How to Be a Dictator

by Frank Dikotter

  His repertoire changed over time. The famous scowl – imitated by a subservient Farinacci – was abandoned by 1928, while over the years his harsh features softened. His jaw became less rigid. The glaring eyes, so striking in 1922, became more serene. His smile seemed congenial. As George Slocombe noted, ‘Except Stalin, no other European leader displays his air of calm, unruffled assurance, the result of uninterrupted years of supreme authority.’28

  Il Popolo d’Italia (‘The People of Italy’) had been Mussolini’s personal newspaper since 1914, and for many years he had exalted himself as a natural leader in its pages. After he handed the editorship over to his brother Arnaldo in 1922 the paper began describing the Duce as a demi-god.29

  Cesare Rossi, who had been put in charge of the press in 1922, had to flee the country after Matteotti’s murder, but his office flourished. From 1924 onwards the Press Office made sure that all newspapers were filled with what one critic called ‘nauseous laudation’ of Mussolini. His speeches were widely reproduced. As Italo Balbo, one of the blackshirt leaders, put it, ‘Italy is a newspaper in which Mussolini writes the first page every day’.30

  In 1925 the Press Office took over the Istituto Luce, an institution devoted to producing and distributing cinematographic material. Mussolini ran it directly, previewing and editing news reports from his projection room in Villa Torlonia. Within a few years every cinema, from down-at-heel theatres in working-class neighbourhoods to film palaces with gilded furniture and opulent carpets, was compelled by law to show newsreels produced by Luce with Mussolini as their main subject.31

  Luce also produced images of the Duce, printed and mounted in albums for his approval. After all the adverse publicity created by the Matteotti affair, photography became crucial in humanising his image. There were photographs of him and his family at Villa Torlonia. The grounds of his villa also served as a backdrop for shots of the Duce in the saddle, riding and jumping his horse over a wooden hurdle in the morning. There were pictures of him racing cars, toying with lion cubs, addressing a crowd, threshing wheat or playing a violin. He appeared as fencer, yachtsman, swimmer and pilot. As the French journalist Henri Béraud observed in 1929: ‘Wherever you look, wherever you go, you will find Mussolini, again Mussolini, always Mussolini.’ He was on portraits, on medals, in etchings and even on bars of soap. His name adorned newspapers, books, walls and fences. ‘Mussolini is omnipresent, he is like a God. He observes you from every angle and you see him in every spot.’32

  Mussolini was also humanised through a biography first published in English in 1925. Entitled The Life of Benito Mussolini, it appeared in Italian as Dux the following year. Seventeen editions and eighteen translations would follow. Written by Margherita Sarfatti, his erstwhile mistress, the book mythologised his childhood. The son of a blacksmith, he was born on a Sunday afternoon at two o’clock, as ‘The sun had entered the constellation of Leo eight days before’. A ‘very naughty, troublesome little boy’, he dominated others before he could even walk. He was one of those men ‘who are born to compel admiration and devotion from all around him’, as people came ‘under the sway of his magnetism and the force of his personality’. A description of the wound he sustained in 1917 turned him into an object of almost religious reverence, ‘his flesh pierced with arrows, scarred with wounds and bathed in blood’, yet smiling gently at those around him.33

  Although Mussolini edited the text of Dux himself, he preferred the official biography by Giorgio Pini, one so blatantly uncritical that it was only translated in 1939. Pini’s Life of Mussolini was distributed free to schools, where long extracts of Sarfatti were also read in class. Fascist textbooks appeared, specifically tailored to children, all perpetuating the legend of the Duce as a tireless worker devoted to his people. Endorsed by the minister of education in 1927, Vincenzo de Gaetano’s Book for the Young Fascist equated the movement with the person of Mussolini: ‘When one speaks of fascism, one speaks of Him. Fascism is his cause; he has created it, he has infused it with his spirit and given it life.’ Some children learned the story of his life by heart. The opening sentence set the tone: ‘I believe in the Supreme Duce – the creator of the Black Shirts – and in Jesus Christ His Only Protector.’ On the walls of all schools was the slogan ‘From Mussolini to the Children of Italy’; on the cover of their copybooks his portrait.34

  Mussolini was always fine-tuning his own image. The nation was told that he never slept, working on behalf of his country into the early hours of the morning, so he left the lights on at night in his office at the Palazzo Venezia, an architectural landmark built by the popes in the fifteenth century. The epicentre of the nation was the Sala del Mappamondo, a huge space measuring some eighteen by fifteen metres. It was sparsely furnished, with the Duce’s desk standing in a far corner, its back turned to the window. Once they were ushered through the door, visitors had to cross the room, intimidated even before they met his eyes.

