Democracy of work. He has declared against the Governmental bureaucracy which has Italy in a Laöcoön grasp. But can he or Fascismo change it, reduce it, get rid of it? That they cannot make it efficient is the belief of many serious students of the science and art of government. It is a tool that they are bound to use without being able to improve or substitute, for even though they had the courage to undertake it a generation would not suffice to accomplish it. Fascismo may become the prisoner of the bureaucracy. Italy's administrative machine is the "selva selvaggia ed aspra e forte" of Dante. In the entanglements of that forest Fascismo may lose itself.

When the Fascisti held their meeting in Naples in October, 1922, it was evident that there were two governments in Italy: the Constitutional and the Fascismo, the former of which was trying to preserve its existence and the old political system against threatened extinction by the latter. It was the courageous decision and good sense of King Victor Emanuel, who would not permit the Facta Government to use armed forces against the Fascisti, that precipitated the coup d'etat. In the last days of the Congress at Naples, Bianchi, the SecretaryGeneral of the Fascisti, proclaimed that the King should invite Mussolini, the leader of the Fascisti, to form the succeeding Government, this party being stronger than that of the Government. When Facta tried to remonstrate, Riccio, Minister of Public Works, stampeded the Cabinet and resigned, and Mussolini, thirty-eight years old, journalist and agitator, son of an ironmonger, was invited to Rome and became Prime Minister. His first declaration was: "Fascismo is neither revolutionary nor reactionary, but it is against a demagogue State. I am loyal to the Monarchy and to the House of Savoy."

And now Italy awaits the forthcoming election with perfect confidence, while anxiously scanning the horizon for a new Cavour. Meanwhile the outside world waits to see if Benito Mussolini can sacrifice his personality to the public cause.

JOSEPH COLLINS.

VOL. CCXVII.-NO. 806

DID THE KAISER TELL THE TRUTH?

BY STEPHANE LAUZANNE

The outcome of the treacherous malady which killed the Emperor Frederick III was frankly predicted to me at San Remo by the German physicians who had been called into consultation as experts by the English physician, Sir Morell Mackenzie. My deep grief and sorrow augmented in view of the fact that it was almost impossible for me to speak to my beloved father privately. He was guarded like a prisoner by the English physicians, and although newspapermen from all over the world could look in on the sick man from the physicians' room, all kinds of obstacles were put in my path to prevent me from being at my father's side. I was even prevented from keeping in constant touch with him by writing, my letters being often intercepted and not delivered. Moreover, among the group of observers, an infamous campaign of organized slander was launched against me in the newspapers.

I Do not know why nor how it happened; but when this passage from the ex-Kaiser's Memoirs came to my attention, a whole episode, replete with romance and tragedy, came back to me from the reaches of memory. I saw once more in my mind's eye, some thirty years ago, there by the shore of the eternally blue Mediterranean, a white villa lost in a group of flowering orange trees. A man was suffering quietly on the veranda of the villa. A woman, upon whose features pride and energy inscribed themselves, was nursing him, while the doctors standing about discussed and argued the ways and means of saving the man's life. Nearby stood a boy-almost a child-who, eyes wide with curiosity, gazed upon a scene portentous in world history. The white villa was the Villa Zirio at San Remo. The sick man was the Crown Prince Frederick William, father of the future Kaiser William II. The woman was the Crown Princess Frederick, daughter of Queen Victoria of Great Britain. The boy was myself. I was covering the first assignment of my life as a cub reporter.

I was not quite fifteen years old; and I had come that Spring morning of 1888 to visit a man who was my uncle and at the

same time one of the most celebrated newspapermen of the epoch, Blowitz, the well known correspondent of The London Times. I found him holding a letter in his hand, written on mauve colored paper. The writing was large but delicate, indicating a woman's hand, and was composed of but a single sentence: "If you want to know the truth about the San Remo tragedy, why don't you see Mme. Zirio?" I naturally asked him whom the letter came from, and who Mme. Zirio was.

“I don't know who sent me the letter," my uncle replied, "but I've often received similar missives since I entered the newspaper game. The mysterious and anonymous suggestions were not always written on mauve paper, nor were they always in a feminine handwriting; but I've always followed them up and never regretted doing so. As to Mme. Zirio, I've met her several times in the South of France. She was married to an Italian, Signor Baptistin Zirio, who was always ill. I can't see what connection there can be between her and the dying heir to the German throne. Yet, I feel a presentiment that it will be worth my while to see her. Will you come with me?"

