with a sash-weight, so Agamemnon,
returning victorious from Troy, was attacked in his bath
by Queen Clytemnestra and her lover Aegisthus, caught
and muffled in the "web of fine broidered wool" and
killed with an axe. In both cases an innocent young
daughter was left to bear the double burden, deprived of
one parent by the unnatural crime and of the other by its
merited punishment. Four thousand years lie between the
tragedies in ancient Argos and in modern America, yet they
are like duplicates.

Only for one all-important difference. In that old world
of Argos there was no public justice. Justice was not lack-
ing. Justice was demanded by gods and men. The guilty
must be punished, just as they must in our own day. But
the solemn obligation to perform that punishment, to bring
the guilty ones to justice, lay upon the murdered man's
next of kin. Dark as is the tragedy of the little American
girl, it is light compared with that of Electra. In those
old days the mother's unnatural crime laid upon her own
children the terrible duty of a crime still more unnatural
and there was no escape. There was no public justice.
Fearing the crime that came to pass, an old servant of
Agamemnon had carried off his little son Orestes to a
distant kinsman before the father's return ; the daughter
Electra was married very young to a poor countryman on
the outskirts of the city, that her unborn children might
never be able to exact due vengeance from the guilty pair.
So Clytemnestra and Aegisthus ruled in Argos, hated but
undisputed, for ten years. At this point the play begins.

ELECTRA'S peasant husband has respected the virgin
honor of his princess and does what he can to make
her hard lot easy, while she insists on doing her share of
the household tasks, brooding all the while upon her brother's
coming back and upon the terrible yet sacred task that



waits for his return. He comes, makes himself known to
her, and in the brief scene of joyful recognition the love of
sister and brother reunited after long parting and deep
sorrow is like the sun breaking through the clouds for a
few minutes in the coming on of a thunderstorm. It makes
the following darkness all the darker.

It is not hard for Orestes to bring himself to slay
Aegisthus, the seducer of his mother, murderer of his father,
usurper of his own throne and patrimony. Even yet men
can find it in their hearts to wreak personal vengeance upon
those who have so wronged them. Guided by his sister's
counsel, he seeks the guilty king where he is sacrificing to
the woodland nymphs. As he bends over the victim, seeing
in it sign of evil fortune, Orestes springs upon him and
kills him with a single stroke. He makes himself known
to the followers of the King, "It is I, the wronged Orestes!
Hold, and smite me not, old housefolk of my father!" They
recognize him as the rightful heir and avenger. He comes
back with the pride of a victor to his sister.

Electra

O conqueror, come ! The king that trampled Troy
Knoweth his son Orestes. Come in joy,
Brother, and take to bind thy rippling hair
My crowns! O what are crowns that runners wear
For some vain race? But thou in battle true
Hast felled our foe Aegisthus, him that slew
By craft thy sire and mine.

Meanwhile Electra has sent a messenger to lure her
mother to them before she shall hear of her husband's death ;
even as Orestes exults he sees a chariot coming far down
the road and suddenly snatches the wreath from his head.

Orestes
'Tis my mother comes ; my own mother, that bare me.

Electra (moving where she can see the road)
Aye, there she cometh straight into the snare!

Orestes

What would we with our mother? Didst thou say
Kill her?

Electra (turning upon him)
What? Is it pity? Dost thou fear
To see thy mother's shape?

Orestes

'Twas she that bare
My body into life. She gave me suck.
How can I strike her?



Electra
Strike her as she struck



Our father.



Although Orestes has received the plain oracle from
Apollo that he was to avenge his father's death upon his
mother, he cannot bring himself to do it. He prays:



451



452



DAGGERS AND DREADNAUGHTS



Phoebus, God, was all Thy mind
Turned unto darkness?

Thou, thou didst bid me kill
My mother ; which is sin.

Electra's arguments are of no avail. He has avenged his
father's murder upon Aegisthus; upon his mother? No.
At last Electra uses that sharpest spur with which women
have ever driven men, sharpest because it touches to the
quick the deepest hidden fear within them.
Electra (almost despairingly)

To fail me now!
To fail me now ! A coward ! O brother, no !