  A small balcony connected to his office, and he used it to address the crowd below. He prepared his speeches meticulously, sometimes committing them to memory, on occasion writing them down, rehearsing while pacing the Sala del Mappamondo. But he could also be spontaneous, changing the script and adjusting his gestures to the mood of the crowd. He spoke with a metallic voice in short, simple sentences, delivered like the blows of a hammer. His memory was legendary, although he used different strategies to maintain his reputation, for instance by planting questions or rehearsing from an encyclopaedia.35

  At Villa Torlonia or in the Sala del Mappamondo Mussolini granted audiences to large numbers of admirers. Every day had its quota: ‘Schoolteachers from Australia, distant relatives of English peers, American businessmen, boy scouts from Hungary, poets from the Far East, anybody and everybody who desires to stand in the August Presence is warmly received.’ As Percy Winner, a correspondent with Associated Press, commented rather astutely, nothing could illustrate better Mussolini’s appetite for adulation than the fact that for years he was in contact, seemingly without even a hint of irritation, with a never-ending stream of fawning visitors.36

  The visits also had a strategic purpose, namely to consolidate his reputation as an international strongman. Respect abroad silenced his critics at home. He took pains to fool foreign journalists and writers with his charm, an effort amply rewarded by a flow of celebratory articles and books, which the fascist press invariably highlighted. Foreign journalists who were critical received no further invitations.

  Awed by the immensity of his office, relieved by the cordial reception and calm poise of a man of such fearsome reputation, many walked away thinking they had met a prophet. A mere smile was often enough to disarm an apprehensive visitor. The French writer René Benjamin, recipient of France’s most prestigious literary award, the Prix Goncourt, was so daunted by the encounter that he barely managed to cross the vast distance from the door to Mussolini’s desk, where he was instantly won over by a broad grin. Maurice Bedel, a compatriot who in 1927 had also won the Prix Goncourt, devoted an entire chapter to the Duce’s smile. ‘Does he ever stop,’ he wondered, ‘even for a few brief moments, being a demi-God carried by a violent destiny?’ Others were captivated by his eyes. The poet Ada Negri thought they were ‘magnetic’, but also noticed his hands: ‘He has the most beautiful hands, psychic, like wings when they unfold.’37

  Great leaders also came to pay homage. Mohandas Gandhi, who visited twice, pronounced him ‘one of the great statesmen of the time’, while Winston Churchill in 1933 described ‘the Roman genius’ as ‘the greatest law-giver among living men’. From the United States alone, he received William Randolph Hearst, New York Governor Al Smith, banker Thomas W. Lamont, future vice-presidential candidate Colonel Frank Knox and Archbishop of Boston William Cardinal O’Connell. Thomas Edison called him the ‘greatest genius of modern times’ after a short meeting.38

  Always suspicious of others, Mussolini not only surrounded himself with mediocre followers but also frequently replaced them. The worst, by
most accounts, was Achille Starace, a humourless sycophant who took over from Augusto Turati as party secretary in December 1931. ‘Starace is a cretin,’ one follower objected. ‘I know,’ Mussolini replied, ‘but he is an obedient cretin.’39

  Starace was a fanatic, and his first task was to subordinate the party even further to Mussolini’s will. He did so first by eliminating fascist leaders unwilling to toe the line, then by increasing party membership. It more than doubled from 825,000 in 1931 to over two million in 1936. Many new recruits were opportunists rather than ideologues, more interested in a career than in the tenets of fascism. The result of admitting so many ordinary people into the ranks, as one critic pointed out in 1939, was that the party became depoliticised. ‘Fascism has killed anti-fascism and fascism,’ he pointed out. ‘The strength of fascism,’ he continued, ‘lies in the lack of fascists.’ Loyalty to the leader rather than belief in fascism became paramount, and was expected of everyone, within or outside the Fascist Party. Under Starace, while many party members quite possibly were not fascists, few were not Mussolinists.40

