PASSING NOTES

Otago Daily Times, Issue 23442, 5 March 1938, Page 6

PASSING NOTES

Gabriele d'Annunzio lived too long. In the first decade of this twentieth century, as poet, novelist, dramatist, he held first place in modern Italian letters. Now, in this fourth decade, a bewildered and jaded world cannot bring itself to decide whether his fantastic war exploits and his violently heroic follies were the delirium of paranoia, or merely touches of the madness which Aristotle allows to genius. Great wits are sure to madness neat allied, , ~ , ,_ And thin partitions do their bounds divide, says Dryden. But d'Annunzio lived unconsciously long on the wrong side of the line. Now the world is asking whether he was a Mark Antony, a Byron, a Swinburne, or only a Bombastes Furioso; whether he was a demigod or a driveller, a great writer or merely an ambitious gifted and industrious scholar aiming at high marks with distinction; whether he was a hero, an apostle, and a martyr, or merely a Don Juan who now struts off a rickety improvised theatre as Mussolini's bantam poet. Patriot he was. But in the mouths of modern dictators and their satellites the great theme of patriotism has degenerated into froth and fustian, confirming Tolstoy's 50 years' old prophecy that "the word would come to stink in the nostrils of every just man." Rome now mourns her poet. In Rome there will be a plethora of superheated speeches, and d'Annunzio will appear to have been completely sane.

Of this froth and fustian d'Annunzio was a master—or a victim. During his delirious escapades at Fiume he made half-hourly orations from balconies, kissed the coffins of the dead, had his bed.decorated by girls thrice daily with flowers, seized a sword and slashed up his sky-blue cloak to distribute the pieces to his officers. Rome is the home of the spectacular. And the same crowd, once so easily .swayed to the rightabout by the oratory of Mark Antony, flamed again to equal enthusiasm al d'Annunzio's harangue in November, 1918: Soldiers and Comrades—Exactly one year ago on the Peak of Veliki, where we .fought so desperately, we sang ourselves hoarse all day long on All Saints' Day and likewise on All Souls' Day. Do you remember our singing? It was such singing as could only be outranged by a thunderbolt. Our song of triumph silenced the very din of our Jtempestuous assault. We expressed ourselves in a roar of triumph and an outburst of flame—a fire in the heart of the fire of the battle, a foray in the heart of a foray, winging its way through the breaches made by the bursting shells. Ahead of us all floated our flag. Our very flesh was an integral part of the vivid tricolour, the green, the white and the red clad the slopes of the great mountain as well as that other peak as

yet uncaptured. In the name of the Prophet—figs! We hear this once a week from Berlin as well as from Rome. But d'Annunzio's lack of balance took graver forms. Says a recent biographer: "This latter-day Lothario is condemned as a caddish egotist incapable of any emotions other than the sensual." "He has the moral code of a barn fowl and the sense of family responsibilities of a cuckoo." "He was a moral Bluebeard dissecting the souls of his dead loves and burying the remains in his pornographic novels." Wrote d'Annunzio, " To revive an old love is like lighting a cigarette .for the second tihne. You can't. The tobacco has turned to poison." An unpleasant piece of work was this Italian poet.

The twenty-fifth Parliament of New Zealand has begun, its fifth session—its final session, come what may of further adjourned parts of it. And already have appeared the well-established symptoms of an election session. Boredom is evident. Quorums are precarious, being saved on one occasion by one sleeping member who joined in the debate with his snores. Yet this final session is usually a talking session as well' as a barren session. Like a black pall over the Chamber hangs the shadow of coming events. Across, the floor will ring the perorations of the aporoaching election campaign. Present in body but absent in mind will be the members. And what is more talkative than the nervous restiveness of men distraught with anxiety? They have left the foe behind them in the old home town, and are now wondering what mischief may be afoot. At this sessional time, therefore, they may murmur /their Recessional hymn: " Lord God of Losts, be with us yet." For no man leaves with equanimity, perhaps for ever, the cosy red carpet and the down-soft couches of this "finest, gentleman's club in the world." i