I was only too glad to do so. We left at once for San Remo, and found the villa of Mme. Zirio, not far from the big white villa occupied by the Crown Prince of Germany. We were ushered into the parlor, where we noted on a stand, well in evidence, a large large photograph autographed Wilhelm. It was a photograph of the future Kaiser, William II.

The lady of the house, a tall, handsome woman with brilliant black hair, did not keep us waiting very long. After exchanging the usual greetings, my uncle came to the point at once, thinking that the simplest course would be the best, and showed her the letter he had received. Mme. Zirio blushed, and then smiled. "How strange!" she exclaimed. "I also received a similar letter, yesterday. It contained the single sentence, 'If you receive the visit of the well-known Blowitz, why not tell him the truth about the San Remo tragedy?'”

The three of us laughed heartily at this. But we were not long in deducing that, at any rate, the mysterious person who had written the two missives knew what she was about, for Mme. Zirio, whose name had never been pronounced before in con

nection with the case, was in reality the proprietor of the white villa, then occupied by the Crown Prince Frederick. It was she who had furnished it, arranged it, and engaged and trained the admirably discreet corps of servants and attendants that surrounded the sick Prince. It was she who had daily access to the interior of the Imperial habitation, and who was consulted hourly, day and night, as to what had best be done or left undone. It was she whom Prince William had visited during his stay of two days at San Remo, and to whom as a token of gratitude and friendship he had given his autographed photograph. Naturally, she knew the truth about the San Remo tragedy; and there, in her parlor, she gave us all the details.

The white villa was indeed the scene of a terrible drama. The sick man had brought with him a suite of German doctors, among whom was Professor Bergmann, and English doctors, the most prominent of whom was Sir Morell Mackenzie. And between these physicians the quarrel was almost tragic in its intensity. The English doctors accused Professor Bergmann of inefficiency; and the Germans accused Sir Morell Mackenzie of speculating in the Stock Exchange on the ups and downs of the Crown Prince's malady. The servants and attendants, who were all either German or English, reflected the dissension that reigned among the physicians. Not a moment of peace reigned between the parties. The struggle was silent but cruel. The two camps attacked and dishonored each other at every turn. They quarreled over everything. The sick man said nothing. He contented himself with gazing quietly upon the Princess, his wife, with his soft eyes, and looking to her for aid with tender confidence. He did not see save through her eyes, nor speak except through her lips. As she had placed all her confidence in the English physicians, he too placed his confidence there; and he often repeated to Sir Morell Mackenzie: "I ask but one thing, that you keep me alive long enough to permit me to give her courage and her devotion a proper recompense.'

On November 9, 1887, at about 6.30 in the morning, he, who several months later became William II, got off the train at San Remo. The local authorities, Prince Henry of Prussia, and the

aides-de-camp of the Crown Prince Frederick, met him at the station. With his usual spontaneity, Prince Henry rushed forward to throw himself into the arms of his older brother, as he had not seen him for some weeks. Prince William stopped this fraternal gesture with his usual vainglorious pride. He showed himself proud, official, and hierarchic. In one minute everybody present understood that it was the master of the morrow who had arrived and that the man who had descended from the train was not a devoted child who was anxious to see his sick father, but a visitor who merely desired to see the progress of events for himself. When he arrived at the villa, he was ushered into the sick-room, and remained with his father about ten minutes, showing himself deferential but cold. He then announced: "I want to see the doctors."

He called them into conference and, after listening to the explanations of Sir Morell Mackenzie with indifference, and to those made by the German physicians with interest, he concluded the discussion brusquely: "If my father is suffering from a cancer in the throat," he declared, "it is something that never relents. He cannot survive."

That afternoon he took a walk with his brother and sisters, Prince Henry, Princess Victoria, then engaged to Prince Alexander of Battenberg, and Princess Sophie, now Queen of Greece. He walked in front of them, as if he were alone and his companions were but his simple servitors. At times he turned to them and spoke with brief brusqueness in jerky, impatient expletives. He was particularly exalted and animated as he spoke of Bismarck. The name fell ceaselessly from his lips. He professed a profound admiration for the Iron Chancellor, and praised everything he did. He was a great patriot, a grand diplomat, a splendid orator, a wonderful economist, and even an excellent general; he was force personified; he knew everything. "Our mother," he said, "has shown herself strangely shortsighted in placing English science above German science, which Bismarck, who is never mistaken, has placed above all the others." The following day, German science had spoken! At a medical council held under the presidency of Prince William, which lasted two hours, the German doctors had triumphed in