Back in 1892 a group of enthusiastic radicals met at Genoa and
ushered the Italian Socialist party
into existence. In the same year, and
practically at the same time, the Silesian
Convent at Paenza opened its huge
iron door to admit a wild-eyed lad into
the service of the Church. "He seems
quite vivacious," remarked the rector
to the hopeful mother of the lad, "but
I reckon he'll do."
A number of years later a mass of
workingmen were conducting a strike in
an industrial section of Romagna. The
strikers were alone an their fight, abandoned by their leaders, disowned by a hostile Camera del Lavoro. There had been plenty of mass-meetings, plenty of agitation. Demands were made and rejected. Hopes of victory were fast vanishing. At the eleventh hour out of the mob comes a youth with fire in his eyes and hatred in his heart. He must speak. "Comrades," he shouts, "you have had enough words, enough speeches, enough demonstrations, enough nonsense! You have the strength of numbers and the force of arms! You have no head! Here, take mine! This is the hour of revolution—revolution at once!" The discouraged mob stood aghast in the presence of this mere youth who dared to speak of revolution. But his words had penetrated. The mob reacted in all its fury. The passion of revolution took hold of the abandoned strikers. "To the railway! To the railway! Revolution!" shouted the frenzied men and women. But they had hardly advanced when a troop of cavalry compelled them to disperse. They fled to their homes. The revolution was blocked. The youthful agitator, beaten by superior force, downed in his plan of battle, was led away by a kindly band, disillusioned but not discouraged. He would try again. He was born for the revolution.
The wild-eyed lad at the Silesian convent
and the youthful revolutionist urging the mob to action were one and the
same. To-day, after thirty-odd years of
agitation and leadership, Benito Mussolini is at the head of the Italian
Government, realizing the aspirations of his
youth.
Millions of newspaper readers the
world over are asking, Who is this Mussolini? What kind of a man is he?
Not excepting the romantic d'Annunzio, this enfant terrible is the most picturesque figure in all Italy. If I could find his prototype in America, I would engage in comparisons. But, fortunately, or unfortunately If you will, America breeds no Mussolinis. Men of his type are to be found in Latin countries, where temperament and impulse abound. As a man he is unique, sui generis. As a leader he is not to be compared. At this time of writing he has his country in the palm of his hand, to crush it if he pleases, to save it if he so wills. He is the organizer and the builder of the Fasci. He is also their master mind.
He comes from the soil, and he hates
democracy. He speaks with provincial
pride of the little Roman town of Varano
de Costa, where, forty years ago, he first
saw the light of day. His father, an
iron worker, was an ardent internationalist
who suffered imprisonment for his
loyalty to Marx. His mother, not unlike
many Italian mothers of her day, hoped
to have her Benito a priest of the
Church. But, as destiny would have it, Benito was a rebel from the day of his birth, a rebel against the clergy, against society, against law and order. The Silesian fathers got rid of the vivacious lad with a sigh of relief, and he later took to teaching. He did not teach for long. The atmosphere of the schoolroom, like that of the chapel, bored him. He craved for action, for adventure, for life. He abandoned the schoolroom and set out for Switzerland. The news of his father's arrest on the day of his departure failed to hold him back. He is not a man who will hold back. He went right ahead to Yverdon, arriving there with two lire in his pockets. After roaming for days from job to job, he was finally arrested and imprisoned on a charge of vagrancy. He returned to Italy, determined to "upset the world and everybody in it." He did.