With refreshing courage and admirable common sense did a correspondent in Wednesday's paper emphasise the absurdity of equality of wealth. He trailed his coat, but no foot trod upon it. He whipped the stream, but never a bite did he aet He said: A Minister of the Crown has recently spoken as if equality of wealth among all members of the community were an advantage and a noble ideal. Could anyone at all —Communist. Socialist or other person—inform me of what benefit such equality would be? I confess that, while I should like to see futile hardship abolished. I completely fail to understand what particular benefit would accrue from equality of wealth. Such a condition, it seems to me,, would be neither iust nor efficient nor pleasant.

Now, equality of wealth means what it says—equality of wealth. None of vour approximations can enter into such a question. The making of a bob or two ton the side will be stealing a march on your 'neighbour, and he must receive his sixpence of it.. And he who goes to Wingatui for an outing in the fresh air to raise the wind will reap a whirlwind. Confidences with the horse's mouth will be of no avail, for you must leave the dividend behind you, Equality of wealth would leave stark naked the greater, and more hideous inequality of virtue and merit. Abolished for ever must be that greatest of labour-saving devices—marriage with a wealthy heiress. For this would disturb your equitable balance Liberty too would then be gone. And what remains of the much desired liberty equality and maternity but the last, when a motherly State will examine every penny we earn and every glass we drink? Of course, all this relates solely to the iniquitous process of levelling down. To- levelling up no sane person has any objection.

A familiar character of detective fiction is the eminent expert pathologist who, from the charred remains of an inch or two of bone, can construct a whole human skeleton with height and weight and sex all complete. Less familiar, but not less expert, is the learned anthropologist who, from equally small remains, can construct the life history of an ancient man. Explorations in the cave of Chou-Kou Tien, near Peking, have unearthed the famous " Peking Man "—that is, bits of him.

The decay of a million years has been no obstacle to scientists who spend their time piecing him together. Three or four years ago a couple of toes were found. Said a report at the time:

It was suggested at first that they were animal remains. But the late Professor Matthew, of California, definitely rejected this theory, and stated that the bones could only be those of the human toe. . The feet of the Peking Man differed from those of modern man. They were not straight, and he must have walked with his toes turned in—just as the ape Later came further successes—two fragments of a jaw and three pieces of a brain case. And on Wednesday last came what may be the final triumph—the discovery of a large piece of thigh bone. Now may the Peking Man stand up before us almost recognisable. The learned excavator will receive him as a familiar acquaintance, and might well say; "Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio."

Every day a new chapter is added to the story of the Romance of Speed. And every day—more or less—a record is broken and a new record made. This time the record is broken and made by a Dunedin lawyer who makes rapid strides in his profession along our public streets. Hastening to his office each morning he eats up the mileage at the rate of 10 minutes a mile, or six miles per hour. He leaves his competitors panting in his wake. Now you and I making our way homeward from office or bench, drawn by the anticipated joys of fireside and newspaper, can do each plodding mile, in 25, 30, 40 minutes. Increase of the attractions at % the other end may reduce the mileage rate to 20 and our weight to 12. The twinkling feet of an Olympic champion might do his mile in 12 minutes, heel and toe, elbows up and poking aside the obstructing air, tense in every muscle of chin and jaw. And this on a racing track, advantaged by ground and paced by cheering crowds. Our Dunedin lawyer, placing his record before the open court last week, claims to go the pace in 10 minutes. He would be out and dressed before the Olympian reached the tape. The Olympic champion goes round in circles. Not so our local speeder. The course he steers is straight. The breathless pedestrian whom he overtakes and passes ricks his neck as he follows his flashing form, and ejaculates to his companion, "The man overtaking us was ." What becomes now of the old-time gibe of the "law's delay"? And who can now repeat the advice of Lord Chesterfield to his son, " Never walk fast in the streets, which is a sign of vulgarity—though it may be tolerable in a tradesman." Civis.