(5 of 6)
> Close collaboration with Russia could not be crammed down Italian throats as it was down German. If there is any sort of tripartite collaboration, it will probably be only economic.
> In case the war goes Germany's way, Italy might enter, but only when the issue is clear and the last battle half-fought. In the last analysis Italy has far more to gain from beating the Allies with Germany than from watching the Allies win—to wit, a juicy slice of the French colonial empire, plus a share in control of Central Europe.
Despite the magnificent performance of political juggling Il Duce has put on in the last six months, Italy's future may not coincide with Benito Mussolini's personal desires. Reason: he still wants to fight—today, tomorrow, any time; and his people, who are not and never have been fighters since the days of Charlemagne, want to stay out—for keeps.
Athlete. Napoleon Bonaparte rode his power for a span of just less than 20 years. Benito Mussolini has been in the saddle 18. He is getting on, and he knows it. If he is ever to lead a Roman triumph up the Quirinal, it must be soon.
Il Duce carries his 56 years with desperate virility. Every morning before going to work he takes a fierce ride in the grounds of Villa Torlonia. Every afternoon between 2 and 3 he plays tennis with a professional who gets $50 a month.
Roman electricians say they have been busy lately connecting private telephone wires between Government offices and the apartments of certain blonde ladies—so that no matter what or where his exercise, Il Duce can get last-minute bulletins on the international situation and issue instant orders.
Fifteen years ago, he suffered an operation for stomach ulcers, and ever since he has lived ascetically. He never smokes.
His breakfast consists of about two pounds of fruit, and caffe e latte (half-&-half coffee and milk); for lunch spaghetti, rarely meat and seldom wine, a huge salad, fruit for dessert; for dinner about the same things as for lunch, and fruit and milk before retiring.
Reports that he is sick infuriate him.
When they were in circulation, he used to call reporters to his home and ride like mad up & down before them to demonstrate his soundness. But of late he has appeared less in public than he used to, has not spoken from the Piazza Venezia balcony since October, almost never receives the press. Last autumn for the first time in many years he failed to appear—stripped to the waist, swinging a pitchfork, sweating up his massive chest—at the Pontine Marshes harvest.
His energy is certainly still Gargantuan, and he still keeps tabs on everything and everyone. Last week he conferred with Count Dino Grandi on the codification of labor laws; talked with Hungarian Premier Count Teleki; witnessed experiments with thermite incendiary bombs and defenses against them; rewarded aviators and received journalists who served in the Spanish war; turned the crank of an invention designed to extract iron ore from black sand along the coast near Rome; conferred with Crown Prince Umberto about that half of the Army which the Prince commands.