Continental Transfers: Cultural and Political Exchange among Spain, Italy and Argentina, 1914-1945 9781800733404

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CONTINENTAL TRANSFERS

Studies in Latin American and Spanish History Series Editors: Scott Eastman, Creighton University, USA Vicent Sanz Rozalén, Universitat Jaume I, Spain

Editorial Board: Carlos Illades, Universidad Autónoma Metropolitana, Mexico Mercedes Yusta, Université Paris 8, France Xosé Manoel Núñez-Seixas, Ludwig-Maximilians München Universität, Germany Gabe Paquette, University of Oregon, USA Karen Racine, University of Guelph, Canada David Sartorius, University of Maryland, USA Claudia Guarisco, FRAMESPA, Université Toulouse Jean Jaurès, France Natalia Sobrevilla Perea, University of Kent, United Kingdom This series bridges the divide between studies of Latin America and peninsular Spain by employing transnational and comparative approaches that shed light on the complex societies, cultures and economies of the modern age. Focusing on the cross-pollination that was the legacy of colonialism on both sides of the Atlantic, these monographs and collections explore a variety of issues such as race, class, gender and politics in the Spanish-speaking world. Volume 1 Metaphors of Spain: Representations of Spanish National Identity in the Twentieth Century Edited by Javier Moreno-Luzón and Xosé M. Núñez Seixas

Volume 6 Teaching Modernization: Spanish and Latin American Educational Reform in the Cold War Edited by Óscar J. Martín García and Lorenzo Delgado Gómez-Escalonilla

Volume 2 Conflict, Domination and Violence: Episodes in Mexican Social History Carlos Illades

Volume 7 Rethinking Atlantic Empire: Christopher Schmidt-Nowara’s Histories of Nineteenth-Century Spain and the Antilles Edited by Scott Eastman and Stephen Jacobson

Volume 3 José Antonio Primo de Rivera: The Reality and Myth of a Spanish Fascist Leader Joan Maria Thomàs Volume 4 The Brazilian Truth Commission: Local, National and Global Perspectives Edited by Nina Schneider Volume 5 The Configuration of the Spanish Public Sphere: From the Enlightenment to the Indignados Edited by David Jiménez Torres and Leticia Villamediana González

Volume 8 Continental Transfers: Cultural and Political Exchange among Spain, Italy and Argentina, 1914–1945 Edited by Maximiliano Fuentes Codera and Patrizia Dogliani

Continental Transfers Cultural and Political Exchange among Spain, Italy and Argentina, 1914–1945

Edited by

Maximiliano Fuentes Codera and Patrizia Dogliani

berghahn NEW YORK • OXFORD www.berghahnbooks.com

First published in 2022 by Berghahn Books www.berghahnbooks.com © 2022 Maximiliano Fuentes Codera and Patrizia Dogliani All rights reserved. Except for the quotation of short passages for the purposes of criticism and review, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without written permission of the publisher. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Fuentes Codera, Maximiliano, editor, author. | Dogliani, Patrizia, editor, author. Title: Continental Transfers: Cultural and Political Exchange among Spain, Italy and Argentina, 1914–1945 / edited by Maximiliano Fuentes Codera and Patrizia Dogliani. Description: New York; Oxford: Berghahn Books, 2022. | Series: Studies in Latin American and Spanish History; volume 8 | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2022004645 (print) | LCCN 2022004646 (ebook) | ISBN 9781800733398 (hardback) | ISBN 9781800733404 (ebook) Subjects: LCSH: Spain—Relations—Argentina. | Argentina— Relations—Spain. | Spain—Relations—Italy. | Italy—Relations— Spain. | Italy—Relations—Argentina. | Argentina—Relations— Italy | Spain—Foreign relations—20th century. | Italy—Foreign relations—20th century. | Argentina—Foreign relations—20th century. | Argentina—Civilization—Spanish influences. | Argentina— Civilization—Italian influences. Classification: LCC F2833.5.S7 C66 2022 (print) | LCC F2833.5.S7 (ebook) | DDC 327.46082—dc23/eng/20220207 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022004645 LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022004646 British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library ISBN 978-1-80073-339-8 hardback ISBN 978-1-80073-340-4 ebook https://doi.org/10.3167/9781800733398

Contents

å Introduction Patrizia Dogliani and Maximiliano Fuentes Codera Chapter 1 Neutralities in the Battlefield: Spain, Italy and Argentina during the First World War Maximiliano Fuentes Codera and Carolina García Sanz Chapter 2 Latinizing the Russia of the Soviets: The Influence of Italian Socialism in Spain and Argentina after the First World War Steven Forti

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Chapter 3 Italian Anarcho-syndicalism: Connections and Links between Spain and Argentina Marco Masulli

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Chapter 4 Machiavelli and Republicanism: Readings and Receptions in Argentina and Spain (1920–40) Leandro Losada

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Chapter 5 The Idea of Latinità in the Political Culture of Fascism in Latin America: The Argentine Case Federica Bertagna

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Chapter 6 Italian Fascist Cultural Intervention in the Spanish World, 1938–43 Patrizia Dogliani

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Chapter 7 Circulating Fascisms: Mussolini, Hitler and Hispanidad in Argentina Federico Finchelstein

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Conclusions Maximiliano Fuentes Codera and Patrizia Dogliani

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Index

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Introduction Patrizia Dogliani and Maximiliano Fuentes Codera

å The aim of this book is to analyse relevant political and intellectual transfers among three different countries – Spain, Italy and Argentina – from a multidirectional perspective, focusing on the links originated and dynamized by transnational experiences. This triple exchange is observed in a midrange period, from the beginning of the First World War in Europe to the end of the Second World War: 1914–45. However, it also looks at the roots of several cultural phenomena dating back to the 1880s, when the first wave of the great emigration went from Europe to Argentina, and extends to the post-Second World War era, a time when people and ideologies found a new home in Latin America. This approach allows us to examine in depth not only the particular nature of cultural and political exchanges, but also to understand the development of different and reciprocal approaches to national identities. Indeed, the crossroads among three national scenarios offers a dynamic perspective of the reciprocal cultural influences. The chapters in this book, far from presenting a homogeneous and univocal vision, offer plural views on some phenomena centred on circulations and exchanges between continents. Nevertheless, they share a general perspective focused on transnational perspectives constituting a central anchor point for analysing the relations between the new and the old continents. Following Akira Iriye’s approach, they aim at analysing ‘the intricate interrelationship between nations and transnational existences, between national preoccupations and transnational agendas’.1 Considering its general view, this book also assumes a transatlantic perspective.2 It also aims to rethink the categories of internationalism and transnationalism from a global perspective, and in a period between the two world wars, when both nationalism and internationalism reached their apogee.3 Recent works overlook the fact that

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there have been contrasts between nationalism and internationalism, suggesting that workers’ international solidarity was very often based on a strong belonging to a craft rather than to a nation or a class.4 Other works show internationalism in different forms, from the original Marxist and labor organizations of the mid-nineteenth century to the twentieth century, to political variants of Liberalism and religious faith,5 to geographical variants in Europe.6 We take a different path: we consider transfer as a methodological point of view in order to observe not only the transmission of an idea from one cultural context to another, but also to see how a concept is reinterpreted in a new country in a different political setting. In this very sense, cultural transfers were not only an exchange but also inspired new meanings, praxis and ideas.7 The authors have considered a wide variety of agents of transfers (books and newspapers, and intellectuals and militants) and a variety of struggles and forms of exile. Individuals, groups, circles and organizations contribute to create imagined communities that can spread both internationalism and nationalism.8 For some years now, there has been a certain level of consensus among historians concerning the limitations of explanations focused only on the nation-state. As a result of this, several perspectives have emerged in recent decades, among which comparative history, world history, global history and transnational history stand out. Despite their many differences, all of them have in common the search for a view that highlights the interactions, connections and interchanges between continents and countries.9 As Clavin has shown, transnational approaches offer much more of a ‘research perspective’ than a closed methodology and, for this reason, they have encompassed a wide variety of objects of study.10 However, this potentiality has led some authors to point out a lack of precision and a potential confusion with other historiographical perspectives.11 Bearing this in mind, we think that it is fundamental to define the transnational space as a series of links of exchange, solidarity and reciprocity that give rise to a cohesion between different social and political groups.12 This space is built from shared collective symbols, interests and representations that are articulated through these exchanges, solidarity, reciprocities and permeabilities. Starting from this basic idea, our general objective has been to present an analysis focused on ‘cross-border interconnections’ between national processes and transnational developments.13 This book takes the perspective of cultural transfers as its own. We believe that the methodological tools, complemented with the aforementioned transnational perspective, allow us to highlight not only the transmission of ideas and experiences from one cultural context to

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another, but above all how ideas and concepts were reconstructed in particular political and cultural contexts. In this sense, cultural transfers are not only an exchange, but are also a source of inspiration for new meanings and practices that give rise to transnational political movements and processes. This approach makes it possible to gain an in-depth understanding of both the very nature of cultural and political exchanges and the development of processes linked to national and supranational identities. In this framework, following Michel Espagne and Katia Dmitrieva, the crossroads of three scenarios offers a dynamic perspective of reciprocal cultural influences that can disappear in much broader visions or in exclusively comparative approaches.14 Among these transfers, we think that Latinity was the most interesting transnational project that linked Italy and Spain with Argentina during the first half of the twentieth century. The roots of these projects went back to the nineteenth century. One of the first of these, as is well known, was the spread of French culture, a fundamental factor both in Spain and Latin America, while the second was the rapprochement between the two continents that did not begin to develop strongly until the crisis of 1898 derived from the Spanish-American War.15 In these processes, the multiple links between Spain, Italy and Argentina grew exponentially from 1870, with large population movements from Europe to America. Italy, Spain and Argentina were part of the ‘Latin Space’ we intend to analyse through some of the political cultures and practices that better represented the period under examination: the different variants of left-wing ideology (specifically, communism and anarcho-syndicalism) and fascism. Considering our perspective, Argentina (and chiefly Buenos Aires) constitutes a privileged laboratory to analyse the results of political and cultural transfers of these ideologies and praxis; indeed, at the beginning of the twentieth century, approximately one-third of the country’s population was made up of recent immigrants, most of whom were of Spanish and Italian origin.16 Even if Spain and Argentina were not involved in the military events of the First World War, in this conflict neutral countries did not remain apart – they increasingly became part of a global war.17 The ties Argentinian peoples had with their motherlands were strengthened, as there were political crossroads and commercial networks between the Americas and Europe. As the Argentine intellectual Ernesto Palacio affirmed and as Federica Bertagna notes in her chapter, Latinity realized its moment of glory during the First World War. In the four years of conflict, the ‘Latin race’ was constructed as an appeal to a shared past and cultural roots. It was also used as a geopolitical projection in the struggle for political

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and cultural control of the Mediterranean. Likewise, liberal and republican sectors appealed to it using democratizing perspectives, and even revolutionary and anarchist sectors in Argentina and Spain came to consider the existence of a common Latin cultural origin shared with Italy. However, Latinity lends itself to different readings and interpretations. The late nineteenth-century competition in the Mediterranean between France and Italy had by the beginning of the new century turned into a ‘fraternité latine’ led by intellectual circles. In 1914, the year of Italian neutrality, what was considered a ‘gentile sangue latino’ (a kind Latin blood) was made available to support the Italian intervention alongside France, in the name of a Latin civilization against German barbarism. Some short-lived periodicals, like Revue des nations latines (1916–19), were created with the purpose of strengthening the alliance against the invasion of Germanism in Europe and America, and of creating a Latin Europe against Mitteleuropa once the war was won. After the war, this project was also extended to unifying Spain, Portugal and Belgium in order to contain British and Northern American power in Europe and overseas.18 In the meantime, the ‘honeymoon’ in the French and Italian democratic and irredentist camp ended in the general discontent in relation to the Treaty of Versailles and the failure of Wilson’s propositions, which resulted in the leadership of Latinity passing into the hands of the right wing, and very quickly from conservative and nationalist groups to the fascist movement. For example, Giacomo Di Belsito, the director of the postwar Milanese periodical Idea Latina, was a journalist of Mussolini’s newspaper Il Popolo d’Italia. In the end, Latinity assumed transnational characteristics and was articulated through a process of ‘cross-fertilization’ under French influence, particularly following the approaches of Charles Maurras and Action Française.19 Within this framework, it is not surprising that the cultural politics of fascism recurrently appealed to Latinity both in Argentina and in Spain. The aim was to develop and reformulate a supranational projection that was rooted in the previous century. It was a project to which the Mussolini regime devoted numerous and varied cultural and political endeavours, but that were not successful, as Bertagna, Dogliani and Finchelstein explain. Italy’s inability to exercise unquestionable leadership over an Argentina divided over the Spanish Civil War or Franco’s Spain was evident in the 1930s and 1940s. However, this negative perception of Italian fascism should not obscure one of the fundamental elements derived from this book: the articulation of a ‘Latin space’ shared between Spain, Argentina and

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Italy.20 Without resorting to this construction, it is very difficult to understand the development of most of the political processes that took place between 1914 and 1945. Latinism was therefore a supranational horizon that was central to articulating both the imperialist discourses and visions of fascism, and to configuring the nationalist visions that developed in Spain and Argentina. These Latinist approaches coexisted with the Hispanic projections that had been developed since the end of the nineteenth century in Latin America. In Argentina, Spain sought to develop Hispanism with the aim of exerting a counterweight to the French cultural and commercial influence expressed in Latinism and, simultaneously, counteracting the ghost of the omnipresent United States and its international projection on the continent.21 The celebrations of the centennial of the Argentine independence expressed this perspective, which had been developing in previous decades, and opened the door to an improvement in relations between Spain and Argentina.22 The circulation of intellectuals between both countries assisted in this process. 23 In its development, a new generation of Argentine intellectuals led by Ricardo Rojas, Manuel Gálvez and Leopoldo Lugones showed ideological ambiguities that would unfold throughout the First World War and in the years afterwards. Among them, Latinism and Hispanism became fundamental supranational horizons to build their discourses on the Argentine nation.24 During the First World War, the dispute between Latinism and Hispanism helped shape the division of Spanish and Argentine societies. Within this framework, the establishment of 12 October 1917 as a national holiday – the ‘Day of the Race’ – in Argentina and the following year in Spain constituted a fundamental element, as well as the Latinist celebrations of the Allied triumph that took place in both countries in November 1918.25 In this process, cultural transfers and the constitution of two fields that assumed transnational elements (see Chapter 1) was central. However, the conflict between Latinism and Hispanism disappeared following the end of the war. In subsequent decades, appeals to Latinity and Italian culture spread in Spain and Argentina (see Chapters 2 and 4). Hispanism, for its part, expressed itself more and more strongly through authoritarian speeches. Through his actions both at home and abroad, the dictatorship of Primo de Rivera made him an element of the utmost importance in his national discourse.26 Ramiro de Maeztu, one of the main intellectuals of the dictatorship of Primo de Rivera, served as ambassador in Buenos Aires between 1928 and 1930. During his years in Argentina, he came into contact with the nationalist and Maurrasian intellectuals of La Nueva

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República, who exercised influence over the Argentine conservative elites that promoted the coup d’état of José F. Uriburu in 1930. His book En Defensa de la Hispanidad, published in 1934, would exert a notable influence over Argentine nationalists, strongly marked by a deep Catholicism. However, the ‘Hispanidad’ concept was not imported into Argentina. It was far from being a copy of previous formulations that were developed in Spain. On the contrary, it was the Spanish priest Zacarías de Vizcarra, resident in Buenos Aires, who coined the concept in Criterio. Later, Maeztu made it a fundamental element of the vision of the reactionary Spanish right, which was expressed in the magazine Acción Española.27 As the Argentine nationalists and the Spanish reactionary and Falangist right showed, Hispanism and Latinism could complement each other to shape a new discourse that was simultaneously specific and transnational. In this sense, despite being in open dispute with the Hispanic neo-imperial project, fascist Latinism contributed some relevant elements to the articulation of the discourse of Spanish fascism. The influences of the Escuela Romanna del Pirineo and the Maurrasian and Fascist Latinisms were at the base of the Hispanist and imperialist ideas of intellectuals such as Rafael Sánchez Mazas or José Antonio de Primo de Rivera.28 The same can be said of some Argentine intellectuals, such as Leopoldo Lugones or Julio and Rodolfo Irazusta, who showed a certain hybridization of Latinist and Hispanist elements in the formation of a new authoritarian and anti-liberal discourse.29 In this transnationally shared space, a renewed authoritarian Hispanism that had many points in common with fascist Latinism was articulated. It was expressed by La Nueva República, Criterio and also Acción Española. The same dispute between Latinism and Hispanism that created divisions in Spain and Argentina can be also seen between latinità and italianità in Italy from the beginning of the 1920s. This dispute was resolved by fascism with the concept of romanità (romanity). The myth of Rome became the main symbolic and political instrument of fascism, not only in order to legitimize the anti-democratic character of its domestic programme, but also in order to unify and ‘pacify’ territories and peoples under the authority of Rome. In this spirit, fascist militants, intellectuals, university students and young fellows volunteered to fight in Spain alongside the nationalists. Italian historians (Luciano Canfora, Andrea Giardina, Emilio Gentile and others) have discussed the value and significance of Romanness for fascism. The debate was focused on whether it has to be considered an attitude against modernity or an expression of reactionary modernity. Fascism claimed that