He yields ; he goes into the house to await his mother's
coming. Presently his mother comes and Electra leads her
into the house. Those outside hear Clytemnestra's voice :

O children, children ; in the name of God,
Slay not your mother i

Then a wild, dying scream, and the door bursts open and
Orestes and Electra come forth in disorder. Orestes is
inconsolable; Electra claims her share of the guilt, but he
does not even heed her. They kneel beside their mother's
body.

Then, at the very last, Euripides throws a gleam of hope
on the sad scene, like a rainbow upon the darkness of a
thunder cloud. The heavenly horsemen, Castor and Poly-
deuctes, brothers of the slain queen, come to comfort her
children. They tell Orestes that he may not tarry in his
birthplace, which he has defiled with his mother's blood.
He must suffer from the avenging Furies (the old gods are
they, who make no allowances, who know no mercy). 'But
if he endure patiently all their torments and make his way
to Athens, there on the Areopagus is a court of judgment
where justice, public justice, may be found. There half the
judges shall count him guiltless, the honorable avenger of
his father's death ; the other half shall condemn him as his
mother's murderer. But Phoebus Apollo shall take upon
himself that stain, and Orestes shall go forth from that hall
of judgment a free man, to found a city and a royal line in
Arcady. So to the Athenians who saw his play, who knew
well that hill of judgment, Euripides brought home, as he
still does to us today, the boon of public justice, the salva-
tion it has been to man from deeds of blood and horror
done in the name of right.

ONCE before I had seen the sparks fly from that impact
of the new upon the old code of justice. I had heard
'Burns of the Mountains tell of the wiping out of that
family feud in Kentucky which had already cost more than
a hundred lives and which cast its evil shadow even over the
babe in the cradle. ("See, hit's a man-child; soon's he can
tote a rifle he'll git his poppy's murderer!") Burns himself



took an active part in this feud for more than ten years. He
brought down his man ; he was twice severely wounded.
Then he saw a glimmer of hope and risked everything
upon it.

He called together by his personal invitation at an old
mill pockmarked by the bullets of past battles, every man
who took an active part in the feud on both sides. They
gathered around their leaders, on opposite sides of the
room. Burns stood in the middle and laid his plan before
them. No one who has heard his story will ever forget that
dramatic moment when at one and the same time both
leaders started to their feet and strode to the middle of
the room slowly, each inscrutable, each searching the
other's face as if he would tear out the secrets of his heart,
each moving toward the man who was the murderer of his
father, his brother, or his kinsmen. A single angry word,
a single misunderstood gesture, and the armed truce would
become a massacre. Would it be life, or death? Would
it be the old code of Argos or the new one of civilization !

As Burns described those leaders grasping hands and
promising to build together a school in which their children
should sit side by side and unlearn those lessons of hatred
drawn in with their mother's milk, a sigh of relief cam
from his thousand listeners. It was as if we had come out
of a dark and noisome cave smelling of dead men's bones
into the open air and sunlight.

So the sparks fly. Which way is the rider gomg? How
is justice evolving?

WHAT about our descendants four thousand years fron
now? Or, since we are moving at so much swiftei
rate, by automobile instead of the war chariots of Agamem
non's day, shall we say one thousand years from now? Wil
they, in understanding pity, say of us, "Poor things, they hat
no public justice for their nations. They had public justici
for individuals; they had wiped out family feuds, but the;
had no international justice. In the name of patriotism, b]
the sacred claim of mother country, of fatherland, the;
sent their bravest and their best young men, those whosi
lives held the greatest promise for the race, out to murde
their brothers, the bravest and best across the border
When their hearts sickened within them, when they re
volted in spirit from the slaughter, their women, crushin)
down all their natural tenderness, all their intolerable drea<
of sorrow worse than death, urged them on, applied tha
sharpest of all spurs by which men are driven called then
cowards. They went to murder in the name of justice
and each just war led to another. No wonder their civili
zation staggered and almost fell under the terrible burden.'
Will they say this of us? And when their national crise
come, as come they will since we cannot expect humai
nature to change any more in a thousand years than it ha
in four thousand, will they by contrast with our barbarou
times appreciate their higher code of justice?



