fired with extravagent ambitions and widely infected with Bolshevism. Adopting enthusiastically the Bolshevik doctrine of implacable hatred toward the bourgeoisie, Italian labor showed itself fiercely hostile to the middle classes, particularly to the professional elements. Vaunting manual labor as the only true social activity, Italian labor denounced intellectual workers as idlers, and sought to make them take to the pick and shovel to justify their right to live. For a time it looked as though Italy were going the way of Russia. Italians have described to me vividly those hectic post-war days, when a professional or business man could hardly walk along the streets without being accosted by some laborer with the admonition, "Go to work!" Those were the days when professional men of high standing, who had never known an idle moment in their lives, discussed seriously the manual trade for which they might be best fitted if things came to the worst. All this was the brutal denial, the scornful rejection by the laboring classes of the social value of brain service, of a service faith in which gave the middle classes faith in themselves.

Thus menaced in the very spiritual foundations of their existence, the Italian middle classes were further exasperated by proletarian attacks on their patriotism and by economic discrimination. It was the middle classes which had most ardently supported the war, while the industrial masses had been lukewarm or hostile to the struggle. Now that the war was over and the censorship at an end, the revolutionary working-men unreservedly criticized the war and jeered at middle-class patriotism and sacrifices.

As for the economic situation, the middle classes in Italy were hard hit, like the middle classes everywhere. Cramped by low salaries and crushed by taxes, the middle classes were infuriated by the sight of huge wage increases extorted by organized labor, the burden of which was mainly passed on to middle-class consumers through further increases in the cost of living.

When, in addition to all this, the revolutionary elements among the working-classes began a program of avowedly revolutionary "action" by an epidemic of strikes and violence which the weak Government of the time did little or nothing to repress, the middle classes turned at bay, and Fascism was born. It was from the first a frankly fighting organization, as shown by its official title, "Fasci di Combattimento"-Unions of Combat. In an amazingly short time the Fascisti numbered hundreds of thousands, organized on strictly military lines, with arms in their hands and the will to use them. There followed a fierce struggle between Fascisti and communists which amounted to a veiled civil war, with the Government feebly attempting to maintain order, but afraid to take vigorous action against either of the contending parties. All over Italy killings, riots, and sometimes regular battles took place, costing in the aggregate thousands of lives. One episode in this struggle will show both the magnitude of the struggle and the efficiency of the Fascist organization. In May, 1922, the city of Bologna was the scene of rioting between Fascisti and communists, in which the Fascisti got the worst of it, several of them being killed. Within forty-eight hours some 60,000 Fascisti converged upon Bologna, took posses

sion of the city, sacked and burned the communist headquarters and headquarters and newspaper office, and generally terrorized the working-class quarter. Before many months had passed the communists, thoroughly beaten, gave up organized resistance, and toward the end of 1922 the Fascisti overthrew the supine Government of Italy and themselves established a dictatorship.

The rôle of the middle classes in Fascism is often misunderstood. The fact that its leader, Mussolini, was a former socialist whose father was a blacksmith, and the further fact that since Fascism's triumph it has been joined by many working-class elements, have tended to obscure the importance of middle-class activity in the Fascist cause. An analysis of Fascism, however, shows that at the start it was predominantly a middleclass movement. The first fighting organizations were composed mainly of middle-class youth, while the thinkers who worked out Fascism's plans and policies were almost wholly professional men and intellectuals of middleclass origin. Without middle-class backing and enthusiasm, Fascism's success would have been impossible. And the same thing is true of the kindred counter-revolutionary movements in Germany, Hungary, and other parts of Europe.

All this shows what vitality and ability the middle classes still possess despite their misfortunes of the last ten years. But what of their future? Will they slowly recover their former prosperity and importance, or are they destined to sink still further in the social scale? Indeed, their fate is bound up with that of Europe's industrial and social life. If European industry avoids collapse and the social

order escapes communism, some sort of middle class will survive, its size and status depending upon the degree of industrial prosperity and social stability. By collective action the middle classes can of course do much to improve their lot, though in the long run their efforts, like those of any group, cannot successfully defy those deeplying forces which determine the general trend of the age.