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Rome was the symbol of universality and was best suited to represent Christianity as a global religion, and identified the Roman Empire as the supreme civilization that had dominated the ancient world. Some historians have found traits of modernity in the myth of Rome because it was supported by a political project that looked to the future.30 It was in this frame in mind that the Action Committees for the Universality of Rome (Caur) were created in 1933 to organize sympathetic movements in Europe into a kind of international fascism. The Caur had as their aim to affirm the primacy of Italian fascism in the Latin world. The two Caur congresses held in Montreux in 1934 and 1935 were not as successful as had been hoped: Nazism had another idea for a European order and the Spanish Falange, even being present at the congresses, did want not be part of a Rome-dominated universality, as would be proven by the cold welcome Italian fascism received at the end of the Civil War. In the end, the cases analysed here show the full potential of the methodological perspective that has configured this book. The approaches assumed and the applied triangular perspective have made it possible to observe how they confronted two supranational cultural and political projects in a transnational sense. From the interaction between Spain, Italy and Argentina and from the analysis of cultural groups, national projects and political movements, individual and collective trajectories have been observed that, despite having particular elements, cannot be understood outside of interaction and ‘fertilization’ that took place in this transnational space. The research perspectives that can be derived from these approaches are, of course, too many to cover within the scope of these pages. Patrizia Dogliani is Full Professor of Contemporary History at Bologna University, and visiting professor in academic institutions in Paris and at New York University (NYU). She is the author and editor of many essays and books published on the European Left, fascism, public memory and wars. Her publications as an author include Il fascismo degli italiani. Una storia sociale (2014), Le socialisme municipal en France et en Europe de la Commune à la Grande Guerre (2018) and Un partito di giovani. La gioventù internazionalista, 1915–1926 (with L. Gorgolini, 2021), and, as an editor, Italian Fascism: History, Memory, and Representation (with R.J.B. Bosworth, 1999); Itinerarios reformistas, perspectivas revolucionarias (with M. Fuentes Codera and A. Duarte, 2016) and Internazionalismo e transnazionalismo all’indomani della Grande Guerra (2020).

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Maximiliano Fuentes Codera is Associate Professor at the Universitat de Girona. His research and publications have focused on Spanish and European intellectual and political contemporary history and its connections with Argentina. His latests works are España en la Primera Guerra Mundial. Una movilización cultural (2014), A Civil War of Words (2016, edited with Xavier Pla and Francesc Montero), Ideas comprometidas. Los intelectuales y la política (2018, edited with Ferran Archilés) and Spain and Argentina in the First World War. Transnational Neutralities (2021).

Notes This book is part of the ‘La patria hispana, la raza latina. Intelectuales, identidades colectivas y proyectos políticos entre España, Italia y Argentina (1880–1945)’ research project (HAR2016–75324-P), funded by the Ministry of Economy and Competitiveness. The editors would like to thank Pau Font for his support, and Natalia Fernández for the translation and revision of some chapters of this book. 1. Iryie, Global and Transnational History, 15. 2. Among these recent interpretations, see Finchelstein, Transatlantic Fascism; Albanese and Del Hierro, Transnational Fascism; Costa Pinto and Finchelstein, Authoritarianism and Corporativism. 3. Sluga, Internationalism; and Dogliani, Internazionalismo e transnazionalismo. 4. Delalande, La lutte et l’entraide. 5. Sluga and Clavin, Internationalisms. 6. Haupt and Kocka, Comparative and Transnational History. 7. Espagne, ‘Más allá del comparatismo’. 8. The quotation is a homage to Benedict Anderson, whose works have inspired historians working on cultural transfers and their agents. See Anderson, Imagined Communities and Under Three Flags. Recent interesting suggestions come from Jeremy Adelman’s work; they can be found in his biography: Adelman, Worldly Philosopher. 9. Conrad, What Is Global History?; Klaus Patel, ‘An Emperor without Clothes?’; Iryie, Global and Transnational History; Boucheron, Histoire mondiale de la France; Núñez Seixas, Historia mundial de España. 10. Clavin, ‘Defining Transnationalism’. 11. Green, The Limits of Transnationalism. 12. On the concept of ‘transnational space’, see Alcalde, ‘Spatializing Transnational History’. 13. Iriye, Global and Transnational History, 11–15. 14. Dmitrieva and Espagne, Transferts culturels triangulaires. 15. Rolland, La crise du modèle français; Rolland et al., L’Espagne et l’Amérique Latine; Sepúlveda, El sueño de la Madre Patria.

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16. Devoto, Historia de la inmigración en la Argentina, 247–49; Aldelman, Republic of Capital. 17. Ruiz Sánchez, Cordero Oliveiro and García Sanz, Shaping Neutrality; Den Hertog and Kruizinga, Caught in the Middle; Fuentes Codera, Spain and Argentina in the First World War. 18. Grange, ‘La France et l’Italie au début du XXe siècle’; Renaud, L’Institut français de Florence; Mastellone, ‘L’Idea di latinità’. 19. Dard, Charles Maurras et l’étranger. 20. Galimi and Gori, Intellectuals in the Latin Space. 21. Bruno, ‘Un momento latinoamericano’. 22. Moreno Luzón, ‘Reconquistar América para regenerar España’; Ortemberg, ‘Panamericanos, hispanoamericanismo y nacionalismo’. 23. Bruno, Visitas culturales. 24. Devoto, Nacionalismo, fascismo y tradicionalismo, 47–119. 25. Fuentes Codera, Spain and Argentina in the First World War. 26. Quiroga Fernández de Soto, Making Spaniards. 27. Botti and Lvovich, ‘Ramiro de Maeztu’; see also Finchelstein, Chapter 7 in this volume. 28. Fuentes Codera, ‘The Intellectual Roots’; Dard, ‘Charles Maurras’. 29. González Calleja, ‘El hispanismo autoritario español’. 30. For the debate, see Tarquini, Storia della cultura fascista, 127–33.

Bibliography Adelman, Jeremy. Worldly Philosopher: The Odyssey of Albert O. Hirschman. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2013. Albanese, Matteo, and Pablo Del Hierro. Transnational Fascism in the Twentieth Century: Spain, Italy and Global Neo-fascism. London: Bloomsbury Academic Press, 2016. Alcalde, Ángel. ‘Spatializing Transnational History: European Spaces and Territories’. European Review of History: Revue européenne d’histoire 25(3–4) (2018), 553–67. Aldelman, Jeremy. Republic of Capital. Buenos Aires and the Legal Transformation of the Atlantic World. Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1999. Anderson, Benedict. Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism. London: Verso, 1983. ———. Under Three Flags: Anarchism Anti-colonial Imagination. London: Verso, 2005. Botti, Alfonso, and Daniel Lvovich. ‘Ramiro de Maeztu between Spanish and Argentina nationalism’, in Valeria Galimi and Annarita Gori (eds), Intellectuals in the Latin Space during the Era of Fascism: Crossing Borders (Abingdon: Routledge, 2020), 35–56. Boucheron, Patrick (ed.). Histoire mondiale de la France. París: Seuil, 2017

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Bruno, Paula. ‘Un momento latinoamericano. Voces intelectuales entre la I Conferencia Panamericana y la Gran Guerra’, in Maximiliano Fuentes and Ferran Archilés (eds), Ideas comprometidas. Los intelectuales y la política (Madrid: Akal, 2018), 57–77. ——— (ed.). Visitas culturales en la Argentina 1898–1936. Buenos Aires: Biblos, 2014. Clavin, Patricia. ‘Defining Transnationalism’. Contemporary European History 4(14) (2005), 421–39. Conrad, Sebastian. What Is Global History?. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2016. Costa Pinto, Antonio, and Federico Finchelstein (eds). Authoritarianism and Corporativism in Europe and in Latin America: Crossing Borders. Abingdon: Routledge, 2018. Dard, Olivier. ‘Charles Maurras, le fascisme, la latinité et la Méditerranée’. Cahiers de la Mediterranée 95 (2017), 59–70. ——— (ed.). Charles Maurras et l’étranger. L’étranger et Charles Maurras. Bern: Peter Lang, 2009. Delalande, Nicolas. La lutte et l’entraide. L’âge des solidaritités ouvrières. Paris: Seuil, 2019. Den Hertog, Johan, and Samuël Kruizinga (eds). Caught in the Middle: Neutrals, Neutrality and the First World War. Amsterdam: Aksant, 2011. Devoto, Fernando. Historia de la inmigración en la Argentina. Buenos Aires: Sudamericana, 2003. ———. Nacionalismo, fascismo y tradicionalismo en la Argentina moderna. Buenos Aires: Siglo XXI, 2006. Dmitrieva, Katia, and Michel Espagne (eds). Transferts culturels triangulaires France – Allemagne – Russie. Paris: Éditions de la Maison des sciences de l’homme, 1996. Dogliani, Patrizia (ed.). Internazionalismo e transnazionalismo all’indomani della Grande guerra. Bologna: Il Mulino, 2020. Espagne, Michel. ‘Más allá del comparatismo. El método de las transferencias culturales’. Revista de Historiografía 6 (2007), 4–13. Finchelstein, Federico. Transatlantic Fascism: Ideology, Violence and the Sacred in Argentina and in Italy, 1919–1945. Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2010. Fuentes Codera, Maximiliano. ‘The Intellectual Roots and Political Foundations of Reactionary Spanish Nationalism in an International Context’, in Ismael Saz et al. (eds), Reactionary Nationalists, Fascists and Dictatorships in the Twentieth Century (Cham: Palgrave Macmillan, 2019), 67–84. ———. Spain and Argentina in the First World War. Transnational Neutralities. Abingdon: Routledge, 2021. Galimi, Valeria, and Annarita Gori (eds). Intellectuals in the Latin Space during the Era of Fascism: Crossing Borders. Abingdon: Routledge, 2020. González Calleja, Eduardo. ‘El hispanismo autoritario español y el movimiento nacionalista argentino: balance de medio siglo de relaciones políticas e intelectuales’. Hispania 226 (2007), 599–642.

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Grange, Daniel J. ‘La France et l’Italie au début du XXe siècle. Rivalités méditerranéennes et fraternité latine’, in Maurizio Bossi, Marco Lombardi and Raphaël Müller (eds), La cultura francese in Italia all’inizio del XX secolo. L’Istituto francese di Firenze (Florence: Leo S. Olschki, 2010), 3–12. Green, Nancy L.. The Limits of Transnationalism. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2019. Haupt, Heinz-Gerhardt, and Jürgen Kocka (eds). Comparative and Transnational History. Central European Approaches and New Perspectives. New York: Berghahn Books, 2012. Iriye, Akire. Global and Transnational History: The Past, Present, and Future. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2013. Klaus Patel, Kiran. ‘An Emperor without Clothes? The Debate about Transnational History Twenty-Five Years on’. Histoire@Politique 26 (March– August), 2015 Mastellone, Salvo. ‘L’Idea di latinità (1914–1922)’, in Jean-Baptiste Duroselle and Enrico Serra (eds), Italia e Francia dal 1919 al 1939 (Milan: ISPI, 1981), 13–19. Moreno Luzón, Javier. ‘Reconquistar América para regenerar España: Nacionalismo español y centenario de las independencias en 1910–1911’. Historia mexicana 60 (2010), 561–640. Núñez Seixas, José M. (ed.). Historia mundial de España. Barcelona: Destino, 2018. Ortemberg, Pablo. ‘Panamericanos, hispanoamericanismo y nacionalismo en los festejos identitarios de América Latina, 1880–1920. Performances y encrucijadas de diplomáticos e intelectuales’. Anuario IEHS 32 (2017), 99–204. Quiroga Fernández de Soto, Alejandro. Making Spaniards. Primo de Rivera and the Nationalization of the Masses, 1923–1930. Basingstoke: Palgrave, 2007. Renaud, Isabelle. L’Institut français de Florence (1900–1920). Rome: EFR, 2001. Rolland, Denis, et al. La crise du modèle français : Marianne et l’Amérique latine, culture, politique et identité. Rennes: Presses Universitaires de Rennes, 2000. ———. L’Espagne et l’Amérique Latine. Politiques culturelles, propagandes et relations internationales, XXe siècle. Paris: L’Harmattan-CSIC, 2001. Ruiz Sánchez, José Leonardo, Inmaculada Cordero Olivero and Carolina García Sanz (eds). Shaping Neutrality throughout the First World War. Seville: University of Seville, 2015. Sepúlveda, Isidro. El sueño de la Madre Patria. Hispanoamericanismo y nacionalismo. Madrid: Fundación Carolina – Marcial Pons, 2005. Sluga, Glenda. Internationalism in the Age of Nationalism. Philadelphia: Penn, 2013. Sluga, Glenda, and Patricia Clavin (eds). Internationalisms. A TwentiethCentury History. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2017. Tarquini, Alessandra. Storia della cultura fascista. Bologna: Il Mulino, 2011.

Chapter 1

Neutralities in the Battlefield Spain, Italy and Argentina during the First World War Maximiliano Fuentes Codera and Carolina García Sanz

å Introduction During the initial months of the First World War, neutrality was the most popular position in Europe as well as in the Americas, while at the end it was only maintained by the Netherlands, Spain, Switzerland, Argentina, Chile and Mexico. Keeping this well-known fact in mind, it is easily understood that the investigations of the impact of the war in neutral countries have been significantly less relevant than in those countries that participated in the conflict. However, the substantial historiographic renewal in the last two decades of research on the conflict has favoured the diversification of variables and issues to analyse, and has distinctly contributed to drawing a global and transnational picture of the conflict in accordance with its own nature. Thus, the war explained as a social experience – in the frontlines as well as in the rearguard – has opened up a historiographical path incorporating topics that were traditionally considered to be peripheral. Within this framework, the rediscovery of neutrality without a doubt constitutes one of the most novel and interesting facets:1 first, because the phenomenon of war activated binary interpretations in the mental maps of Europe that had long-lasting consequences; and, second, because the codification of the conflict was clearly related to the identity processes that were developed in neutral countries. Therefore, despite the national particularities of each country and the geographical distances among them, there are key coincidences in the endogenous transformation of the countries mentioned between 1914 and 1918.

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The crossfire typical of the fierce politics that occurs among blocs became highly relevant in the activation of nationalist projects related to the struggle of surviving the controversial ‘third way’ of neutral countries. In this process, the precarious and versatile role that they assumed, either as mediators or peacemakers, as an active part in the economy and of supplies, or as collateral victims of belligerent pressure and direct victims of humanitarian havoc actively fuelled mobilizations ‘from above’ and ‘from below’, and some processes of national redefinition. Therefore, the experience of neutrality would be far from the mere implementation of foreign politics as decreed by the states.2 For almost two decades, and in step with transnational and global changes, the views in general about the war began to broaden its horizons of analysis.3 The reasons for this were laid out by John Horne: ‘The paradox is that the nation-state and national efforts were central to the First World War but in order to understand how and why was so, national frameworks are insufficient.’ For many reasons, including the imperial and prenational ways that dominated a significant part of the world until the ‘totalization’ of the conflict, affirmed that understanding the war required ‘a sense of different national trajectories that only a comparative sensibility can measure just as it calls for a willingness to look in transnational terms at the processes at work’.4 As Pierre Purseigle and Olivier Compagnon have confirmed, neutral countries were not only affected by the war, but were also active participants. Hence, to write a global history of the conflict entails a critical distinction between what anglophones call belligerency and belligerence: while the former defines a status defined by international law – the state of war – latter is refers to a process of adapting and organizing in a warlike context. Thus, despite the fact that their states were neutral, Scandinavian, Latin American and Spanish societies were belligerent – in the sense of the concept of belligerence – as evidenced by their various processes of mobilizations and multiple internal and external tensions deriving from the conflict.5 These neutral countries were subjected to negotiation processes in relation to military and commercial pressure and tried to maximize the benefits of their situation in the international context.6 As Maarthe Abbenhuis put it: ‘Neutrality is never about the experience of one state and its people. Instead it is the international environment and the relationship between states that determine the circumstances and legitimacy of neutrality.’7 From this perspective, there are still gaps in understanding the complex position of neutral states and societies in the conflict. This is especially true when we look at the reality of the asymmetric nature of the political and economic relations with belligerent interests, especially

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in the context of hegemony of the latter.8 The Mediterranean and the South American hemisphere provide two clear examples of this. In these regions far from the hotspots of the war, there was a significant imbalance between safeguarding national objectives and international strategy due to the indisputable naval and economic dominance of the Entente. But material factors, including geography, were not the only ones available at the time of forging and jeopardizing the politics of neutrality in the Old World as well as the New World; those ideologies rooted in different public imaginations about how international politics worked in the time of ‘peace through strength’ were also decisive. Taking all of these elements into account, through the exchange of approaches from political-diplomatic and cultural political history, this chapter aims to offer an original viewpoint on neutrality, focusing on its multidimensional nature and its changing and, on numerous occasions, contradictory social meanings.9 It specifically explores connections between political neutrality and the political and cultural processes that divided the southernmost regions of Europe and America. These processes were combined with the different international scenarios generated by the development of the conflict. From this perspective, our analysis combines cases relating to the two great Latin neutrals, Italy and Spain, which were key in the prewar diplomatic balance in the Mediterranean, and to the great Hispanic American neutral, Argentina, which, as we will see, shared various points in common with what happened in Europe and especially in Spain. Our aim is to open up new ways of approaching the set of logical categories that connect the multiple facets of neutrality between 1914 and 1918 with the pressure of the war and the dynamics that were generated transnationally. In short, here we contemplate the early stages of a global interpretation model of neutrality as an expression of a myriad of political-ideological spaces in a Euro-American and Hispanic-Latino reference context.