After Mussolini Dies

By PETER BROOKLYN

Illustrations from cover designs by Sironi for La Revista lllustrata del Popolo d'ltalia




'ASCIST Italy is no exception to the rule
that succession to a dictator is a trying
problem fraught with difficulties for the
nation concerned. Indeed, it will be a par-
ticularly grave problem in Italy where it is
universally realized that the crucial test of
the Fascist regime will come when Benito Mussolini passes
from power.

Although the Fascist dictator stands in little danger of
being torn from his high place, he is by no means safe from
an assassin's bullet or from the more imminent peril of
mortal illness. In fact, serious illness is a Damocletian
sword hanging over the head of the man whose word is
law throughout Italy.

Frequent assurances to the contrary notwithstanding,
Mussolini is not the indefatigable invulnerable figure he
was less than a year ago. His illness last winter weakened
him more than his friends care to admit ; ulceration of the
duodenum left traces which even the most robust of con-
stitutions would not have been able to cast off completely.

If the frequency of rest periods of a man accustomed to
long hours of strenuous uninterrupted labor is insufficient
evidence to show physical deterioration, the testimony of
physiognomical alterations cannot easily be dismissed. The
Premier's face, once the picture of boundless energy, k
drawn and tired ; his jaw is as firm as ever but his eyes
are dulled. His will is still of iron but it is plain that
his body has suffered a blow from which it may never fully
recover.

Mussolini's hands still grip firmly the reins of power.
Not only is he dictator of Italy but he is the director of
the gradual evolution of a Fascist polity ; not only does he
command unqualified allegiance of the rank and file of the
Fascist Party but he enlists men of brains to assist him in
his enormous task of government.

His death would shake the foundations of the Fascist
regime and would bring into question anew the tendencies
of Italy's political future. His successor would inherit a
task unprecedented in magnitude even in this turbulent
generation ; would inherit powers so great as to require for
their proper control truly Mussolinian strength.

Yet, despite the obvious importance of the succession and
notwithstanding the disquieting rumors about the Premier's
health, few political observers in the United States have
even speculated about the future of Italy without its power-
ful "duce". Mussolini's commanding personality has so
intrigued imaginations, his single-handed domination of the
entire political scene has so occupied attention and his
Caesarian shadow has so effectively monopolized all of the
limelight that other Italian political figures have been
dwarfed into insignificance.

Very few Americans have stopped to realize that
Fascism in its present stage must have centralized personal
control and that absence of such control might conceivably



turn Italy's history back to the black page of 1919, that it
might cause renewed internal strife as dangerous to the
nation as open civil war.

Much depends upon the identity of Mussolini's successor.
Nominally there is no heir apparent. Fascists assert that
"Fascism, as a growing and developing theory, is contained
in the formidable brain of Mussolini," giving little heed to
the day when their leader will no longer be able to answer
their questions and make their decisions. Anti-Fascists
predict death with him of the system he created, arguing
that it is merely his personality which gives it strength and
coherence.

Actually there are two aspirants waiting for the high
place Mussolini has created, two men so utterly different
from each other in every way as to make it seem incredible
that they should both be candidates for a single position.
Moreover, it is an open secret that no love is lost between
them and that each thinks the other a usurper and a false
prophet.

As different as night and day are Roberto Farinacci and
Luigi Federzoni and the contrast between them is the
symbol of a chasm between conflicting elements in the party
they serve faithfully and probably without designing
personal ambitiousness.

Farinacci, youthful secretary-general of the Fascist
Party, and its strong man, is of the people, blunt, violent,
aggressive, crude but direct in his methods, uncompromising,
contemptuous of the niceties of political theorizing, and with
a profound faith in the efficacy of action.

Federzoni, Minister of the Interior and acknowledged
statesman of the Fascist regime, is an aristocrat, an in-
tellectual, a diplomat versed in the subtleties of sophisticated
social and political practices, polished to the finger tips,
suspicious of the efficacy of mass action and intent upon
finding a place for Fascism among the great political
systems of all time.

