'_Ah, bellissimo, bellissimo_!' he said, in tones of intoxicated
reverence, when he saw me.
'Better than _I Spettri_?' I said.
He half-raised his hands, as if to imply the fatuity of the question.
'Ah, but--' he said, 'it was D'Annunzio. The other....'
'That was Ibsen--a great Norwegian,' I said, 'famous all over the
world.'
'But you know--D'Annunzio is a poet--oh, beautiful, beautiful!' There
was no going beyond this '_bello--bellissimo_'.
It was the language which did it. It was the Italian passion for
rhetoric, for the speech which appeals to the senses and makes no demand
on the mind. When an Englishman listens to a speech he wants at least to
imagine that he understands thoroughly and impersonally what is meant.
But an Italian only cares about the emotion. It is the movement, the
physical effect of the language upon the blood which gives him supreme
satisfaction. His mind is scarcely engaged at all. He is like a child,
hearing and feeling without understanding. It is the sensuous
gratification he asks for. Which is why D'Annunzio is a god in Italy. He
can control the current of the blood with his words, and although much
of what he says is bosh, yet his hearer is satisfied, fulfilled.
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