Although, taken as a whole, a middle class will almost certainly survive as an important element in European society, various portions of the present middle classes may be destined to quite diverse fortunes. The industrial, commercial, and technical professional sections of the middle classes are recovering from the post-war crisis, and with the stabilization of currencies and business conditions they may be expected to do fairly well. On the other hand, the learned professions and the literary and artistic callings, in short, the "intellectuals," are still very hard hit, with future prospects that are far from bright. The plight of the intellectuals will be discussed in the next paper of this series. There can be no doubt that all over Europe the intellectuals are to-day decreasing in numbers, owing to a high death-rate, a low birth-rate, and a falling off of recruits from other social strata. The effects of this retrograde process upon the future culture and civilization of Europe are so important that they merit our most serious attention. The decline of the intellectuals is perhaps the most discouraging symptom of postwar Europe, materially convalescent, yet so absorbed with the struggle for material recovery that it has little time for, or interest in, the finer things of the mind and the spirit.

L

IGHTS flickered. "They are coming for us." And they were, with torches, real torches, primitive ones-sticks of pitch-pine burning dark flame and smoking thick black smoke.

We had been walking all day up and down over immense stretches of perpendicular country. Hand-carved wooden crosses dot these trails for resting-places, and we had climbed and rested, climbed and rested, until night had overtaken us.

A herald had gone before us. We had an idea, starved as we were,—our breakfast having been a cup of Turkish coffee, conventional size, which is a little over a thimbleful,—that by sending more swiftly ahead, the goat or the hen might be "cut" early for us, and we might come in upon a steaming meal, ready and waiting. We had not been long in the mountains. And now here was welcome, two torchbearers, one our host and one his brother. Formal greetings were postponed until we reached the house.

It is a little house, all ground floor, and this floor of trodden earth. At the right, at one side, occupying a full third of the house is a cattle-pen the fences of which are woven twigs reaching within two feet of the low ceiling. Behind this one hears all sorts of strange

noises unfamiliar to the effete and ultra-civilized ear-bleatings and brayings, chirpings and squawkings, the rustling of leaves and branches as the animals pull and nibble at the fodder hung to the fence and suspended from the ceiling. We turn to the fire, which is built in its particular place, a sort of flat hearth to the left of the door and more or less in the center of the room. The family, men and women, greet us, "God be praised that you are come!" and we give the answer, "Good be to this house!" "How is it that you are? Are you well and good?" "Peace be with you!" "Glory be to your feet!" Then comes the clasp of hands and the mountain salute of intimacy and comradeship, given often from woman to woman even when they are strangers—the leaning of the cheek for a moment near or against the cheek of the other.

The inevitable mountain question follows which, translated as lucidly as possible, means, "Have you been able to do it?" Literally, it is, "Could you?" To this the modest mountain reply is invariably, "Little by little," or, "Slowly, slowly"; and God is thanked for your successful effort.

The dark interior, and an interior that depends on a nine-inch window for light is always dark even at mid

day, is lighted by the fire, which the mother is piling high with fagots. A beautiful, swift flame rushes up, straight and clean and vivid, nearly to the blackened beams and soot-hung wickerwork of the roofing. Stools, dark, smooth, three-legged little ones with treacherous tipping proclivities, are brought forward for the guests; and the family, three or four adults and as many children, squat about the open hearth. When a fire is built in the middle of a room, you can really sit around it all around.

We sit, and what a grateful feeling pervades our being! The stinging heat of the brief flame, which is replenished with fagots or even with split logs, starts our wet clothing into steam. We steam unexpectedly everywhere; we had no idea how wet we were. Coffee is in the ashes; maybe the big boy is roasting some in the blackened tin cylinder with the long wire handle-shake, shake, like corn popping, over the hot ashes, over the flame.

Every one is taking off his shoes. Soon the ceiling will be decorated with wet socks and shputa and opanga, the goatskin moccasins of the mountains. We take off ours. No shame attaches to feet in the mountains. They are They are like hands, to be used, neither admired nor concealed. Most of the company is barefoot. Our own stockings we add to the hanging masses of wet wool overhead.