Before the War After the crisis of 1898 derived from the Spanish-American War, the feelings of helplessness and frustration led the Spanish dynastic political parties to renounce the precedent international policy of isolation. With their recovery of national honour and their aspirations to re-enter the international relations system, in the midst of neocolonial adjustments, Morocco was transformed into the only issue in which Spain could play a role in European politics. While France reinforced

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its hegemony over North Africa, Great Britain fed in vain the Spanish imperial illusion in Morocco. From the Spanish point of view, the last time that the ‘English danger’ had been contemplated was during the Spanish–American War.10 Then, Sagasta’s liberal cabinet had planned a series of artillery campaigns in the surrounding area of Gibraltar.11 Following the tensions generated at the bilateral level, Spain had to suspend these campaigns and resign itself to coming to an understanding with the English to balance France’s ambitions in North Africa. The famous phrase of Fernando León y Castillo, the ambassador in Paris, affirming that ‘the question of Morocco would be resolved shortly with us or without us, and in the last case against us’, expressed very well how the governments in Madrid were systematically bypassed by France in relation to Moroccan affairs.12 Spain’s ambitions in Morocco were incompatible with those of France. Even so, both liberals and conservatives would never dare to take the step of modifying the Moroccan status quo without a prior Franco-British consensus. The apparent ‘binationalization’ on Moroccan affairs established in 1906 by the Algeciras Act between France and Spain, and the so-called Cartagena Agreements in 1907 on the Mediterranean status quo with Great Britain were systematically violated by the French. The intervention in Marrakech in that same year marked a clear violation of the Algeciras Act, to which the Franco-German agreement of February 1909 and the French occupation of Fez in 1911 would also be added. It was this last offense that led the Liberal José Canalejas to follow the advice of diplomats like Manuel González Hontoria and occupy the African squares of Larache and Alcazarquivir in June of 1911.13 In this background, a rival section led by the Count of Romanones within the same Liberal Party ended up assuming that the European war could offer the opportunity to gain some advantage over France, thus leading to a renegotiation of the Moroccan issue in exchange for Spanish belligerence. The erratic Spanish foreign policy would affirm the questioning of the country’s Europeanness that began in 1898. The debates that would begin following the outbreak of the war were rooted in previous decades. From 1910 to 1914, José Ortega y Gasset focused his public interventions on the Spanish political regime, the role of the monarchy, the cultural and political backwardness of the masses, and sickness of the nation. These were problems that originated with the crisis at the end of the nineteenth century and that, at least to some extent, were shared by his European peers.14 Within this framework, the outbreak of war was seen by many intellectuals and alternative political groups in the Spanish regime as an opportunity to set up new modernizing projects.15 In this context, the relationship with America

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also assumed a certain relevance. After the fourth ‘Centennial of the Discovery’ (1892), the elites had begun a slow process of reconciliation with former Spanish colonies. With the defeat of 1898, a significant part of these elites began to think that an intensification of relations with these countries would allow the country’s lost prestige to be recovered. With the goal of developing this ‘regenerationism’, ‘official Hispanic Americanism’ emerged as one of the possible antidotes to national decadence. However, even though Spain had a significant demographic presence in Latin America – almost 3.3 million Spaniards, excluding the military, emigrated to America between 1882 and 1930 – this policy had a limited route.16 In Latin America, Spanish ambitions collided with France’s position, which had considerable cultural and political influence among local elites, who had a leadership role in cities with a considerable presence of French communities (in 1912, some 100,000 French people lived in Argentina).17 Faced with this, in Argentina a new Hispanist perspective began to develop that sought to act as a counterweight to Frenchinspired Latinism. This rapprochement with Spain also sought to counteract the spectre of the omnipresent United States and its unstoppable projection on the continent.18 The national centennial celebrations expressed this perspective. The events that began in 1910, which in Buenos Aires included the presence of the most important Spanish delegations – the Infanta Isabel of Borbón came to Buenos Aires – opened the door to improving relations between Spain and Argentina.19 In the circulation of Hispanic-Latino collective imaginations, which the prewar situation led to, Italy also played an important role in its attempt to gain a stronger position as a Mediterranean power. Through its diplomacy, Italy promoted the image of a ‘Latin older sister’ to Spain, placing France at a disadvantage. It carried this out by reproducing a series of images on the weakness of Spain dating back to what happened in 1898 and the effects on the Latin community of nations. In this sense, Spain’s neutrality in August 1914 became a manifestation of the weakness or marginalization of the country with respect to the epicentre of European politics. In the face of this, the Italian position did not appear to be a circumstantial neutrality, but a clearly opportunistic option that sought to counteract the French influence in the Mediterranean. As Lelio Bonin de Longare, the Italian ambassador in Madrid, would usually insist, the Spanish, whether neutral or belligerent, would always be overshadowed by the Italians, who were responsible for taking the initiative.20 These perceptions about neutrality and Italy’s insertion on the international scene would be key not only in Italian politics during the first stage of the war, but also – as we will see below – in the internal political debate in Spain.

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From the Outbreak of War to the Entry of Italy into the Conflict Spain and Italy were two countries immersed in colonial wars in the summer of 1914: the former in Morocco and the latter in Libya. However, these wars, were deeply unpopular and divisive, which threatened political stability and social peace. The Settimana Rossa of June 1914 was an outburst of unrest against militarism and colonialism in Libya, where the number of Italian men had exceeded 70,000. The socialist Filippo Turati ‘would never forgive Giolitti for the betrayal’ of the Libyan war. From his point of view, the Italian intervention in Africa should be understood as a concession from liberal-conservatives, Catholics and nationalists in exchange for the expansion of the electoral register from three to eight million voters.21 However, the force of the anti-war discourse in relation to the colonial wars in North Africa did not act as a cohesive force in Spain and Italy in the same way; there were different underlying approaches to the geographical spaces in dispute. Spain tried to defend the border, while Italy tried to widen it. In Italy, the European war sparked a national debate that also raised the dilemma of completing a national dream. In this sense, the excess of confidence in the possibilities of an army that was incapable of winning the war in Libya was still paradoxical. When war was declared, the respective Spanish and Italian neutralities generated a heated national controversy that placed prewar foreign policy centre stage – hence the suitability of both case studies in terms of tracing the links between public discourses on the war and the dominant views on third countries. In particular, the images of otherness linked to the idea of a ‘superpower’ measuring defensive and offensive military capacity in the Mediterranean, as a natural defence space for Spain or a space of expansion for Italy, bring us to the representations in their respective public opinions of other regional powers: Great Britain and especially France. With some exceptions to the Spanish case, Great Britain was perceived as a ‘friendly power’ or ‘convenient ally’, and France was always seen as a ‘rival power’. This perception stemmed from the desire of the Spanish government to maintain the ‘status quo’ in North Africa as well as to reinforce the Italian ambitions in the eastern Mediterranean. However, despite the fact that they shared these elements, the international policies of Spain and Italy could not have been more different when it came to managing antagonism with France and the search – as a counterweight – for understanding with Great Britain. The First World War divided Italian society between those who thought that a well-negotiated neutrality would be a step towards the

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culmination of the Risorgimento and those, such as the socialist Leonida Bissolati, radicals, and nationalists, who gave the most support to the intervention. This sentiment was expressed by Luigi Albertini, the editor of Corriere della Sera, in a letter addressed to Salandra on 31 August 1914, stating that he did not want ‘war at all costs; but that at all costs it was necessary to prevent a hegemony from being forged in the Adriatic that would make the Italians its first victims’.22 Italy’s anti-French policy that was behind its accession to the Triple Alliance in 1882 in no way threatened the amicizia with the British. Since Pascuale Stanislao Mancini, one of the planners of this alliance, set the invariable terms of ‘Italian–British friendship’ in the Mediterranean, the prospect of a war against Great Britain, as an ally of France, strained relations among the Italian political class. In the eyes of some of the public, the neutrality of the country was automatically transformed into a conditional neutrality.23 In July 1914, the death of the fervent Triplicist Alberto Pollio, who had been head of the Italian General Staff since 1908, and his replacement by Luigi Cadorna enabled the abandonment of the hypothesis of a war against France as the main opponent and rival in the Mediterranean. Thereafter, as Conservative Prime Minister Antonio Salandra would later recall, the decision to declare Italian neutrality in the conflict ‘was a much more intense effort of reflection and a more strong determination of will than that of the tragic belligerency in itself’.24 With the aim of affirming the ‘Italianness’ of his country’s international politics, in the pages of Il Messagero, Arturo Labriola questioned the value of international laws, specifically neutrality, based on the Italian character, tradition and history.25 However, the early rhetoric of ‘sacred egoism’ would take time to become socially hegemonic.26 As stated in the pages of Il Mattino, one could disagree with neutrality ‘in various senses’, but it was necessary to clearly say that ‘an unarmed neutrality’ was ‘a crime against the nation’.27 In this scenario, the supporters of going to war in Europe successfully occupied the public space by exploiting the need for an invigorating action in accordance with a ‘Great Italy’, whose expression was ‘postponed to a more or less distant future, depending on the outcome of the war and the correlations of strength in the peace talks’, in the collective imagination.28 Universal suffrage and entry into the war would thus be two deeply interconnected realities. Thus, the patriotic conflict was seen as an opportunity for the survival of the old liberal political culture in the face of options that attracted more popular support, such as Socialism and the Catholic groups. Salandra offered the masses the possibility of ‘heaven in heaven or on earth’, transcending their ide-

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ological differences.29 The interventismo caused the barriers between individuals who came from very diverse ideological traditions in Italy (radical nationalists and socialists) to collapse, and built permeability dynamics that would enable the development of fascism in the 1920s.30 The political and cultural mobilization tried to recover the heroic ideal of Latinity intrinsic to the peoples of the Italian peninsula in the face of an overwhelming idea of Germanness. From this point of view, as the interventionist intellectual Giuseppe Antonio Borgese would point out in January 1915 in Il Corriere della Sera, ‘idealism is not the monopoly of any people and in the world there is a place and a mission also for us’.31 He thought that the conflict provided Italy an opportunity to ‘Italianize’ the country’s industries and financial fabric, even though the supposed German power over the Italian economy has been decreasing since the beginning of the century.32 Despite this, the German economic lobby, particularly linked to the Banca Commerciale, became the target of interventionists in the ‘anti-German action leagues’.33 However, the dilemma was not between war and neutrality, but between neutrality and victory. It was a dilemma whose outcome was not so predictable for Giolittian neutralism – as Giolitti would point out to Gaspare Colosimo, differentiating between this war and others of the past, such as that in Libya: ‘I don’t think it is legitimate to lead the country to war out of sentimentality towards other peoples. By feeling, you can throw your own life overboard but not that of a country.’34 In reality, as the ethnologist and diplomat Adriano Colocci stated, what was truly relevant was ‘the war for victory’. From his point of view, the achievement of Italy’s international prominence did not inevitably mean joining the war together with the Entente, given that the interests and ultimate objectives of Great Britain and, above all, France did not coincide with those of Italy. Faced with France and Great Britain, whose aim was to exterminate Germany, the Italians wanted to reduce the power of Austria to a minimum. The Latinity of the Mediterranean was at stake and, to guarantee it, the first step was to defend the Italianness of the Adriatic. The enemy was not Germany, but France. The question was to ‘decide whether the Latins, the Greeks and the Arabs of the Mediterranean basin would have to accept the joint ownership of the latter with Germans, Anglo-Saxons and the Sarmatians.’35 However, the course of events would be far from Colocci’s wishful thinking. On the one hand, the media campaign that ex-Chancellor Bernhard von Büllow had launched in December 1914 to maintain the neutrality of his former ally only fuelled the nationalist sentiments of intellectuals and journalists, who affirmed the Italian right to have an autonomous international policy. A sector of the interventionist me-

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dia was extremely critical of the actions of German foreign policy. In February 1915, the Corriere della Sera responded harshly to statements made by Count Monts, the former German ambassador in Rome, that were published by the Berliner Tageblatt. Monts was accused of a deep misunderstanding of the Italian spirit, of which he had already shown signs in his former role as ambassador. He made the same mistake when he proclaimed the weakness of Italy as a neutral country and its inability to assume a more active role in the international arena.36 On the other hand, the Italian government insisted on the provisions of Article III of the Triple Alliance regarding the casus foederis: there were no obligations towards a war that could not be described as defensive. Furthermore, the Austrians had breached Article VII, unilaterally initiating a conflict that would entail territorial modification. Angelo Gatti, writing on the ‘supreme command’, was an admirer but at the same time was critical of Cadorna, and would use this same argument to fight against the label of ‘traitor’ that Germany had assigned to Italy after its entry into war with the Allies in May 1915.37 With the entry of Italy into the war, tension grew in the societies of neutral countries. This was evident in both Spain and Argentina. The respective Spanish and Italian neutralities generated heated national controversy, which was clearly influenced by the foreign policy of the years prior to the conflict. On the one hand, at the start of the conflict in Europe, Eduardo Dato’s cabinet, with the agreement of King Alfonso XIII, hastened to declare neutrality. During the first months of the war, despite some dissonant statements by Alejandro Lerroux, Melquíades Álvarez and the Count of Romanones, neutrality was largely accepted. Not only did the dynastic parties subscribe to the official position, but even the republican sectors and the Socialist Party argued that neutrality should not be questioned. However, this situation soon gave way to a much more complex state of affairs. During the subsequent weeks, this incipient division of Spanish society into two fields – which within them harboured groups, individuals, and political and cultural interests that did not always converge – became more clearly defined. The sectors that were favourable to the Allies and those that sympathized with the German cause showed that perspectives on the war were directly related to specific political and national visions. Among the supporters of the Allies, the various republican groupings, the socialist and reformist parties, and most of the intellectuals were prominent. Within this framework, the Aliadophiles were quick to link the war to Spanish politics. So did the Germanophile conservatives, as demonstrated by Vázquez de Mella, one of their most prominent leaders. However, those most interested in spreading the debates on the war to the whole of the country were those who supported the

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Allies and especially the Francophiles. In line with the proposals of Allied propaganda, they interpreted the conflict as a dispute between the German autocracy and the French and English democracies, as a struggle between nations and empires that should mark the future of the Spanish political regime.38 In Argentina, the neutrality assumed by the conservative government of Victorino de la Plaza, which would be in power until October 1916, was not overly disputed either. There was a consensus that this position was the most appropriate in terms of to preserving Argentina’s economic interests and avoiding cultural and political tensions deriving from the cosmopolitan nature of the society. As in Spain, this was not an obstacle for opposing positions to emerge. In general terms, society was mostly sympathetic to the Allies, especially France. The presence of important Italian, French, British, Russian and Syrian-Lebanese communities, among others, contributed to reinforcing this sympathy. Most newspapers and intellectuals also sided with the Allies. There were some prominent intellectuals who supported Germany, as well as the German and Austro-Hungarian communities and their legations, and the newspaper La Unión. Socially, German influence was limited to certain sectors, such as the military and the Catholics, and was also present in certain liberal professions, such as students, lawyers, teachers and doctors. In this context, as in Spain, the strictly neutral sectors that remained outside the polarizations were in the minority.39 The entry of Italy into the war exponentially increased the debates on the Latin cultural roots of both societies. Sectors of Spanish society opted for a break in diplomatic relations with Germany when they perceived that the game of alliances tipped the war in favour of the Entente. As reported by Marco Avellaneda, head of the Argentine legation in Madrid, Italy’s intervention had ‘exhilarated’ the supporters of the Allies as much as it had ‘irritated the Germanophiles’.40 As he observed, it then began to be common to find references in the press about demonstrations that ended in violent incidents.41 The debate became especially intense in June 1915 when the offer from Alfonso XIII to Pope Benedict XV to settle in El Escorial (Madrid) if he was forced to leave Rome was made public. Within this framework, the German Embassy, with the help of the young Marquis of Polavieja, who ended up establishing in Madrid a league of Germanophile centres that had various committees throughout Spain, and the support of the conservative newspaper ABC, promoted the formation of a press bloc with the aim of defending Spanish neutrality. More than 160 publications soon joined this initiative. Likewise, German propaganda and espionage carried out important activity in the Spanish zone of Morocco, which was part of a more general policy that aspired to foment the tribes

