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FROM SIRIUS'S POINT OF VIEW
The divine poet!
M. Gabriele d'Annunzio is a great poet. Also a great novelist. Likewise, a great playwright. But he is, at the same time, a strange fellow.
M. Gabriele d'Annunzio is an immense ham. He deserved, some time ago, to be called a "fioumiste." On the other side of the Alps, he plays the role of an uncompromising patriot. He dreams of a greater Italy. And he strikes advantageous poses before the world.
Poet and ham. The one often goes hand in hand with the other. Poets, for the most part, imagine themselves to be of divine essence. They affect a superb contempt for the flock of non-rhymers. And it was Victor Hugo who dreamed, at the very hour of his death, of saying to God: "Dear colleague!..."
But poets are sometimes practical. If gold is a chimera, as they sing in Robert the Devil, they do not disdain its pursuit. They string together the words; but they also string together the bills. As for poets who die of poverty, they are, of course, simply clumsy.
That is why Gabriele d'Annunzio is the poet par excellence. He too addresses the Eternal Father informally and slaps him on the stomach. But he too knew how to build up a handsome income with fine phrases.
He did better, this good Gabriele, and it is curious that the international press, which so complacently recounts his exploits, has remained silent about his latest adventure. Yet it is worth knowing. Mr. Gabriele is simply accused of theft. He is said to have stolen the famous Villa Gardona from a German writer, the art critic Henry Thode. It is the writer's widow who rises up to accuse Gabriele and demand the riches he has appropriated, including very precious furniture, a library of seven thousand valuable volumes with manuscripts in Wagner's handwriting; and even paintings of considerable value. But we must read the details of this story as given to us by a colleague of the morning. We must see, above all, the noble response the poet provides: "I have shown myself superhuman," he exclaims. To which the lady retorts by calling him Cain.
Oh, what an admirable subject for our end-of-year reviews! And how understandable it is that Gabriele, caught on the job, in the midst of a mercantile business, should have reconciled with Signor Mussolini.
This lyre-bearer is a lover of piggy banks.
And we are assured, O Pierre Gringoire! that poets live in the moon. The moon! Gabriele would be capable of cutting it into slices or selling it by weight.
Victor MERIC.
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