Prelude to Dictatorship?

One of the best pupils Dancing Teacher Arthur Murray ever had was wry-faced little Manuel Luis Quezon (pronounced kay-son'), President of the Commonwealth of the Philippines. Gay, nimble Mr. Quezon, who one night took out 16 Murray instructresses all at once, quickly became a tango expert. To the U. S. State Department, and to U. S. citizens with large investments in the Philippines, Mr. Quezon has been a tango expert ever since--and his dizzying cavortings have given them more than one headache. Last week, as Japan went into new and ominous activity the eyes of the U. S. were on nimble Mr. Quezon.

Mr. Quezon first bobbed into view in 1909--a small, nervous, sallow man with bushy eyebrows, who had gone to Washington as Resident Commissioner of the newly acquired Philippines. A Spanish-Malay mestizo, born of schoolteaching par ents on the island of Luzon, he had fought in the insurrectionist army against Spain, afterwards against the U. S. invaders. Full of energy, brilliant, brittle, as unpredictable as a hummingbird, he spent seven years reminding the U. S. Government of its promises to set the islands free. When he left Washington he had in his pocket the Jones Act, which did not give the Filipinos independence but granted them more voice in their Government. Back in Manila, he got himself elected President of the Senate which the Jones Act set up.

From that sounding board Quezon began to talk. He clashed with U. S. Governors General over prerogatives. Once he cried: "I would rather live under a government run like hell by Filipinos than one run like heaven by Americans." His feud with Governor General Leonard Wood was said to have hastened Wood's death; it laid fiery Quezon low with tuberculosis. Recovered, he got his political machete out again. By this time his campaign for Philippine independence had won support in parts of the U. S. A powerful sugar lobby and many a U. S. producer wanted competitive Philippine products put on the foreign list, subjected to tariff. The Philippines had become an expensive experiment in imperialism. Public desire to be rid of the Islands was finally reflected in the Tydings-McDuffie Act, creating a unicameral Assembly with broad domestic powers, granting full independence in 1946.

Little Mr. Quezon should have been pleased. He was--until he began to think what it would be like to be cast into a world full of wolves. After Japan began its invasion of China, Quezon made a hurried trip to Tokyo. A year later, intimates reported that Quezon was in favor of a re-examination (politicalingo for postponement) of independence.

Francis B. Sayre, appointed High Commissioner last year, arrived in Manila and flatly declared that the Tydings-McDuffie Act meant what it said: the Philippines were to be cut loose in 1946. Wiggling Mr. Quezon suggested an international conference to guarantee the neutrality of his defenseless islands. This summer it was reported that he intended to visit Washington to complain that Commissioner Sayre had trespassed on his rights. Last week he had his resident commissioner in Washington issue a statement that his Government intends to buy at least $2,000,000 worth of commodities in the U. S. every year.

Behind all Mr. Quezon's dance steps was the threat of Japan, crouching 1,300 nautical miles north, her horn-rimmed eyes on British and Dutch Borneo and Australia, one nostril delicately cocked at the Philippines. A Japanese once remarked to a Filipino politician in Manila: "If we invade you it will only be to teach you that you are not occidentals." As Mr. Quezon well knows, Japan would not even have to make a military invasion. Quezon's islands would drop like ripe fruit. Japanese farmers already have a strong foothold in the archipelago, and Philippine independence would mean the end of a U. S. market which has absorbed 85% of Philippine products. Recently Quezon had his Assembly pass an immigration law, aimed at Japanese infiltration, limiting the quota of every country to 500 a year. Commenting on this law, a Japanese Foreign Office spokesman said silkily: "It is our intention to make the Philippines understand our just position and take measures accordingly."

As Japan played the soft music for Quezon's dips and turns, last week it was apparent that Quezon had begun to dance still more exotic steps. Imperious boss of the Islands but still subject to their U. S.-made laws, Quezon has proposed an amendment to the Tydings-McDuffie Act which would permit him to run for a second term as President of the Commonwealth, then let a chosen subordinate hold the office until he can run again in 1945 and become the first President of the new sovereign State. The Filipinos approved the amendment in a plebiscite. Mr. Roosevelt's signature is all that is necessary to make it law -- and wily Quezon scarcely anticipates a veto from President Roosevelt. Quezon has also asked and obtained from the Assembly "emergency" powers which give him authority to suppress espionage, prohibit strikes or lockouts, mobilize citizens for whatever productive pusuits he deems necessary. On the subject of the State he has proclaimed: "Organized society is predicated upon the willingness of men to limit their freedom in the interest of the well-being of the entire community." On the subject of Democracy he announced last month that the two-party system was a "fetish," not necessary. Said Manuel Quezon: "Political parties are good only for evil things."

A movement is afoot to change the name of the Islands to "Quezon." Already there is a Quezon City. Students of the State-supported University of the Philippines have organized a Quezon-for-King Club. It was apparent last week to many an observer that the Philippines, given ten years to learn how a democracy should be run, were instead learning how to run a dictatorship. It was the first Government under the U. S. flag to edge towards totalitarianism.

In his huge and lavish Malacanan Palace, upon which he has spent huge sums, sat little "King" Quezon last week. Sixty-two, he still goes dancing occasionally at the Santa Ana cabaret in Manila, an old haunt of his. He has lost none of his love for gaudy gaiety: his clothes are the wonder of the Islands. Frequently he dons jodhpurs for the office, an admiral's uniform for a cruise on his splendid white yacht, once the property of Oilman Edward Doheny. It is a legend in Manila that he planned to have a guard of honor for the Malacanan dressed in uniforms copied after those worn at Buckingham Palace, dropped the idea only after earnest advice from friends. He is the adored father of two grown-up daughters. Maria Aurora ("Baby") and Zenaida ("Mini"), and a small son. Manuel Jr. ("Nonong"). Mrs. Quezon, dignified and portly, keeps matron-mum.

Teetering back & forth in his brocaded swivel chair, strolling on his balcony overlooking the Pasig River, Manuel Quezon last week could see no serious opposition at home. He had long since danced rings around his onetime friend and later rival, Sergio Osmena. But from outside, the threatening forces crowded--forces which might also concern the U. S. The question an anxious State Department pondered was where Tango Dancer Quezon, with the Philippines in his arms, would whirl next.

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