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into rebelling against the authorities of the French Protectorate. This was also favoured by a generalized Germanophile tendency among the Spanish military commanders posted there.42 In Buenos Aires, which was home to the largest Italian population in Argentina,43 the Allied sectors affirmed that Italy had joined the ‘noble impulses of justice, freedom, independence, nationality and civilization’ and had projected a ‘beautiful and exemplary’ demonstration of patriotism and ‘virility’.44 Mobilizations began to be articulated throughout the Italian community. They began at the end of May 1915 at the request of the Federazione Generale delle Associazioni Italiane nell’Argentina and under the direction of the Italian minister in the country, Víctor Cobianchi. However, they had little success: the reservists who mobilized throughout the country did not exceed 6% of the population. Despite this, the Italians who continued to live in Argentina mobilized intensely through the Comitato Italiano di Guerre. Their fundamental mission was to attend to the needs of the reservists and their families, although they also collaborated in loans launched by the Italian state and organized collections for the Italian Red Cross.45 In general terms, the response in both countries to the entry of Italy into the war was expressed within the framework of the central proposals of the Allied propaganda that circulated internationally: the stereotypical vision of the Germans as brutal, the defence of Western civilization in the face of barbarism, the radical criticism of the ‘martyrdom’ of Belgium and the defensive response as a justification for entering the war. Against this, German propaganda tried to adopt a defensive attitude that was combined with a projection of the modernity of its armed forces, its science and its education. An attempt was also made to exploit the occupation of the Falkland Islands by the United Kingdom and the Gibraltar question in relation to Spain. It was also a way to unite Argentina and Spain.46 Gibraltar and the Falkland Islands were one of the most powerful expressions of a profound transnational Anglophobia that was expressed throughout German propaganda and in all the sectors of the population in favour of the Central Empires in neutral countries.47

Transnational Tensions in Spain and Argentina: Latinisms and Hispanisms Face to Face During the first half of the war, official neutrality imposed the framework for the debates and, in a way, became a space for dispute. This space, in addition to the ‘national’ characteristics, had as central ele-

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ments the images of the other generated by the different belligerent countries, in Rome, Berlin, London and Paris themselves, as well as in the embassies and consulates.48 These images of the ‘other’ were articulated in transnational terms and were not only ‘imported’ in Argentina and Spain, but were also reinterpreted in these countries. Within this framework, the debates on the responsibility for the start of the war and the German invasion of Belgium, which were marked by the struggle for the appropriation of the concepts of peace and neutrality, were central. For the Allies, the example of Belgium showed that it was essential to support France and Britain, since they represented a ‘consoling testimony of civilization that does not succumb’ and showed that the representatives of the ‘Latin race’ marched ‘in the vanguard in the gigantic battle against the neosavagery’.49 It had been, as the Argentine Francisco Barroetaveña affirmed, ‘the most flagrant violation’ carried out by Germany, ‘a focus of expansive and humanitarian civilization like no other’.50 The idea of Belgium as a symbol of heroism and martyrdom was shared by the broad Spanish pro-Allied sector.51 From the other side, La Unión, the main Argentinean Germanophile newspaper, affirmed that in light of the documents found by the Germans in the Brussels archives, it was evident that ‘before the outbreak of the war, Belgium had ceased to be a neutral state, but rather a vassal of the Triple Entente, an enemy of Germany’, which, in turn, had limited itself to defending the ‘preservation of its own existence’.52 Thus, the so-called ‘German atrocities’ were articulated transnationally and the testimonies of various neutral countries –Denmark and the Netherlands, among others – were used to support local proposals.53 Within the broad Germanophile and neutralist Argentine and Spanish fields, two homonymous journals, both subsidized by German propaganda, demonstrated the multiple transnational links between both countries.54 The journal Germania was published in Buenos Aires between 1 June 1915 and 16 May 1916. The property of the Argentine industrialist Eduardo Retienne and edited by Pablo Fabats, it had the support of Count Luxburg – the German ambassador in Buenos Aires – and its profits were given to the German Red Cross. Both characteristics clearly illustrate the link that this publication intended to project between Germany and the defence of peace.55 Germania combined a clear defence of the Central Powers with a very obvious nationalist perspective.56 This was demonstrated by its insistence on the need to counteract the influences of the ‘misnamed Latin peoples’, who were ‘alien to our condition and race’. The war was an excellent opportunity to ‘liquidate’ Latin and British values and open Argentina up to the influence of Germany. Links with Spain soon became apparent through

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various articles that talked about its cities and towns.57 However, the relevance of Spain went far beyond an issue of tourism. The historical links, a Hispanist projection that called into question the Latin influence and the growing international prestige of King Alfonso XIII were fundamental elements. Therefore, Germania dedicated a special issue to Spain on 2 May 1916. This was no accident and responded to a historical reading that sought to question the ties between France and Spain, and, consequently, between France and Argentina. The issue opened with an illustration of Don Quixote and an article dedicated to Cervantes in the 300 years after his death. This reference to Don Quixote was not accidental either: the identification of neutrality with the chivalric character of neutral Spain also appeared in other publications in the Argentine Spanish community.58 Thus, an idea of Spain was articulated that showed many points in common with the homonymous Germania that was published biweekly in Barcelona between 1 March 1915 and 15 November 1918 with German financial sponsorship and edited by Luis Almerich. Its approximate print run was 3,000 copies.59 As in the Argentine magazine, the ideas of its first editorial closely related democracy and the decadence of Latinism – ‘to follow the flow of Latin traditions is to walk towards death’ – represented by France and supported by Great Britain. Faced with a Spain that was declining due to Latin influence, Germania, like its Argentine namesake, argued that neutrality was ‘Hispanophile’60 and sought to enhance the ‘hope of resurgence’ and demonstrate that ‘the national spirit has not died’.61 Thus, Spanish neutralism and patriotism were becoming synonymous and the supposed ‘incapacity’ represented by the official position became synonymous with vitality, optimism and rapprochement with a Germany that, victorious, would bring glory back to the nation.62 Most of the elements that appeared in this journal – the projection of Spain and Alfonso XIII as models of humanitarianism, pacifism and neutralism, the defence of the scientific and political values of Germany as models, and the linking of the ideas of neutralism and patriotism – were fundamental to articulating a transnational space that linked both countries with the belligerent powers. In this sense, it is especially interesting to observe how Alfonso XIII’s policy of neutrality was both a model of national ‘independence’ for the Argentine neutralist sectors and a demonstration of a lack of patriotism for the Allied sectors. The king was also an example of humanitarianism, pacifism and neutrality for the Argentine Germanophile sectors, who did not hesitate to highlight his role at the head of the Pro-captives Office.63

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Faced with these approaches, the appeal to Latinity was intense throughout the war in the various aspects of the broad Argentine and Spanish Allied frameworks. Both resorted to a tradition shared with France and Italy to justify their positions. This was observed in sectors on the left of the political spectrum as well as among conservative groups. In Spain, it was observed both among republican groups, who repeatedly raised the Latin and democratic roots of their political projects in publications such as España and Iberia, and among intellectuals who claimed the aristocratic Roman and Parisian roots of the ‘Latin genius’. The journal Iberia, one of the most militant weeklies in favour of the Allied cause, proposed, from a Catalan perspective, Iberian approaches that were compatible with Latinism.64 Also, from Catalonia, Alejandro Lerroux repeatedly appealed to Spain’s membership of the Latin space.65 In Madrid, España expressed this connection between Aliadophiles and Latinism through intellectuals from different political sectors, from Luis Araquistáin to the Catholic Armando Palacio Valdés. The ideas of the latter were in tune with those of Álvaro Alcalá Galiano, who conceived the conflict as a ‘race war’ and argued that Spain should align itself with France because it was a ‘Latin Republic like the Spanish-American ones’.66 The war promoted different versions of Spanishness, either from exogenous imperialist models, connected with Ibero-Americanism, or rescuing the old idea of the Spanish Empire in the Germanophile and conservative version of Iberianism. Aspirations for change in the Mediterranean status quo, channelled through the Allied discourse, repeatedly looked at each other in the mirror of Italian irredentism. Thus, in 1915, the idea of a Mediterranean community, through Italy’s break with the Triple Alliance, opened up a scene of common action in the face of, in the words of Ortega y Gasset, Spanish inertia.67 In fact, there is a clear relationship between the progressive realization of the unfeasibility of the Italian example for Spain and the intensification of Ibero-Americanism in the Allied political programme. In this sense, we can understand the calls of España – the most significant organ of expression of the country’s intellectuals – for a new kind of ‘HispanicAmerican Imperialism’ since the summer of 1915.68 In Argentina, Latinity was also closely related to the Francophiles. Leopoldo Lugones, editor of the Revue Sudaméricaine published in Paris and the first president of the Argentine branch of the FranceAmérique Committee, expressed this vision most intensely through his support for the Semaines de l’Amerique Latine that were organized in Lyon, Paris and Bordeaux between 1916 and 1918.69 Ramón Melgar

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also appealed to Latinity with the aim of establishing a favourable position to the Allies against ‘the Middle Ages’ represented by the Central Powers: ‘The Latin heart expands joyfully when it sees all the representatives of its race fighting for the same cause … Only Spain is set apart from her sisters of race, but if she is to aspire to a deserved greatness, she must not direct her gaze towards Germany. Her future is with the peoples of her own blood.’70 This aim of linking Spain, America, Italy and France was constant. The defence of the defensive character of the war carried out by the Allies was linked to the distribution of French propaganda on Spanish – and, by extension, American – Catholics entrusted to Alfred Baudrillart through the Comité Catholique de Propagande Française. Actually, the projection of this Latinist solidarity was expressed through publications and collective initiatives that received financial support from the belligerent powers. The initiative that most clearly expressed the transnational character of the Aliadophiles and their Latinist projections was the journal América-Latina. Promoted by the British Propaganda Bureau as part of the propaganda produced specifically for Spain, Portugal and South America, it was initially published on a monthly basis from London. From June 1916, it became bimonthly and its place of publication alternated with Paris, probably as part of an agreement with the Maison de la Presse; in May 1918, it would return to its monthly publication schedule. Its first issue was published on 15 February 1915 and its last issue was published in February 1919. It was edited by the Mexican writer Benjamín Barrios and its survival was constantly subject to budgetary problems due to the very high production costs of the large number of photographs that illustrated its issues.71 It had as an objective to build a shared vision between Spain and America and to show that in the Allied countries, ‘the soul is the same’.72 For this reason, the journal represented most of the Allied countries as well as the various countries of America and Spain. In this context, it was common to see criticisms by Juan Vázquez de Mella and the Carlist newspaper El Correo Español, one of the most prominent mouthpieces of the Germanophile cause.73 The topics that the journal communicated were the usual ones expressed in most of the publications that were favourable to the Allies.74 Furthermore, in response to the recurring arguments between the Spanish and American Germanophile sectors, it also addressed the issue of the participation of African troops in the war. It did so through a text by three ‘black French deputies’ who, addressing neutral countries, affirmed that ‘if the prestige of the white race has suffered something in the course of the events of this war’, it was not due to the participation of African soldiers, ‘but because of the spectacle of German crimes’.75 América-

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Latina also sought to project the Latinist character of the Spanish and Argentine volunteers who fought in the Foreign Legion and carried out a discourse based on the defence of neutrality and peace in which Spanish and Catalan volunteers mingled with Argentine and Latin American volunteers . Not coincidentally, the first reference to American volunteers in Latin America appeared on the occasion of the death of José García Calderón, son of one of the presidents of Peru and brother of Francisco, the renowned intellectual and guiding light of American Latinism.76 The chronicles of Enrique Gómez Carrillo – who also wrote for La Nación of Buenos Aires and El Liberal of Madrid – on the volunteers were extended during the following months in a long column entitled ‘A Week with the “Foreign Legion”’, which was accompanied by numerous photos of Spanish and American soldiers at the front, sometimes mixed with French or Swiss fighters.

Local Tensions in an International Framework In Spain, after the fall of the conservative Eduardo Dato in December 1915, a period led by the Count of Romanones began in which it was shown that the question of neutrality was directly related to the multiple conflicts that were developing internally.77 During the Italian ‘radiant May’, with the sinking of the Lusitania, Luis Araquistáin in the journal España once again emphasized the German crimes against humanity at sea and ‘the straitjacket’ for which the country opted.78 The image of Spain compared to that of Italy showed not only its international impotence, but also its serious internal problems. The civilizing ideal represented using British power had been linked – through a suggestive rhetorical twist – to Latinity in the Mediterranean, in an interesting triangulation between the geopolitical interests of Spain, Italy and Great Britain. In January 1916, the French historian and diplomat Gabriel Hanotaux reformulated it: ‘The Germans seek to become strong against England, precisely at the expense of the Latin force … The war will show what Italy has advanced. I am proud of the treasure of energy and talent that Italy is ready to contribute to the modern world.’79 In 1917, coinciding with what was happening throughout Europe, the tension of the situation reached its peak. Different social groups – the labour movement, the Catalan industrial bourgeoisie and the army – resorted to corporate solutions through which they considered that their particular interests could be better protected.80 When the Count of Romanones left power in April 1917, he left behind him a cracked Liberal Party and the labour movement, the bourgeoisie and

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the army eagerly awaiting the moment to deliver the final blow to the turno pacífico, the corrupt system operated by the Liberal and Conservative Party for determining in advance the result of elections. With its self-proclaimed sympathy for the Entente, the ideological polarization of the country reached its peak.81 In this process, in addition to the internal elements themselves, a local reading of the Russian revolutionary process, the influence exerted by the entry of the United States into the war and, in particular, the figure of Woodrow Wilson was fundamental.82 The entry of the United States into the war in 1917 and the new impulse given to the Pan-American campaign re-activated Hispanophilia. In Argentina, the exaltation of Spain, which had a key protagonist in Hipólito Yrigoyen’s government, sought to symbolically neutralize the influence of the United States and defend the neutrality adopted since the beginning of the war. Under the flag of Pan-Americanism, the attacks on three Argentine steamers were used by the US government to provoke Argentina into abandoning neutrality. To this end, the secret messages sent by the German minister in Argentina, Count Karl von Luxburg, to his government, were deciphered in London and communicated to Washington DC, where they were made public. In them, the German diplomat referred to the local Foreign Minister, Honorio Pueyrredón, as ‘a well-known donkey and Anglophile’, and recommended continuing to attack Argentine ships ‘without leaving a trace’.83 The change in the international situation caused a local impact that took into account all the above elements. The opponents of radicalism, including the notable presence of the National Youth Committee, denounced the fact that the president did not respond to the popular will that was expressed on the streets and in the press. Within this framework, they supported the National Congress (a stronghold then controlled by the opposition), which had manifested itself mostly in favour of breaking relations with Germany in 1917. Meanwhile, a similar process developed in Spain: the sectors that favoured the Allies maintained the need to sever ties with Germany, while the neutralist sectors warned about the danger that the rupture of relations would bring about, eventually leading to chaos.84 From then on, terms such as ‘Germanophile’ and ‘Aliadophile’ began to be used in political struggles as synonyms for ‘anti-patriotic’ and ‘antinational’. Massive demonstrations took place – in some cases involving 60,000 people – organized by various associations that emerged in various social and geographical areas of Spain and Argentina. Since 1917, in the Germanophile and neutralist sectors, the opposition between the terms ‘intervention’ and ‘neutralism’ became evident both in Ar-

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gentina – as well as in Latin America as a whole – and in Spain. As the French historian Paul-Henri Michel affirmed, within the framework of this apparent dichotomy, ‘Hispanism’ and ‘neutralism’ seemed to be confused in their struggle against Latinism and Pan-Americanism.85 In this context, and partially as an expression of the defence of his neutralist policy in the face of growing pressure from the ‘rupturists’, in 1917, President Hipólito Irigoyen established 12 October as a national holiday, the ‘Día de la Raza’ in Argentina.86 Faced with this, the defence of the Allies gave shape to a ‘Latin genius’ – which of course included Spain and its former colonies – that became a supranational vision and the antithesis of what Germany represented. It was a project that tried to include Hispano-Americanism and that, in a certain way, replicated in Argentina the debates that took place in Spain. This demand for Latin solidarity was also expressed in the celebrations of the Italian community in Argentina, especially during the last months of the war.87 During the events organized to celebrate the end of the war, these petitions towards Latinity grew exponentially through tributes to France.88 ‘La Marseillaise’ and various Italian patriotic songs sounded in the streets of Barcelona, Madrid, Buenos Aires and Rosario as the protesters waved Argentine and Spanish flags along with French, Italian, American and British flags.89 In the weeks after the war, all elements of Latin solidarity forged during the war would be displayed.