Coffee is passing around. In our exhausted condition, the solace of coffee, the excessively hot, concentrated essence of aroma and flavor found only in the Turkish article, is a physical and spiritual benison and balm. Even the thick, hot little cup clutched in our wet, cold hands has a

magical mercy of its own. We sip. The cult of the silent coffee-cup has, God be praised! not spread to the Albanian mountains. Hot, very hot, surpassingly hot, hot with the heat of red embers, is this wonderful potion. We sip it out of deep respect for its flavor, its strength, and its heat. And coffee coaxingly drawn over the edge of the thick Turkish cup has a music of its own. We forget everything: the rocks that have bruised our feet; the climbs, each more wonderfully fearful than the last; the crosses, with their blessed relaxation; the last terrible half-hour of effort; the wet and the cold and the gnawing of our hunger. Our consciousness, all our living and sentient being, is concentrated there on the edge of that scalding and merciful cup. We have just one little intense point of contact with life; it is there where our lips touch the china edge. The rest of us is dead, has ceased to exist. We sip.

There is an insane and foolish habit in Occidental civilization so-called. We come in exhausted from a day of great physical effort. The last two hours of that effort may have been a steady drawing on reserve resources and nervous energy. What do we do? Do we come into shelter, draw near to warmth, and sit and relax every fiber of our corporeal being? No, we come in ready to drop, but we do not drop. We make laborious and painstaking preparations for bathing, for all the effort of undressing and washing and scrubbing and wiping and drying and perhaps redressing. We do not drink or eat anything until this bathing is done, this exhaustive and exhausting cleansing of our already exhausted body. Sometimes we do not even sit down before beginning this huge piece

of work, entailing so much of concentration and effort and pains. Not until the bathing is over do we take time to relax and rest and recuperate, to eat. An imbecile, wasteful, subversive custom of an imbecile, wasteful, and subversive civilization.

He

Not so Albania. Before Greece was or Rome was dreamed of, the Albanian mountaineer, called variously through history Pelasgic, Illyrian, and Macedonian, climbed the Albanian mountains. He climbed and climbed, and sheltered at night and found rest. And through the poignant, sharp teachings of the needs of flesh and blood and sinews he found wisdom. Neither health authorities nor sanitary commissions nor wise and learned doctors arose to teach him. learned, and down through the agesand they were ages-descended the custom, swathed in ceremonial, embroidered with countless phrases of compliment and counter-compliment, the glorious, sound, and sensible custom of the reception of a weary traveler, the fire, bare feet, and coffee. Washing can wait. Warmth and rest and stimulant have precedence. And nerves and muscle and the deep soul of every man give rich response to these ancient wise proceedings.

So with us this night.

But ever and anon our would-be civilized feelings prompted. "Are they ever going to let me wash?" The second cup of coffee goes around. There is no sign of any preparation for food; the anticipated banquet seems far from any one's thoughts. The first cup of coffee has somewhat abated our anxiety, and with the second we become capable of a sort of wonder, hardly a detached wonder, but still a wonder, and no longer an

anguish of "When are they going to eat?"

And mingling with this marveling are memories of strenuous American days and how one falls on the good American beefsteak immediately after the washing process is completed and time for food and rest are come even among the civilized. And again comes the very urgent, "Are they ever going to let me wash?"

Suddenly a big daughter comes gently and whisperingly up to us. She is dressed in the hand-woven wool of the mountains. Whitish is her costume and braided with black. Her head is wrapped in the usual kerchief. Her eyes are soft and brown, and her finely chiseled features have already taken on the mountain charm and dignity. She leans over us.

"Would you like to wash your feet?" We have been thinking mostly of face and hands, but this is hope; this is water, at any rate.

"Thank you,” we respond, concealing our eagerness.

We turn our backs to the fire and the company.

She brings the bowl of hot water and a towel of hand-woven cotton. We dip our hands in slyly, and surreptitiously wet our face. She will help with the washing. She understands washing feet.