  This suited Mussolini well. He prided himself that he relied on intuition, instinct and pure willpower rather than on mere intellect, and repeatedly scorned the idea of an ideologically consistent worldview. ‘We do not believe in dogmatic programmes, in rigid schemes that should contain and defy the changing, uncertain and complex reality.’ In his own career he had not hesitated to change course when circumstances required it. He was unable to develop a political philosophy, and in any event unwilling to be hemmed in by any principle, moral, ideological or otherwise. ‘Action, action, action – this summed up his whole creed’, noted one of his biographers.41

  Politics became the mass celebration of an individual. ‘Mussolini is Always Right’ was the regime’s motto. Mussolini was not merely sent by providence, but the very incarnation of providence. Blind obedience was now expected of every Italian. The words ‘Believe, Obey, Fight’ were painted in long, black letters on buildings, stencilled on walls, emblazoned across the nation.

  A so-called fascist style was encouraged by Starace, affecting every aspect of daily life. A ‘Hail the Duce’ now opened every meeting, while a Roman salute, right arm outstretched, replaced the handshake. The entire population was put into uniform, with even infants posing for photographs in a black shirt. Children wore black uniforms every Saturday – declared ‘Fascist Saturday’ by the Grand Council in 1935 – and reported to local headquarters to practise marching in step, a toy rifle on their shoulders.42

  A Ministry of Popular Culture replaced the Press Office, established years earlier by Cesare Rossi. The new organisation was run by the Duce’s son-in-law, a talented young man called Galeazzo Ciano who emulated the German Reich’s Ministry of Public Enlightenment and Propaganda. Like its German counterpart, it released daily instructions to editors detailing what should be mentioned and what was proscribed. A carrot accompanied the stick, as the secret funds that had fuelled the Press Office ballooned. From 1933 to 1943 more than 410 million lire, the rough equivalent at the time of US$20 million, was spent promoting the regime and its leader in newspapers across the nation. By 1939 even the Duce’s mottos appeared on the masthead of subsidised dailies. ‘Either Precious Friendship or Brutal Hostility’ proclaimed the Cronaca Prealpina, invoking a speech Mussolini had held in Florence in May 1930, while La Voce di Bergamo announced, ‘The Secret of Victory: Obedience’. Some foreign publications accepted subsidies. Le Petit Journal, the fourth most popular newspaper in France, benefited from a covert contribution of 20,000 lire.43

  Secret funds were also used to entice artists, scholars and writers to join the movement. By one estimate, the cost of these subsidies rose from 1.5 million lire in 1934 to 162 million in 1942. One beneficiary was Asvero Gravelli, an early follower and author of a hagiography entitled Spiritual Interpretations of Mussolini, published in 1938. ‘God and History are two terms that are identified with Mussolini,’ Gravelli boldly declared, although he resisted the temptation to compare him to Napoleon: ‘Who resembles Mussolini? Nobody. To compare Mussolini to statesmen of other races is to diminish him. Mussolini is the first new Italian.’ The author received 79,500 lire for his efforts.44

  Augusto Turati had started developing radio as a propaganda tool in 1926. His voice could be heard regularly over the ether, together with those of other fascists leaders, including Arnaldo Mussolini. The Duce himself went on air for the first time on 4 November 1925, although the transmission was plagued by technical problems. Radio sets remained beyond the reach of most ordinary people in the 1920s, as Italy was still a poor and largely agrarian country. In 1931 there were a mere 176,000 radio subscribers across the nation, most of them in the cities. When teachers lamented that children could not listen to the voice of Mussolini, Starace ensured some 40,000 free radios were installed in elementary schools between 1933 and 1938. The overall number of subscribers, thanks to state subsidies, soared to 800,000 before the onset of the Second World War. Mere numbers, however, did not reflect the reach of the radio, as loudspeakers were installed in town squares, so that by the middle of the 1930s Mussolini’s speeches resounded across the country.45

  Mussolini himself developed the gift of omnipresence. When in 1929 he had first entered the Royal Hall, an enormous auditorium where large conferences were held in the Palazzo Venezia, he had tried out the stage, looking around the room like a choreographer before deciding that it was too low. ‘Those at the back of the room will struggle to see me,’ he said, ordering that the platform be elevated, a command delivered on repeated occasions, until his underlings lost count of just how many podiums had been modified to accommodate their master.46