Conclusions In this chapter, we have tried to exemplify the discursive strategies used to explore the historical possibilities that made it possible to connect the commitment of certain intellectuals and their role as social mediators with the foreign policy of Spain, Argentina and Italy, claiming the sovereign power of the state within neutrality. The Italian path during the first ten months of the conflict fostered a series of suggestive ideas and representations in the Spanish intellectual maps that enabled the articulation of the national public debate around neutrality. Italian neutrality was welcomed by the conservative government of Eduardo Dato, which was expected, as well as by the more neutralist liberals in opposition under the leadership of Manuel García Prieto. The latter was a ‘convinced supporter of neutrality’, since the Spanish ‘had the right to be painfully neutral’, as was expressed in La Mañana in August 1914. The neutrality adopted by Italy moved the war away from the Mediterranean and therefore was good news.90 On the other hand, Spanish

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Aliadophiles, while trusting in the external Franco-British guarantee, drew up a discourse on the need for the regeneration of the ‘Hispanic race’ in which all hopes were placed on its Latin character. José Ortega y Gasset would express it in this way in the editorial of the first issue of the journal España at the end of January 1915. In this sense, Italy was always considered a suggestive image for the allied neo-regenerationist discourse during the war and, on the contrary, by the conservative elite in its management of the postwar period. In both cases, what most attracted those Spanish intellectuals was the Italian nationalist projection abroad as a pillar of its internal politics. Furthermore, the use of images from other countries such as Great Britain strengthened the ‘models of political intervention’, connecting the individual aspirations of a heterogeneous group of allies with changing political projects for neutrality and belligerence advocated by their media platforms, which have been studied in this chapter for the Spanish, Argentine and Italian cases. In fact, the binary formulations that occupied the public space in the three countries in the heat of the conflict – expressed in terms of friend–enemy, law–violence and belligerent–neutral – forced the respective governments and societies to justify themselves, not only positioning themselves before the agenda of the blocks at war, but also establishing regional hierarchical relationships, without losing sight of the horizon of a postwar period that pushed the limits of what was possible like never before. Therefore, spaces of geopolitical imagination were created in which the ruling class would externally project their aspirations and internal insecurities. And, despite the obvious differences in the way in which national discourses on neutrality and belligerence were channelled in the Spanish, Argentine and Italian cases, none of them started from a position of self-referentiality. Within this framework, with a totalizing logic of the war in all its splendour, the Latinist projections faced an opposite transnational vision, Hispanism, which was developed from the neutralist sectors of Spain and Argentina. This confrontation was clearly expressed by intellectuals in journals and the press. Latinism, interpreted from a perspective that was centred on France and Italy, was directly expressed by Allied propaganda as an international framework from which the values of Western civilization were to be defended. Confronted with this, German propaganda favoured the development of renewed neutralist approaches linked to the defence of neutrality. Within this framework, the dispute took place around the nation: the debate about which position truly defended the country from foreign intervention was the key point of the political and cultural tension that dominated both countries developed in the second half of the war.

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Maximiliano Fuentes Codera is Associate Professor at the Universitat de Girona. His research and publications have focused on Spanish and European intellectual and political contemporary history and its links with Argentina. His latest works are España en la Primera Guerra Mundial. Una movilización cultural (2014), A Civil War of Words (2016, edited with Xavier Pla and Francesc Montero), Ideas comprometidas. Los intelectuales y la política (2018, edited with Ferran Archilés) and Spain and Argentina in the First World War: Transnational Neutralities (2021). Carolina García Sanz is Associate Professor in Modern and Contemporary History at the University of Seville. Her main field of interest is international history. She is an expert on the history of the First World War and ethnic minorities in the twentieth century. She is currently a member of the HERA project ‘Beyond Stereotypes: Cultural Exchanges and the Romani Contribution to European Public Spaces’ and is Principal Investigator of the EtniXX ‘Discourses and Representations of Ethnicity in the Twentieth Century: Politics, Identity and Conflict’ research programme. Her recent publications include: Shaping Neutrality throughout the First World War (editor, 2016); ‘Neutralist Crossroads: Spain and Argentina Facing the Great War’, First World War Studies (written with María Inés Tato, 2017); ‘“Disciplinando al Gitano” en el siglo XX: Regulación y parapenalidad en España desde una perspectiva Europea’, Historia y Politica (2018); and ‘Presuntos culpables: Un estudio de casos sobre el estigma racial del ‘gitano’ en juzgados franquistas de Vagos y Maleantes’, Historia social (2019). She is the editor of the Spanish section of the Free University of Berlin collaborative project ‘International Encyclopedia of the First World War’.

Notes 1. Despite the progress mentioned, there are few monographs that systematically study neutrality during the conflict, combining its thematic plurality (political, social, economic and cultural factors) as well as the spatial. The available relevant works are: Den Hertog and Kruizinga, Caught in the Middle; Ruiz Sánchez, Cordero Oliveiro and García Sanz, Shaping Neutrality. See also Pla, Fuentes and Montero, A Civil War of Words. 2. Abbenhuis, The Art of Staying Neutral; Tames, ‘War on Our Minds’; Kruizinga, ‘Government by Committee’. 3. Olstein, Thinking History Globally; Fuentes Codera, ‘El giro global y transnacional’. 4. Horne, ‘Foreword’, xv. 5. Compagnon and Purseigle, ‘Géographies de la mobilisation’.

32 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24. 25. 26. 27. 28. 29. 30. 31. 32. 33. 34. 35. 36. 37. 38. 39. 40. 41.

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Kruizinga, ‘Neutrality’. Abbenhuis, ‘Not Silent, nor Silenced’, 20. Hull, A Scrap of Paper. On the political and cultural polysemy of neutrality, see García Sanz, ‘Repensar la neutralidad’. Robles Muñoz, 1898: Diplomacia y Opinión, 360–62. Jover Zamora, 1898: Teoría y práctica de la redistribución colonial, 33–36. León y Castillo, Mis tiempos, 175. González Hontoria, El Protectorado francés en Marruecos. Fuentes Codera, ‘Ideas of Europe in Neutral Spain’. Álvarez Junco, ‘The Debate over the Nation’; de Blas Guerrero, ‘Nationalisms in Spain’. Rolland et al., L’Espagne et l’Amérique Latine, 55–59; Figallo, Argentina y España. Rolland et al., L’Espagne et l’Amérique Latine, 47–55; Rolland, La crise du modèle français. Bruno, ‘Un momento latinoamericano’. Marcilhacy, ‘España, invitada de honor en el Centenario de la Independencia mexicana’. García Sanz, España en la Gran Guerra, 245. Vigezzi, ‘L’Italia del 1914–15’, 11–12. Rusconi, L’azzardo del 1915, 100. García Sanz, ‘Del “egoísmo inglés”’. Salandra, La neutralità italiana, 130. Arturo Labriola, Il Messaggero, 12 August 1914, 3, cited in García Sanz, ‘Del “Egoísmo Inglés”’, 60. Renzi, In the Shadow of the Sword. Il Mattino, 8 August 1914. Cammarano, Abbasso la Guerra!, 8. On intellectual war debates, see Dogliani, ‘Los intelectuales italianos en la Gran Guerra’. Pignotti, ‘L’ingresso delle masse nel sistema politico)’, 68. Ventrone, La seduzione totalitaria, 29. Il Corriere della Sera, 1 January 1915, 1. On Borgese, see García Sanz, ‘Del “egoísmo inglés”’, 64. Caglioti, ‘Why and How Italy Invented an Enemy’; Caglioti, ‘Germanophobia and Economic Nationalism’. Riccardi, Alleati non amici, 31–36. Guiso, ‘La camera dei Deputati’, 127. Colocci, Prima il Adriatico, 51, 42 and 7–8. García Sanz, ‘Del “egoísmo inglés”’, 63. Rusconi, ‘Come l’Italia decide l’intervento’, 15. Fuentes Codera, España en la Primera Guerra Mundial, 61–111. Tato, ‘La movilización de la sociedad argentina’, 725–41. Archivo Histórico de la Cancillería Argentina. Subsección 33, Primera Guerra Mundial, Box 20, File II.d.5, Record 58, Madrid, 5 June 1915. Archivo Histórico de la Cancillería Argentina. Subsección 33, Primera Guerra Mundial, Box 20, File II.d.5, Record 58, Madrid, 5 June 1915.

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42. La Porte, ‘La espiral irresistible’, 500–26. 43. Devoto, Historia de los italianos en la Argentina. 44. Barroetaveña, Alemania contra el mundo, 383–95; Fuentes Codera, Spain and Argentina, 88. 45. Devoto, Historia de los italianos en la Argentina, 323–24; Tato, ‘El llamado de la patria’, 282–86; Fuentes Codera, Spain and Argentina, 88. 46. Antonio Barranco Garrido, ‘Firmas españolas. Ante la guerra actual’, La Unión, 15 December 1918. 47. Stibbe, German Anglophobia and the Great War. 48. See Ponce, ‘Propaganda and Politics’, 18–35; González Calleja and Aubert, Nidos de espías; Rosenbusch, ‘Guerra total en territorio neutral’, 350–72. 49. Ernesto de la Guardia, ‘El ideal de la redención a través de los tiempos. La Alemania romántica y la Prusia militarista’, Nosotros, October 1915, 53–75. 50. Barroetaveña, Alemania contra el mundo, 96, 100–01. 51. ‘Por la paz. La acción de los neutrales’ and Rafael Sánchez Ocaña, ‘Desde París. La unidad moral de Francia’, El País, 11 August 1914; Joan Roig, ‘Espanya i Bélgica’, Empordà Federal, 10 April 1915. 52. ‘La neutralidad belga’, La Unión, 14 November 1914. 53. ‘La voz de los neutrales’, La Unión, 30 December 1914. For more on the German atrocities issue, see Horne and Kramer, German Atrocities, 2001. 54. On the Germanophile fields of both countries, see Alonso, ‘“Afectos caprichosos”’, 394–415; Tato, La trinchera austral. 55. Welch, Germany and Propaganda; Fuentes Codera, Spain and Argentina, 73. 56. ‘25 de mayo (1810–1916)’, Germania, 16 May 1916. 57. ‘Castillo y Monasterio de Perelada (España)’, Germania, 27 January 1916. 58. ‘Pleitesía’, La Gaceta de España. Periódico español de la tarde, 22 April 1916; Fuentes Codera, Spain and Argentina, 74. 59. Aubert, ‘La propagande étrangère en Espagne’, 116. 60. Delfín Álvarez y González, ‘Maura, hispanófilo’, Germania, 1 May 1915, 6–8. 61. Ángel Ruiz y Pablo, ‘La actitud de España ante la guerra’, Germania, 15 April 1916, 77–81; Fuentes Codera, Spain and Argentina, 74–75. 62. M. García y Panadés, ‘Patriotismo sin convicción’, Germania, 15 February 1916, 3–4. 63. Barral Martínez, ‘De neutralidad obligada a neutralidad activa’. 64. Fuentes Codera, España en la Primera Guerra Mundial, 80–89. 65. Lerroux, La verdad a mi país. 66. Alcalá Galiano, España ante el conflicto europeo, 156; Fuentes Codera, Spain and Argentina, 75. 67. See the clear examples in España: José Ortega y Gasset, ‘La política de neutralidad, la camisa roja’, España, Madrid, 29 January 1915; ‘Política de Neutralidad, Italia resuelta’, España, Madrid, 19 March 1915. 68. García Sanz and Tato, ‘Neutralist Crossroads’. 69. Otero, La Guerra en la Sangre, 71; Lugones, Mi Beligerancia, 143–51. 70. Melgar, La Democracia y la Guerra, 46–48; Fuentes Codera, Spain and Argentina, 76.

34 71. 72. 73. 74.

75. 76. 77. 78. 79. 80. 81. 82. 83. 84. 85. 86. 87. 88. 89.

90.

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Tato, ‘Propaganda de guerra’; Fuentes Codera, Spain and Argentina, 77. ‘A nuestros lectores’, América-Latina, 1 June 1916. ‘Algunas preguntas’, América-Latina, 15 September 1915. Amado Nervo, ‘Algo sobre la Kultur y la Cultura’, América-Latina, 15 December 1915; Manuel Sánchez Gavito, ‘Germanofilismo y retroceso’, América-Latina, 1 July 1916. See Nervo’s poem ‘¡Dios proteja a Francia’, América-Latina, 15 April 1916. ‘Las tropas de color y Alemania’, América-Latina, 1 February 1917. Enrique Gómez Carrillo, ‘Páginas Latino Americanas. Crónicas de la guerra’, América-Latina, 1 November 1916. These chronicles were also reproduced in El Correo de España in Buenos Aires. José Ortega y Gasset, ‘La Política de Neutralidad. La Nación frente al Estado’, España, 12 Februray 1915. Luis Araquistain, ‘El “Lusitania” y la camisa de fuerza’, España, 14 May 1915. España, 27 January 1916. González Calleja, Anatomía de una crisis. Romero Salvadó, España 1914–1918, 70–99. Rinke and Widt, Revolutions and Counter-tevolutions; Fuentes Codera, ‘1917, a Turning Point’, 131–46. Weinmann, Argentina en la Primera Guerra Mundial, 129–30. Tato, La trinchera austral, 120–21; Fuentes Codera, España en la Primera Guerra Mundial, 155–170. Michel, L’Hispanisme dans les Républiques Espagnoles d’Amérique, 81 and 87–88. Marchilhacy, Raza Hispana, 516–17. ‘XX de septiembre. La manifestación de ayer’, La Prensa, 23 September 1918. ‘Día de júbilo. La fiesta del 14 de julio’, La Correspondencia de España, 14 July 1919; ‘La fiesta del 14 de julio’, La Correspondencia de España, 15 July 1919. ‘Celebración del armisticio’, La Nación, 14 November 1918; ‘La victoria de los aliados’, La Mañana, 12 November 1918; ‘En honor de los aliados. España entera festeja la victoria’, El Sol, 18 November 1918; ‘Manifestaciones de júbilo’, El Liberal, 12 November 1918. ‘Ni Quijotes ni Sanchos. España ante el conflicto’, La Mañana, 23 August 1914.