WITH Mussolini, the creator of Fascism, Farinacci
is the guardian of its physical vitality, Federzoni of
its mental virility. The former handles men, the latter
marshals ideas ; one controls the party, the other aids
Mussolini in conducting the Government.

Since the "soul" of Fascism has fallen upon evil days
and since a campaign of physical conquest of internal
enemies has lately been commanding all of the party's
energy, Farinacci's star is in the ascendant, while Feder-
zoni's is low in the heavens.

Side by side, the two men present a remarkable contrast.
Federzoni is tall, handsome, somewhat portly, of com-
manding presence, always the gentleman, the Doctor of
Letters and the statesman, plainly showing his high social
origin, his polished manners and careful breeding. A man
of sharply defined political ideas, his incisiveness of manner,
while flavored when necessary with diplomacy, is always



453



454



AFTER MUSSOLINI DIES







The ideal Mussolini's Italy strives for Modernism

tinged with aloof refusal of compromise with any but
equally well-born ideas.

Farinacci's bodily characteristics are those of the un-
distinguished man-in-the-street of any Latin country.
Somewhat under middle height, of ordinary build, with
small commonplace features, dark hair and small moustache,
he would be lost in any Italian crowd. Although his
appearance has nothing to mark him as a leader of men,
he succeeds in lea'ding them by dint of his great power of
forensic oratory. As much as Mussolini, he understands
how to impress people. A born poseur, he excels at com-
manding popular affection ; a man of the people, he knows
how to identify himself with the John Smiths of Italy.
They respect him because he thinks and acts as they do.
While dignified statesmen exude condescension, alienating
'he sympathies of the common people by mental processes
beyond their comprehension and polished manners of an
environment beyond their access, Farinacci inspires trust.
He has glorified the theory of striking first and thinking
afterward ; he has made a cult of crude manners and direct
violent service of the Fascist dictator.

Of the two men, Federzoni is constitutionally of the



minority. Generally conceded to be
statesman second in ability only to the
"duce" himself, Federzoni has little
popular support. By many Italians he is
considered to stand in the same relation
to modern Italy as did Count Cavour to
the Italy of the first days after the
Unification because, more than any other
individual except Mussolini, he has been
responsible for the development of a
polity from the political incoherence of
the early Fascist period.

Before the advent of Fascism, Feder-
zoni had helped found the Nationalist
Party which, in point of national policy,
was the precursor of Fascism. He was
one of a small minority of ardent na-
tionalists who developed a political creed
of staunch Italianity and stood against
the rising tide of radicalism.

Born in Bologna in 1866, he began his
career as a journalist and became well
known under the nom-de-plume of
Giulio de Frenzi. Early interested in
politics, he threw in his lot with Enrico
Corradini with whom he built up the
system of political ideas which was in-
corporated in the Nationalist program.
Elected to the Chamber of Deputies in
1913, his Parliamentary career was in-
terrupted by the World War in which
he served as a bombardment officer,
earning a medal of valor.

After the "march on Rome," Musso-
lini summoned him and asked for the
cooperation of his party with the result
that he entered the Cabinet as Minister
of the Colonies, a post he held until
he became Minister of the Interior in
June, 1924.

During Federzoni's tenure of office,

Fascism, which in its inception had been little more thari a
method of cleansing the state of causes of internal decay,
gradually developed a governmental program modeled on
Nationalist lines. It became increasingly apparent that the
former Nationalist leader was the mental power behind the
Mussolinian throne.

In no sense a popular figure, Federzoni has not endeared
himself to the hearts of the people but he has earned their
respect by his efficient unostentatious ministerial labors.
The rank and file of the party dislike him because they do
not understand him. More thoughtful Fascists believe him
to be their only hope, the sole person capable of perpetuating
Fascism. Socialists detest him, calling him "the tool of
the metallurgists" ; Liberals offer the doubtful compliment
that he is "as dangerous as he is able."



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