  In 1932 a four-lane boulevard was cut through the heart of the city from the Colosseum to the Palazzo Venezia, creating a huge open-air space for his balcony speeches, which attracted ever larger crowds. The very idea that any Italian could travel to Rome to see and hear the Duce became part of his legend. Bortolo Pelanda, a seventy-one-year-old farmer, walked some 500 kilometres from Belluno Veronese to Rome to fulfil his dream of listening to Mussolini. Arturo Rizzi built an entire contraption around two bicycles to take his family of eight from Turin to Rome, or so the newspapers reported.47

  After the March on Rome Mussolini had started touring the country, a ritual that became more frequent over time, especially once he announced his policy of ‘Going to the People’ in 1932. Every appearance was meticulously stage-managed. Schools and shops were closed for the day, while fascist youth and party activists recruited from the surrounding region poured into the square from chartered buses. They set the tone, cheering, chanting and applauding on command. Ordinary citizens received a pink card delivered by morning mail ordering them to attend the occasion. Failure to comply could bring a fine or a prison sentence. Police mingled in the crowd to ensure that everyone behaved.48

  Most of all, the crowd was made to wait, sometimes for hours on end, from noon to dusk. Even as Mussolini was still far away, thousands of people closely pressed together craned their necks towards the balcony, eagerly expecting him to appear. Often the Duce only spoke after twilight fell. Giant searchlights were switched on to illuminate the balcony, torches appeared in the crowd, bonfires were lit from nearby buildings. In this theatrical atmosphere, two uniformed guards would step forward, taking positions on each side of the balcony as the crowd began applauding. Trumpets were blasted as the local party secretary moved to the front of the balcony, shouting ‘Fascisti! Salute al Duce!’. When the Duce finally stepped into view and smiled, the crowd had been whipped up to fever pitch, releasing the strain of waiting in an eruption of joy.49

  Every visit was reported by an enthusiastic press, while important speeches were filmed by the Luce Institute and shown in cinemas around the country. The crowd, already carefully selected, knew precisely how to rise to the occasion, having watched the ritual on the silver screen. Cities competed with each other, trying to offer ever more enthusiastic and festive
receptions to curry favour with the regime. In Milan, a favourite city of the Duce, enormous temporary balconies were built for his public speeches, bedecked with papier-mâché eagles.50

  The greatest celebration of the regime was probably the Mostra della Rivoluzione, an exhibition opened on 28 October 1932 to commemorate the tenth anniversary of the March on Rome. Some four million visitors streamed through the grounds of the Palazzo delle Esposizione from 1932 to 1934, with reduced entrance fees for members of party organisations. Mussolini was at the heart of the exhibition, arranged chronologically to mark the most dramatic episodes of the fascist revolution. As Dino Alfieri, its curator, explained, the revolution was ‘inextricably linked to the thought and will of Mussolini’. Room T, at the very end of the exhibition, was dedicated to the Duce, with manuscripts and personal belongings carefully displayed under glass, including his handkerchief, still bloodied after Violet Gibson’s attempt on his life in April 1926. An exact reconstruction of his office at the Popolo d’Italia allowed visitors to get closer to their leader.51

  Another site of pilgrimage, besides Room T, was the Duce’s birthplace. In 1925 party secretary Roberto Farinacci had trekked to Predappio to swear an oath of loyalty to the leader. Seven years later, on the tenth anniversary of the fascist revolution, Achille Starace turned the small medieval village into a site of national celebration, as an entire new town emerged around the cult of Mussolini. ‘From the most humble man to his sovereign majesty’, people from all backgrounds paid their respects to the leader at Predappio. Day in, day out, thousands of pilgrims arrived by bus in organised tours or alone, sometimes on foot or bicycle, silently shuffling through the family home, bowing their heads in front of the family crypt. His mother Rosa Maltoni was compared to the Virgin Mary and commemorated in the church of Santa Rosa. His father was glorified as a hero of the revolution. Far beyond Predappio, schools, hospitals, bridges and churches were named after Mussolini’s parents.52