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Alcalá Galiano, Álvaro. España ante el conflicto europeo, 1914–1915. Madrid, 1916. Alonso, Gregorio. ‘“Afectos caprichosos”: tradicionalismo y germanofilia en España durante la Gran Guerra’. Hispania Nova 15 (2017), 394–415. Álvarez Junco, José. ‘The Debate over the Nation’, in Nigel Townson (ed.), Is Spain Different? A Comparative Look at the 19th and 20th Centuries (Brighton: Sussex Academic Press, 2015), 18–41. Aubert, Paul. ‘La propagande étrangère en Espagne dans le premier tiers du XXe siècle’. Mélanges de la Casa de Velázquez 31(3) (1995), 103–76. Barral Martínez, Margarita. ‘De neutralidad obligada a neutralidad activa a través de la acción humanitaria: Alfonso XIII y la Oficina Pro-Cautivos durante la Gran Guerra’, in Carlos Sanz Díaz and Zorann Petrovici (eds), La Gran Guerra en la España de Alfonso XIII (Madrid: Sílex, 2019), 119–39. Bruno, Paula. ‘Un momento latinoamericano. Voces intelectuales entre la I Conferencia Panamericana y la Gran Guerra’, in Maximiliano Fuentes and Ferran Archilés (eds), Ideas comprometidas. Los intelectuales y la política (Madrid: Akal, 2018), 57–77. Caglioti, Daniela Luigia. ‘Germanophobia and Economic Nationalism: Government Policies against Enemy Aliens in Italy during the First World War’, in Panikos Panayi (ed.), Germans as Minorities during the First World War: A Global Comparative Perspective (Farnham, Ashgate, 2014), 147–70. ———. ‘Why and How Italy Invented an Enemy Aliens Problem in the First World War’. War in History 21(2) (2014), 142–69. Cammarano, Fulvio (ed.). Abbasso la Guerra! Neutralisti in piazza alla vigilia della prima guerra mondiale in Italia. Milan: Mondadori Education, 2015. Colocci, Adriano. Prima il Adriatico. Florence: Ferrante, 1915. Compagnon, Antoine, and Pierre Purseigle. ‘Géographies de la mobilisation et territoires de la belligérance durant la Première Guerre Mondiale’. Annales. Histoire, Sciences Sociales 71(1) (2016), 37–64. De Blas Guerrero, Andrés. ‘Nationalisms in Spain: The Organization of Convivencia’, in Anthony Pagden (ed.), The Idea of Europe: From Antiquity to the European Union (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002), 260–86. Den Hertog, Johan, and Samuël Kruizinga (eds). Caught in the Middle: Neutrals, Neutrality and the First World War. Amsterdam: Aksant, 2011. Devoto, Fernando. Historia de los italianos en la Argentina. Buenos Aires: Cámara de Comercio Italiana en la República Argentina – Biblos, 2006. Dogliani, Patrizia. ‘Los intelectuales italianos en la Gran Guerra’. Ayer 91 (2013), 93–120. Figallo, Beatriz. Argentina y España: Entre la pasión y el escepticismo. Buenos Aires: CONICET-Teseo, 2014. Fuentes Codera, Maximiliano. España en la Primera Guerra Mundial. Una movilización cultural. Madrid: Akal, 2014. ———. ‘Ideas of Europe in Neutral Spain (1914–1918)’, in Matthew d’Auria and Jan Vermeiren (eds), Visions and Ideas of Europe during the First World War (Abingdon: Routledge, 2019), 182–97. ———. ‘1917, a Turning Point in Neutral Countries: Great War and Russian Revolution in Spain (and Argentina)’, in Gerhard Besier and Katarzyna

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Stoklosa (eds), 1917 and the Consequences (Abingdon: Routledge, 2020), 131–46. ———. ‘El giro global y transnacional: las historiografías de la Gran Guerra tras los centenarios’, Historia y Política 43 (2020), 389–417. ———. Spain and Argentina in the First World War: Transnational Neutralities. Abingdon: Routledge, 2021. García Sanz, Carolina. ‘Del “egoísmo inglés” al “sacro egoísmo” italiano en la Gran Guerra. Bloqueo Marítimo, Maquiavelismo y Germanofobia’. Ayer 86 (2016), 47–69. ———. ‘Repensar la neutralidad en la Gran Guerra. Una lectura en clave europea’, in Pedro Ruiz Torres (ed.), Volver a pensar el mundo de la Gran Guerra (Zaragoza: Institución Fernando El Católico, 2016), 183–208. García Sanz, Carolina, and María Inés Tato. ‘Neutralist Crossroads: Spain and Argentina Facing the Great War’. First World War Studies 8(2–3) (2017), 115–32. García Sanz, Fernando. España en la Gran Guerra. Espías, diplomáticos y traficantes. Barcelona: Galaxia Gutenberg, 2014. González Calleja, Eduardo (ed.). Anatomía de una crisis. 1917 y los españoles. Madrid: Alianza Editorial, 2017. González Calleja, Eduardo, and Paul Aubert. Nidos de espías. España, Francia y la Primera Guerra Mundial (1914–1919). Madrid: Alianza Editorial, 2014. González Hontoria, Manuel. El protectorado francés en Marruecos: y sus enseñanzas para la acción española. Madrid: Imprenta Clásica Española, 1915. Guiso, Andrea. ‘La camera dei Deputati dalla neutralità all’intervento’, in Giovanni Orsina and Andrea Ungari (eds), L’Italia neutrale 1914–1915 (Rome: Rodorigo Editore, 2016), 118–35. Horne, John. ‘Foreword’, in James E. Kitchen, Alisa Miller and Laura Rowe (eds), Other Combatants, Other Fronts: Competing Histories of the First World War (Newcastle: Cambridge Scholars Publishing, 2011), xiii–xvii. Horne, John, and Alan Kramer. German Atrocities, 1914: A History of Denial. New Haven: Yale University Press, 2001. Hull, Isabel Virginia. A Scrap of Paper: Breaking and Making International Law during the Great War. Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2014. Jover Zamora, José María. 1898: Teoría y práctica de la redistribución colonial. Madrid: Fundación Universitaria Española, 1979. Kruizinga, Samuel. ‘Government by Committee: Dutch Economic Neutrality and the First World War’, in James E. Kitchen, Alisa Miller and Laura Rowe (eds), Other Combatants, Other Fronts: Competing Histories of the First World War (Newcastle: Cambridge Scholars Publishing, 2011), 99–124. ———. ‘Neutrality’, in Jay Winter (ed.), The Cambridge History of the First World War. Volume II: The State (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2014), 542–76. La Porte, Pablo. ‘La espiral irresistible: la Gran Guerra y el Protectorado español en Marruecos’. Hispania Nova 15 (2015), 500-–26.

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León y Castillo, Fernando. Mis tiempos. Madrid: Librería de los sucesores de Hernando, 1921. Lerroux, Alejandro. La verdad a mi país. España y la guerra. Madrid: Librería de la viuda de Pueyo, 1915. Lugones, Leopoldo. Mi beligerancia. Buenos Aires: Otero y García editores, 1917. Marcilhacy, David. Raza Hispana. Hispanoamericanismo e imaginario nacional en la España de la Restauración. Madrid: CEPC, 2010. ———. ‘España, invitada de honor en el Centenario de la Independencia mexicana: Rafael Altamira y el marqués de Polavieja, dos lecturas de las nuevas relaciones hispano-mexicanas’, in Olivier Compagnon et al. (eds), 1910: México entre dos épocas (Mexico City: Colegio de México, 2014), 47–69. Melgar, Ramón. La democracia y la guerra. Buenos Aires: Librería de A. García Santos, 1918. Michel, Paul-Henri. L’Hispanisme dans les Républiques Espagnoles d’Amérique pendant la guerre de 1914–1918. Paris: Alfred Costes Éditeur, 1931. Olstein, David. Thinking History Globally. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2014. Otero, Hernán. La guerra en la sangre. Los franco-argentinos ante la Primera Guerra Mundial. Buenos Aires: Sudamericana, 2009. Pignotti, Marco. ‘L’ingresso delle masse nel sistema politico (1912–1915)’, in Giovanni Orsina and Andrea Ungari (eds), L’Italia neutrale 1914–1915 (Rome: Rodrigo Editore, 2016). Pla, Xavier, Maximiliano Fuentes Codera and Francesc Montero (eds). A Civil War of Words: The Cultural Impact of the Great War in Catalonia, Spain, Europe and a Glance at Latin America. Bern: Peter Lang, 2016. Ponce, Javier. ‘Propaganda and Politics: Germany and Spanish Opinion in World War I’, in Troy Paddock (ed.), World War I and Propaganda (Leiden: Brill, 2014), 292–321. Renzi, William A. In the Shadow of the Sword: Italy’s Neutrality and Entrance into the Great War 1914–1915. New York: Peter Lang, 1987. Riccardi, Luca. Alleati non amici. Le relazioni politiche tra l’Italia e l’Intesa durante la Prima Guerra Mondiale. Brescia: Morcelliana, 1992. Rinke, Stefan, and Michael Widt (eds). Revolutions and Counter-revolutions: 1917 and its Aftermath from a Global Perspective. New York: Campus, 2017. Robles Muñoz, Cristóbal. 1898: Diplomacia y Opinión. Madrid: CSIC, 1991. Rolland, Denis. La crise du modèle français : Marianne et l’Amérique latine, culture, politique et identité. Rennes: Presses Universitaires de Rennes, 2000. Rolland, Denis, et al. L’Espagne et l’Amérique Latine. Politiques culturelles, propagandes et relations internationales, XXe siècle. Paris: L’Harmattan-CSIC, 2001. Romero Salvadó, Francisco. España 1914–1918. Entre la guerra y la revolución. Barcelona: Crítica, 2002. Rosenbusch, Anne. ‘Guerra total en territorio neutral: actividades alemanas en España durante la Primera Guerra Mundial’. Hispania Nova 15 (2017), 350–72.

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Ruiz Sánchez, José Leonardo, Inmaculada Cordero Olivero and Carolina García Sanz (eds). Shaping Neutrality throughout the First World War. Seville: University of Seville, 2015. Rusconi, Gian Enrico. L’azzardo del 1915. Come L’Italia decide la sua guerra. Bologna: Il Mulino, 2009. ———. ‘Come l’Italia decide l’intervento nella Grande Guerra’, in Johannes Hürter and Gian Enrico Rusconi (eds), L’entrata in guerra dell’Italia nel 1915 (Bologna: Il Mulino, 2010), 15–74. Salandra, Antonio. La neutralità italiana, 1914: ricordi e pensieri. Milan: Mondadori, 1928. Stibbe, Matthew. German Anglophobia and the Great War. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001. Tames, Ismee. ‘War on Our Minds: War, Neutrality and Identity in Dutch Public Debate during the First World War’. First World War Studies 3(2) (2012), 201–16. Tato, María Inés. ‘La movilización de la sociedad argentina frente a la Primera Guerra Mundial’, in Silvia Mallo and Beatriz Moreyra (eds), Miradas sobre la historia social en la Argentina en los comienzos del siglo XXI (Córdoba-La Plata: Centro de Estudios Históricos ‘Prof. Carlos S. A. Segreti’-Centro de Estudios de Historia Americana Colonial (CEHAC)-Universidad Nacional de La Plata, 2008), 725–41. ———. ‘El llamado de la patria. Británicos e italianos residentes en la Argentina frente a la Primera Guerra Mundial’. Estudios Migratorios Latinoamericanos 71 (2011), 273–91. ———. ‘Propaganda de guerra para el Nuevo Mundo. El caso de la revista América-Latina (1915–1918)’. Historia y Comunicación Social 18 (2013), 63–74. ———. La trinchera austral. La sociedad argentina ante la Primera Guerra Mundial. Rosario: Prohistoria Ediciones, 2017. Ventrone, Angelo. La seduzione totalitaria. Guerra, modernità, violenza politica (1914–1918). Rome: Donzelli Editori, 2003. Vigezzi, Brunello. ‘L’Italia del 1914–15 e la crisi del sistema liberale’, in Giovanni Orsina and Andrea Ungari (eds), L’Italia neutrale 1914–1915 (Rome: Rodrigo Editore, 2016), 11–26. Weinmann, Ricardo. Argentina en la Primera Guerra Mundial: neutralidad, transición política y continuismo económico. Buenos Aires: Biblos, 1994. Welch, David. Germany and Propaganda in World War I: Pacifism, Mobilization and Total War. London: I.B. Tauris, 2014.

Chapter 2

Latinizing the Russia of the Soviets The Influence of Italian Socialism in Spain and Argentina after the First World War Steven Forti

å The creation of the International Workers’ Association (IWA) in 1864 and even more so of the Second International in 1889 gave a strong impulse to the circulation of ideas in the international labour movement. Within the framework of the meetings of these groups, the labour leaders of different countries established relationships that they maintained chiefly through correspondence. Ideas and reflections began to be exchanged that went beyond practical information about the situation of the labour movement in each country. Likewise, some of the first revolutionaries travelled to other countries to seek members and spread Marxist or anarchist ideas. On the other hand, translations of different works that spread the ideas of the IWA were promoted, starting with those of Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels. In summary, although there was still a certain ignorance of the theoretical production and internal debates between one country and another, and although the translations were sometimes partial, summarized or based on translations of the original texts, socialist ideas had achieved a considerable level of circulation by the time of the outbreak of the First World War and gradually reached the Latin countries. It was not only about the translation of works and documents of the German Marxists (although they were dominant) and the circulation was not limited to the centre and the outskirts (from Germany or France to other countries), but was beginning to see an incipient reciprocal transfer that included circulation among countries. In many cases, leaders or militants who emigrated from other countries played an important role in this process due to their knowledge of the

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language and the situation in their country of origin: this is true, for example, for Italians and Spaniards in Latin America or the United States, as well as for the Russians in Italy, or other countries in Western Europe and the Americas. The First World War radically altered this state of affairs. In the first place, with the outbreak of the conflict and the establishment of censorship, transnational relations became more difficult. Exchanges became problematic, and the breakdown of the Second International complicated relationships established between the socialists of the different countries that were now fighting against each other on the battlefields. The only notable exception was the Zimmerwald (1915) and Kienthal (1916) meetings of the left of the international socialist movement.1 Second, the Russian Revolution introduced new elements into the mix. On the one hand, there was a notable level of interest around what was happening in the former Tsarist Empire and what the Russian revolutionaries were doing, especially after October 1917. There was an intense debate, with disagreements and fractures in the labour movement, in a context marked by the generalized attraction of the masses towards the events in Russia, although there were real difficulties in obtaining reliable information about the situation in that country. On the other hand, the creation of the Communist International (CI) in March 1919 centralized the diffusion of texts, documents and therefore ideas. It was a process that, according to the different countries, took at least a couple of years to unfold and that it had its own peculiarities: in a number of cases, the envoys and agents of the CI in the different countries played a considerable role, as did the leaders that the national socialist organizations sent to Russia to gather information, especially when they attended congresses of the Communist International between 1919 and 1922.

Italy: A Model for Latin Socialism? The situation that lasted from 1917 to 1921 was a crucial Gordian knot in contemporary history marked by the events in Russia, the final phase of the First World War, the management of peace created by the Treaty of Versailles, the postwar economic crisis, the transformations experienced by the capitalist system, the entry of the masses into political life, the leading role of the workers’ movement and the reorganization of the right wing in Europe. Specifically, for the labour movement, those five years meant new possibilities and revolutionary hopes, but also a rupture that marked the entire twentieth century. Historiogra-

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phy has carefully studied this stage, both at the international level and at different national levels, focusing on the reception of the Russian Revolution, the internal debates within the labour movement of each country and, in particular, the formation of communist parties. This is also the case for Italy, Spain, and Argentina.2 However, there is still a shortage of studies that go beyond each national context and attempt a comparative analysis, especially among these three Latin countries, with regard to the political processes experienced by the respective socialist movements as well as the reception of the Russian Revolution, the circulation of ideas and the possible direct or indirect reciprocal influences. This chapter initially proposes addressing this issue in the awareness that it is still an (almost) unexplored field.3 First, the analogies and differences between the socialist movements of Italy, Spain and Argentina will be highlighted: between 1917 and 1921, the socialist parties in these three countries had to face, in a context marked by the rise in labour conflicts and the increase of affiliates, intense internal discussions about the strategy to follow. Second, this chapter will focus on how the Russian Revolution was received by socialists in these three countries and how their different readings influenced the formation of their respective communist parties. Finally, the circulation of ideas relating to the Soviet model and its application in the Latin world among the three socialist movements will be highlighted, demonstrating the interest that the situation and the Italian proposals aroused in Spain and Argentina. In the background, a not so trivial question is posed, even though historiography has not taken a closer look to provide an answer: in the context of the first postwar period, was Italy perceived in Madrid and Buenos Aires as a socialist laboratory that could become a model for the Latin world? For other historical stages or other political currents, there is no doubt that this was the case. It is not necessary here to recall the influence that the Italian Communist Party (PCI) and the texts of Antonio Gramsci, as well as Palmiro Togliatti and Enrico Berlinguer, had in Spain and Argentina after the Second World War and especially in the years of ‘the long 1968’, nor the interest that fascism and especially the corporate model that the Mussolini regime was building in the conservative and reactionary sectors of the two countries. There is no doubt that the two cases cited are not comparable with what will be proposed here in relation to socialism during the first postwar period: for the Partido Socialista Obrero Español (PSOE) in Spain and the Partido Socialista (PS) in Argentina, which were clearly controlled by the most strongly reformist sectors, the main influence was undoubtedly German social democracy, also

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after the end of the world war. Meanwhile, for the Bolshevik groups that emerged within the Socialist parties the model was clearly the Soviet experience.4 However, it is still worth approaching the socialist world and seeing what interrelationships were created, even if these were extremely unstable and lacked a sense of continuity in the following years. The socialist Italy of the Biennio Rosso was not the Third Rome propagandized by fascism and the Italian Socialist Party (PSI), at a juncture marked by internal divisions and the emergence of fascist violence; it did not rise or have enough force to elaborate a ‘propaganda’ strategy towards countries that were considered geographically peripheral to the (possible) social revolution of the first postwar period. The Italian socialists main concern was to channel the mobilizations of the working masses, settle their internal differences, learn more about the Russian reality and establish ties with the Soviet government. This does not mean that from Madrid and Buenos Aires, political observers – especially from some sectors of the labour movement – looked closely at what was happening in Italy, a country that between 1919 and 1920 many considered to be on the brink of a revolutionary insurrection following Germany and Hungary. The mobilization capacity of the Italian socialist movement and the electoral results of the PSI were spectacular in comparison to Spain and Argentina, where the implementation of the PSOE, the PS and the respective socialist unions was much weaker. Finally, for the Spanish and Argentine socialists, Italy also played a peculiar role, and was culturally a closer reality, compared to distant Russia: according to some, instead of looking at Russia, it was more profitable to look at how the Italian socialists were trying to adapt the new and still unknown Russian system in a Latin country, linking it to a whole network of organizations that had existed in the territory for decades. This would explain, for example, the interest Spanish militants showed for Bombacci’s constitution of the Soviets, as well as for the Worker’s Councils.

Italy, Spain and Argentina between War and Postwar In recent years, historiography has highlighted how neutral countries were not immune to the consequences of the First World War. This is very evident in the cases of Spain and Argentina.5 However, from a comparative perspective, the impact of the war was clearly different between the three countries. For Italy, which entered the war in May 1915 alongside the Entente, the conflict resulted in 680,000 deaths, to

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which another 500,000 must be added due to the so-called Spanish flu and about half a million wounded, in addition to a public debt that increased fivefold between 1914 and 1919. In addition, there were the consequences of the experience of the battlefront that strongly marked society and politics in the postwar period. As neutrals, Spain and Argentina were saved from the hecatomb. However, the two Hispanic countries could not avoid the impact of the war from a social, political, economic and cultural point of view. On the one hand, they lived through a period of notable internal polarization on the subject of neutrality. In Spain, the battle between the Aliadophiles and the Germanophiles marked the entire period 1914–18 and also had consequences within the PSOE itself: Pablo Iglesias’ leadership, influenced by the way French socialism read the conflict between French civilization and German imperialism, had clearly adopted a position in favour of the Entente, even asking Spain to participate in the war. In Argentina, although at the beginning there was a certain ‘neutralist consensus’, from 1916 the situation was similar, mainly due to the German submarine warfare: the PS was also mostly pro-Allied.6 The position of the PSI was, on the other hand, different: the Italian socialists, including the reformists under Filippo Turati, were clearly neutralists throughout the conflict. The PSI’s position was undoubtedly peculiar, especially in the context of the international socialist movement, comparable only to that of the Russians, at least until the revolution of February 1917. The motto né aderire né sabotare (neither adhere nor sabotage) allowed the PSI to remain united, with the only exception of Benito Mussolini. On the other hand, in a similar way Italy, Spain and Argentina experienced a spate of intense social uprisings that accelerated the crisis in the respective liberal states, highlighting the weakness of the governments and laying the foundations for the authoritarian turns that the three countries would experience in the following years. The year 1917 was undoubtedly a watershed year that marked the dividing line between a before and after period, influenced more or less directly by the news that came from Russia: to the triple Spanish crisis – the Juntas de Defensas, the assembly of parliamentarians and general revolutionary strikes – must be added to the violent anti-militarist protests in Turin in August 1917 and the surge of the labour conflict in Argentina.7 For a long time historical analysis maintained a strict differentiation between countries that participated in the conflict and neutral countries. This stage of popular uprisings can also be read in a broader spectrum and over a longer period if we add to the events the Tragic Week of Barcelona in 1909, the Argentine Tragic Week of 1909 and the Italian Red Week of 1914.

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The Mobilization and Implementation of the Labour Movement in the Postwar Period Now, compared to the two Hispanic countries, the triumphs of the Italian labour movement in 1919 and 1920 were undoubtedly greater, although their implementation was actually limited since the industrialists never respected the signed agreements, which were only valid for a very short period due to the fascist reaction. Already by February 1919, the Metalworkers’ Federation (FIOM) of the Confederazione Generale del Lavoro (CGdL) achieved the first national agreement in the history of Italian industrial relations that provided for important wage increases, the re-establishment of internal commissions in factories nationwide and an eight-hour workday. In Spain, the eight-hour workday was achieved a couple of months later – after the strike at La Canadiense factory in Barcelona – while Argentina had to wait until 1929. Following the occupation of the factories in September 1920, the FIOM obtained other significant wage increases for workers and improvements relating to paid holidays, severance pay and compensation for overtime. Furthermore, in the countryside, where very hard struggles were fought in 1920, the conquests of the workers resulted not only in the regularization by the government of the land occupations, but also in the agrarian pacts of the Po’ valley that established taxable labour and a number of major improvements for sharecroppers and settlers.8 At the end of the Bolshevik Triennium and the Red Triennium of Rio de la Plata in around 1921, the gains of the labour movement were not so substantial in Spain and Argentina, although there were important victories, especially at the local level, which were the result of long strikes, such as those of the spring of 1919 in Andalusia or that of La Canadiense of Barcelona. This was mainly due to two reasons. On the one hand, compared to Italy, the repression in Spain and Argentina was much harsher from the beginning. In Spain, except at certain points, such as when the Count of Romanones established the eighthour day, the government showed little political will to address this social problem. In addition, employers – except, in some cases, like the Basque region – firmly bargained for any type of openness towards the unions, adopting the strategy of lockouts and promoting gunfights, that is, the murder of union leaders, with the favour and support of the civil governors, as was demonstrated by the case of General Martínez Anido in Barcelona. In Argentina, something similar occurred under the radical government of Yrigoyen, which brutally repressed the conflicts of Tragic Week and Patagonia and encouraged the paramilitary actions of the Argentine Patriotic League. In that case, the position of the Nitti’s and Giolitti’s governments on the other side of the Alps was

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quite different: although they did not refuse the use of a heavy hand approach, both executives were conciliatory and tried to resolve social uprisings in a pragmatic way.9 On the other hand, and although the labour unrest (especially in Spain) was unprecedented, the mobilizations in Italy were truly spectacular. In both 1919 and 1920 in the Italian industries, between 15 and 20 million lost working days were recorded each year. The numbers were very different in the other two Latin countries.10 However, we cannot underestimate what was achieved in Spain and Argentina, where the industrialization process was slower than in Italy and the organizations of the labour movement, although they experienced significant growth, were less rooted and more divided than was the case in Italy. The anarchist and anarcho-syndicalist movement, especially in Spain with the National Labour Confederation (CNT) but also in Argentina with the FORA V Congress, was much more significant than in Italy. The difference is notable, especially if we focus on the situation of the socialist parties: although the membership was generally lower than in other countries in Central and Northern Europe, between 1918 and 1920, the PSI went from 25,000 to more than 210,000 affiliates, while the PSOE went from 14,000 to 54,000 in the same period.11 The Argentine PS, which had already suffered a minority split in its internationalist sector, experienced much more limited growth: from 7,251 members in 1918 to 10,274 in 1921.12 The differences are broadly similar regarding the central socialist trade unions: between 1918 and 1920, the Italian CGdL went from 600,000 to 2,150,000 members, while the Spanish General Labour Union (UGT) went from 80,000 to 210,000.13 In the Argentine case, the division between political action and union action advocated by the ‘Justo hypothesis’ made the creation of a socialist union closely connected with the party difficult, if not totally impossible.14 Even more shocking was the difference in terms of electoral results and parliamentary representation: while the PSI in 1919 was the first party with 156 deputies and 32.3% of the vote, the PSOE in 1918 had to settle for only six seats and the PS obtained only ten in 1920.15

The Impact of the Russian Revolution on the Socialist Parties In both the PSOE and the PS, tensions and divisions regarding the question of neutrality during the First World War laid the foundations for the different interpretations of the Russian Revolution and, ultimately, also for the breakdown of socialist unity. The February Rev-

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olution was considered a positive development by all sectors of both parties, while the October Revolution highlighted the profound differences that existed. The leaderships of the PSOE and the PS, controlled by the reformist sectors, looked negatively upon the Bolsheviks seizing power, mainly because of the risk of Russia exiting the war, which could in turn strengthen the Central Powers. Iglesias and Justo supported the provisional government of the Russian Republic; they identified with the Mensheviks and were firmly Aliadophile and Wilsonian. After 1918, the official position of the two parties was the same as that of the Social Democratic Party of Germany as expressed by Kautsky. There was only a minority in favour of the Bolsheviks, which hardly had access to the pages of the official press of the party. Pacifists and Zimmerwaldians were a heterogeneous group in Spain (José Verdes Montenegro, Virginia González, Mariano García Cortés, Andreu Nin, Ramón Lamoneda and Manuel Núñez de Arenas) and, in Argentina, the group that created the International Socialist Party in January 1918 was largely made up of young members of the PS who had been critics of the reformist strategy of the leadership since the beginning of the decade.16 In Italy, things were somewhat different – not in relation to the first phase of the Russian Revolution, which was also celebrated by all the socialists and even by Mussolini, by democratic interventionists, and by a large part of the public opinion because they were relieved from having an autocracy as an ally, but in relation to the October Revolution. Although it is true that Turati was not enthusiastic and almost immediately dismissed it as blanquist, throughout 1918 the reformists defended the Bolshevik government tooth and nail against Western intervention. And in 1919, the moment of Soviet Russia’s greatest isolation from the world, the entire PSI showed a clear commitment to the Soviet government, repeatedly calling for the withdrawal of foreign soldiers, the official recognition of the new government, and promoting the boycott of the production and transport of war materials to the White Armies. In July 1919, a two-day international strike was also organized that brought the country to a halt – in solidarity with revolutionary Russia and Hungary. In Argentina and Spain, there were also actions of solidarity with the Soviet people, but it was the minority sectors that organized them; in Italy, the leadership was clearly in the hands of the maximalists from the congress of Reggio Emilia in 1912. The reformists were extremely isolated, even though they controlled the parliamentary group until 1919.17 Having said that, while the maximalists interpreted the Russian February and October Revolutions in the ideological bourgeois-revolution proletarian-revolution sequence, the reformists gradually introduced

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an analysis that was closer to that of Kautsky. On the one hand, the Marxist doctrine and the Leninist praxis were considered unsuitable since in a backward country like Russia, socialism could not be built. On the other hand, the authoritarianism and terrorism of the Bolsheviks were denounced, based on the information disseminated by the Mensheviks.18 In Italy the majority in the PSI itself became enthusiastic about the Bolshevik Revolution: the slogan ‘Fare come in Russia’ (‘Do as in Russia’), which was shouted in street protests in Turin for the first time in March 1917, became a ‘passe-partout formula’ for those maximalists who did not want to lose contact with the masses.19 The masses increasingly admired Lenin, who turned into a ‘liberator and protector of the weak, instigator of social justice, father of the proletarians of the whole world’, an admiration that was demonstrated by slogans written in the streets, effigies, popular songs and the names that many workers gave to their children.20 It is not surprising that Giuseppe Scalarini drew on the cover of the Avanti! a comic strip entitled Ab Oriente Lux. As Elena Dundovich pointed out, in Italy there was a kind of ‘emulation syndrome’ of the Soviet October Revolution.21 In fact, most of the PSI, although with nuances that grew over time, judged the Bolshevik experience as an indispensable basis for any future political decision. The maximalists showed true sentimental devotion to the October Revolution, although, unlike the most fervent pro-Bolsheviks (Nicola Bombacci, Egidio Gennari and Ercole Bucco), one of their main leaders, Giacinto Menotti Serrati, was already convinced by 1919 that the Italian and the Russian situations were very different and, consequently, the Italian revolution had to follow its own path. Also, the abstentionist faction led by Amadeo Bordiga and the L’Ordine Nuovo group of Turin considered that the objective was the conquest of power through a revolutionary and insurrectionary action following the Russian model.22 In these divergences of analysis, the precursors to the communist split of 1921 had already surfaced. In the internal debate within the PSI on the Russian Revolution – the party joined the CI in March 1919 – both the reading of the popular agitations of the first postwar period and the previous differences between the reformist and revolutionary sectors played a part. As Gaetano Arfé pointed out, maximalism, a very heterogeneous political current, was the heir to the ‘old intransigentism of workerist derivation’ of the late nineteenth century: beyond the revolutionary syndicalist rupture of 1907, the battle between gradualist socialism and this sector marked the entire history of the PSI from its founding to Mussolini’s coming to power.23

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In Spain, on the other hand, although the divergences prior to 1914 and the criticisms of the alliance with the republicans cannot be underestimated, what caused a rift in the party was above all the position towards the war. Moreover, the Zimmerwald opposition only began to organize itself in 1918, coalescing around the magazine Nuestra Palabra, which was founded by García Cortes and Lamoneda in August. At the 10th Congress of the PSOE in November 1918, the opposition represented a minority that also failed to send a telegram of sympathy to the government of the Russian Republic of Soviets. Not even the Socialist Youth had subscribed to the Zimmerwald manifesto. The leadership of Spanish socialism identified with parliamentary reform and was tempted to participate in the war. Everything changed at the beginning of 1919 when, in a climate marked by social mobilizations, the left-wing sector became majority in the Madrid Socialist Federation (Agrupación Socialista Madrileña) and the Socialist Youth, supporters of Third International after its creation in March, joined it the following December. Together with the national as well as the international contexts marked by the revolutions in Germany and Hungary, this is what led the PSOE to convene an extraordinary congress to decide whether the party would offer its support to the new International of Moscow.24 What happened in Italy in relation to the previous divergences in the party was also repeated in Argentina when, in 1906, the revolutionary syndicalist left the PS. Critical of Bernstein’s revisionism and the parliamentary strategy of Justismo – the main current of Argentine reformist socialism named after the historic leader Juan Justo – the Youth, led by Juan Ferlini and José Fernando Penelón, began to organize itself with the aim of recovering the revolutionary principles of Marxism. This activism, which was viewed with suspicion by the leadership and the parliamentary group, together with an accentuated anti-militarist stance that led to the immediate adherence to the Zimmerwald and Kienthal manifestos, laid the foundations for the expulsion of the internationalists in the extraordinary congress of the PS in the spring of 1917.25 Even before October 1917 the three socialist parties suffered from internal conflicts. Unlike in Italy and Spain, in Argentina the rupture occurred prior to the Bolshevik seizure of power. In the formative years of Argentine internationalism the Russian Revolution occupied a distinctly secondary position, although the Soviet cause quickly became an element that brought together various dissident factions of the Partido Socialista by offering them something with which to identify. The demarcation between the socialists and the internationalists was their opposing views on issues such as internal democracy, and the different

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positions among the unionists and reformists – to this we may also add ideological divergences amongst older and younger generations.26 Of course, in the three countries, the divisions amongst the supporters of the Comintern were minor and most youths joined the respective communist parties. At the time of its founding (January 1918), the Argentine International Socialist Party – which in December 1920 changed its name to the Communist Party – only had about 750 members, a number that in any case, grew in the following three years to reach 5,000 by 1921, according to Henry Allen, the CI envoy.27 In the Italian and Spanish cases, the break occurred after the Second Congress of the CI and the establishment of the twenty-one conditions of admission in the new Moscow International. Furthermore, the cycle of social mobilizations was running out and the reactionaries were reorganizing themselves, even in Italy: only two months after what was interpreted as a social revolution – the occupation of the factories of September 1920 – the actions of the fascist squadrismo spread in a ‘red’ region like Emilia-Romagna. Beyond their differences, then, the creation of Communist parties in the three Latin countries did not follow the French and German pattern of 1920 as would have been wished for in Moscow: most of the leaders and militants stayed in their respective socialist parties. In Spain, during the Third Extraordinary Congress of the PSOE in April 1921, those who broke away and were pro-Third International took just under 5,000 militants with them to the Spanish Communist Workers’ Party (PCOE). To this number, only 2,000 members of the Spanish Communist Party should be added: a small ultra-left formation created a year earlier from the Socialist Youth, whose main leaders (Lamoneda, Ramón Merino Gracia and Juan Andrade) had been pushed to break with the PSOE – even with its Third International party members, who were branded as centrists – by Mikhail Borodin and Charles Francis Phillips, alias Jesús Ramírez, the Bolshevik envoys who arrived in Spain in late 1919. When the two parties were unified in November 1921, thanks to the patient work of the Italian communist Antonio Graziadei, who had been sent by the CI, the new Communist Party of Spain (PCE) had about 6,500 members who, due to repression and a lack of leadership or a clear strategy, were severely reduced in less than two years. The difference compared to the French Communist Party is striking.28 But it is also surprising if we compare the Spanish case to the Italian one. The unity displayed by the PSI at its national congress held in Bologna in October 1919, when support for the Third International was decided by acclamation, began to crack throughout 1920. The in-

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ability to guide the mobilizations of the working class and the twentyone conditions of the CI broke the hegemonic maximalist current. Serrati clashed with Lenin over the change of name, the autonomy of the party and the expulsion of the reformists – who in Italy had not been social patriots as in other countries – while the sector led by Bombacci, Gennari and Graziadei defended unconditional support for the new International. At the Livorno Congress held in January 1921, Serrati, who retained the support of most maximalists, defended the unity of the party and stayed in the PSI with the reformists. The motion, defended by the communist faction – some maximalists and the groups of Bordiga and L’Ordine Nuovo – obtained 58,000 votes. In the new Communist Party of Italy (PCdI), the vast majority of the of the Italian Socialist Youth Federation converged shortly after.29

The Debate on the Soviets in Italy As noted above, the circulation of ideas in the international socialist movement significantly increased at the beginning of the twentieth century. The war largely disrupted this exchange. For the reformist sectors, it was quite easy to resume relations with their European counterparts who were trying to rebuild the Second International, while for the supporters of the Comintern, it was more difficult to get in touch with the Bolsheviks in Russia. Furthermore, the communists in the different countries knew very little about what was happening in Soviet Russia: they were even almost completely unaware of the debates that had taken place within the Russian Social Democratic Party before 1914. This was true for Argentina and Spain, as well as Italy, where the first translations of Lenin’s texts appeared in 1918. Nor did the Bolsheviks know much about what was happening in other countries.30 Between 1918 and 1920, an attempt was made to make up for this lack of information with the translation of articles that appeared in the Western socialist and communist press (which were often imprecise or confusing), reports of some journalists who had been in Russia and were supportive of the Soviet cause (such as John Reed and Morgan Philip Price) and, where possible, the texts of the Bolshevik leaders. Added to this were articles written by exiled Russians who resided in various Western countries. In Madrid, between 1918 and 1921, the Menshevik Nikolai Tasin was the main writer who explained Russia to the Spanish socialists from the columns of El Sol, España and La Internacional.31 In Italy, the revolutionary socialist Vasilij Suchomlin, another

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pro-Bolshevik revolutionary socialist, Mijati Vodovozov, and, finally, from the autumn of 1919, two agents of the CI (Nikolai Markovich Liubarski, alias Carlo Niccolini, and Vladimir Degot) all collaborated in Avanti!32 In Argentina, the Russian community played a relevant role, and especially two of its representatives, Mayor S. Mashevich – close to the PSI and FORA IX Congress – and Mijati Komin-Alexandrovsky – close to the anarchists of the FORA V Congress – who were the first representatives of the Argentine labour movement to travel to Russia. The occasion was the II Congress of the CI in the summer of 1920. They later became agents of the International.33 Finally, the trips of the first socialist delegations from Italy and Spain to the Soviet country were important because the delegates coming home shared what they lived there.34 How much did Italian socialism, and especially its maximalist current, influence the Spanish and Argentine labour movements? What exchange of ideas was there between Italy and Spain and Argentina? As has been noted above, it is important to underline that the Third International sectors in the two Hispanic countries were in a minority: the PSOE and the PS, controlled by the reformists, could only look with suspicion at the maximalist hegemony of the PSI and its Soviet infatuation. As such, it was the Spanish Zimmerwaldians and the Argentine internationalists – although not forgetting a few Argentinian trade unionists and anarchists – who paid attention to the revolutionary possibilities that occurred in Italy and to the debates and proposals that the PSI launched during the ‘red biennium’, displaying a certain level of envy to the situation in Italy. In this context, the interest shown by Spanish and Argentine internationalists in the draft constitution of the Soviets drawn up in the early 1920s by Nicola Bombacci on behalf of the leadership of the Italian party became particularly relevant.35 In Italy, in fact, there was an intense debate on the Soviets and the possible adaptation of their ideas to the Italian context. At a historiographical level, it has been highlighted how the maximalists granted a mythical role to the workers’, peasants’ and soldiers’ councils as a result of a ‘psychological-sentimental choice’ that was based on a more ‘mythical than historical’ knowledge of the Russian model.36 A protagonist of those times, the then young socialist Angelo Tasca, would recall from his Parisian exile that instead of ‘detecting the peculiar problems of an “Italian” revolution and “inventing” a program of struggle that could carry it out, the Italian socialists did not know the power of shouting with delusion: “Long live the Soviets!’”’.37 The memory of this member of the L’Ordine Nuovo group displayed a certain amount of resentment for what was not done in the ‘red biennium’. In fact,

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Alfonso Leonetti, Tasca’s partner in the Torinese group, pointed out that ‘the problem of the Soviet – the problem of finding “the practical way that would allow the proletariat to exercise its dominance” – in the first post-war period had become the argument most discussed in the workers’ meetings and the socialist press’.38 In a resolution presented by the maximalist current of Serrati, Gennari, Salvatori and Bombacci at the National Congress of the PSI in Bologna in October 1919 that obtained 70% of the votes, it was recognized that the public administrations of the bourgeois state were to oppose ‘new proletarian organizations (Councils of workers, peasants and soldiers; Councils of the public economy, etc.)’ that would initially function ‘as instruments of the violent liberation struggle’ and would later be transformed into ‘organisms of social transformation and economic and reconstruction of the new communist order’.39 Thus on 13 December 1919, Bombacci, then political secretary of the PSI and its recently elected deputy, proposed in Parliament an amendment stating that ‘the constitution of the Workers’ Councils is legitimate, giving them all political and economic power, with the goal of establishing in Italy, like in the glorious Russia of the Soviets, a social order founded on the principle: He who does not work, neither shall he eat’.40 Finally, in the National Council of the PSI held in Florence on 11–13 January 1920, Bombacci himself exposed the project for the constitution of the Soviets in Italy and invited ‘the leadership of the Party to initiate a broad discussion among the working masses of the Party and the representatives of the class organization’ with the goal of arriving at a ‘definitive constitution of the Workers’ Council’.41 In the following three months, an intense debate took place that occupied a significant part of the party’s time and energy.42 Nonetheless, there was a lot of confusion, a characteristic that we will also find in the Spanish and Argentine versions of this debate, to the extent that Avanti! called the report on the founding of the Soviets presented by Bombacci in Florence a ‘report on the constitution of the Worker’s Councils’,43 a substantial difference considering that at that time, there were already some organizations with this name that were defended by the L’Ordine Nuovo group of Turin. In general, the Italian socialists either took at face value what the Bolsheviks were saying and spoke of Soviets as a distant reality that must be created ex novo or tried to interpret them through the entities that existed in the Italian labour movement: this often ended up maintaining what the Italian socialist tradition had already conceived and developed, which was only given a veneer of ‘Sovieticity’. It concluded by giving the name ‘Soviets’ to organisms that already had a

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name and a function or assigning to entities a meaning, a role and characteristics that did not pertain to them and that they could never obtain. According to the person and the moment, worker’s councils and factory commissions (and also cooperatives and party sections) were interpreted as the Italian organizational form that was closest to the Russian Soviet. The reformist Giuseppe Emanuele Modigliani, for example, considered the internal commissions of the factories as the ‘true germination cells of the Soviets’, while according to another reformist, Enrico Dugoni, the Peasants’ League was already the new proletarian power.44 In short, there was a continuous and complex game where the political objectives, which were more or less sincere, from one side and the other had a role to play that was not entirely secondary. In his project, published in Avanti! at the end of January, Bombacci advocated for the immediate creation of councils throughout Italy. Likewise, the project detailed how the Soviets should be constituted, who could participate in them, how they would be organized in the territory, how the votes of the representatives would be carried out and what the function of this new body would be. Bombacci, who was acclaimed in the Italian plazas as the Lenin of Romagna, considered the workers’ councils to be the motor of the revolutionary process itself and ‘the only bodies of power and supreme direction for the organization of production and communist distribution, and for the regularization of the entire complex of economic, social and political relations’. According to Bombacci, once constituted, the Soviets would be ‘awaiting the effective possession of power’ and the Socialist Party would be ‘the initiator, animator and political and revolutionary leader of the Soviets’. Clearly, Bombacci feared that the masses would no longer follow the party.45 Shortly afterwards, another complementary project for the constitution of urban Soviets was added to this project, designed by Egidio Gennari, who replaced Bombacci in February 1920 as secretary of the PSI.46 In another article, Gennari, who according to some represented the Argentine internationalists in the Second Congress of the Comintern since Penelón could not travel to Russia, explained that the Soviet was ‘a political body’, ‘the poetic expression of the Proletariat’, and it could not be confused with or ‘considered a successor, a duplicate, an unfair competitor of the Unions’ or factory committees. The Soviet, Gennari asserted, ‘this primitive cell of the organism that leads to conquest and ensures political power in the hands of the proletariat, represents our first work of revolutionary activity in the communist sense’.47 At the core of the proposal of the two maximalist leaders, there

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existed the certainty that ‘the Soviet is not a Russian transitory institution, but international, definitive and of a profound social character’.48 Except for the Socialist Youth, the other currents of the PSI unanimously criticized the Bombacci project. More than the reformists, who stayed on the sidelines of the debate, considering it to be far removed from reality, it was the leftist sectors of the party that attacked the Bombacci project. A young Palmiro Togliatti dismissed it as ‘anticipated legal construction’ that created dangerous illusions among the masses. The L’Ordine Nuovo group argued that the revolution should primarily be economic; therefore, it had to start with the ‘intimacy of productive life’, that is, factory councils, which reflected the ‘application of a new principle’, since they were the basis of a ‘natural mass organization that arises in the field of production’. The Soviets were simply ‘the extreme political framework of society’ and did not have to be established before the economic transformation of society.49 The criticisms made by Amadeo Bordiga, the future first secretary of the PCdI, were very different. According to him, the Soviets were only the superstructure, the ‘state organs of the proletariat’ over which the working class exercised political power after the revolution. Beforehand, the constitution of a communist party, purified of reformists and collaborationists, was essential: the party was the necessary agent for the revolution, which would have to be political and only later economic. Subsequently, factory councils could be formed, which were ‘the representation of limited workers’ interests’.50 Nikolaj Markovicˇ Ljubarskij, known in Italy as Carlo Niccolini, the Bolshevik envoy in Italy, also expressed himself in a similar way: according to him, the Soviets were the result of the revolutionary shock, the ‘institutes of revolutionary proletarian action of the communist dictatorship’, while after taking power, the factory councils, which were penetrated by ‘localistic and reformistic ideas’, should fuse together with the syndicate.51 Finally, according to the enormously popular maximalist leader Giacinto Menotti Serrati, the revolution in Italy was not imminent and Bombacci’s project was not feasible because Italian conditions were different from those in Russia. Serrati, the then director of Avanti!, was extremely realistic on the matter of the Soviets and favoured an intermediate solution, being concerned about possible ruptures in the unity of the PSI. According to him, the party should lead the experiments to establish workers’ councils, which were the ‘political bodies of the community’, but these could be set up ‘only during and after the revolution’. Consequently, Serrati supported the founding of only one urban Soviet. He also stressed that the union was the only organization that had ‘the universal vision of the economic situation’, so

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he advocated it could not be replaced by the factory council, which L’Ordine Nuovo defended, since this only dealt with ‘production or factory control’.52 Serrati’s line of thinking was the one that was imposed in the next PSI National Council held in Milan in mid-April 1920. The Bombacci project was redefined by establishing the Soviets only in some localities, making the party responsible for controlling and coordinating these experiments. However, in the following months, no action was taken: the PSI faced other concerns, from management of social and labour mobilizations to relations with Moscow. Thus, the debate on which the entire party had devoted so much energy in the first four months of 1920 seemed completely pointless. However, it was not completely pointless – quite the contrary. Through it, the fundamental issues that divided the different currents of Italian socialism were debated: the function and role of the party, the relationship with the unions, the importance of the factory councils, the relationship with Moscow and the autonomy of the PSI, the influence of war, the use of violence and the meaning of the revolution. In fact, much was written on a crucial question: was Italy in a revolutionary situation? Everything, after all, depended on whether this question was answered in the affirmative or not. According to Gaetano Arfè, the maximalists were convinced of it, but lacked a strategy; furthermore, they did not have a tradition in extralegal fighting, as the Bolsheviks did.53 However, the majority of the positions held by the maximalists were more nuanced. Serrati considered, for example, that revolution was not imminent. And Graziadei, who in 1921 had been one of the founders of the PCdI, tried to theorize the difference between ‘revolutionary historical period’ and the ‘moment of revolutionary material action’. At the congress in Bologna, the Marxist professor explained that Italy was in a revolutionary period, but it had not yet reached the point when it could take power. It was therefore necessary to use all available means, including legal ones, and to avoid ‘arbitrary voluntarism’ because the working class has not yet achieved ‘the necessary capacity to definitively overcome the bourgeois phase’.54

Towards Latin Soviets? Historiography has practically taken for granted the fact that the debate on the foundations of the Soviets did not go beyond Italian borders. In reality, this is not true, although there is no doubt that beyond the Alps, the complexity of the internal situation of the PSI was not

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fully understood, and nor were the underlying nuances of the debate perceived. Proof of this is the visibility given to the Bombacci project in Spain and Argentina. Just two weeks after the Bombacci project’s appearance in Avanti! on 14 February 1920, España published it in its entirety and even dedicated its cover to it.55 The magazine, which was edited by Luis Araquistáin, had gone from a pro-Allied and critical stance in relation to the Bolsheviks, in line with Pablo Iglesias’ leadership of the PSOE, to a position that favoured the immediate adherence of Spanish socialists to the CI.56 In fact, the 7 February issue was entirely dedicated to: ‘The Republic of Soviets. Information about their Doctrines, their Men and their Facts.’57 In the introduction to the Bombacci project, the editorial staff of the magazine explained that this so-called constitution tended ‘to the immediate effectiveness of the Soviet, as a necessity to prepare the transition from the bourgeois to the communist regime, without disruption or disorder in production’. Moreover, they added that it was ‘an interesting formula for unity and a practical example to put an end to unfounded antagonisms’ in relation to the role of councils, the party, the union and the parliamentary group.58 In the following months, España continued to look with interest at what was happening in relation to Italian socialism. Of course, it was not the only magazine that took an interest in this issue, but it was the one that showed the most empathy with the revolutionary sectors of the PSI. El Sol, for example, dedicated considerable space to the Italian situation, often interpreting what was happening with a Spanish overtone, but showed quite a lot of sympathy for the reformists of Turati in articles by Mario Pittaluga.59 Meanwhile, El Socialista dedicated a small amount of space to international politics and was focused more on Russia, France and England. Things changed in May 1920, when the PSOE newspaper began to cover more international politics with a series of foreign correspondents, in the case of Italy with articles by Andrea Viglongo and Giuseppe Amoretti, journalists from Avanti!, who were very close to Gramsci. Therefore, the reader of El Socialista could follow in a detailed way both the occupation of the factories and the Congress of Livorno. Through their articles, these correspondents undoubtedly revealed their support for the Third International. However, from the editorial department in Madrid, no comments were added, nor were articles written about Italian socialism. As mentioned above, España was a different case. In an article of 13 March 1920, after offering an overview that focused on the maximalist strategy, it was categorically stated that:

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Italy will be a centre of socialist attraction. The interest that German socialism aroused before the war for its great scientific system had been diverted by its failure. Now the centre of attention would be set on Italy, that presented a practical model of socialism closer to us than the Russian one. Italian socialism is an adaptation of the Russian bases, which when in contact with the peculiarities of the Italian economy and psychology would make the necessary changes.60

From the pages of España, the journal founded by José Ortega y Gasset, it was considered that Italy was going through ‘a revolutionary situation’ to the extent of pointing out that ‘there is no country in Europe in which the possibility of the socialist revolution appears so eminent’.61 The thought was not trivial if one takes into account that a few months before, and a week after the publication of Bombacci’s project, Araquistáin affirmed that Spain too ‘has already been in a revolutionary state for several years – of course, three well defined, since 1917 – every day as the supreme crisis approaches’.62 Manuel Pedroso, of the Third International sector of the PSOE, reinforced this idea, linking it with the project of the constitution of the Soviets; on 28 February 1920, he praised Bombacci’s proposal, defining it as an example of the ‘creative work’ of socialism. Italy must be a stimulus for the Spanish socialists: the Soviet must be conceived as ‘neutral ground’ where socialists and trade unionists would meet to settle their differences and fight together. Faithful to the spirit of the Bombacci project, Pedroso stressed that the plan was to be ‘executed immediately. It would be the economic structure of a socialist regime, but meanwhile, it would be a school of preparation and discipline for manoeuvring. It would prepare the replacement of the capitalist state whose economy … would gradually escape’.63 In July, in an article that once again made the cover of the journal, significantly entitled ‘Closer Than Russia’, Pedroso himself emphasized the idea that ‘the Italian socialists have taken seriously the example of the Russia of the Soviets, though latinizing it’, and he concluded by warning: ‘The case of Italy offers teachings to other Latin countries. It should not be lost sight of in Spain, where socialism is steering towards other directions.’64 The reference was obviously directed at the leadership of the PSOE and the decisions taken at the Second Extraordinary Congress in June, in which their membership of the Comintern was once again postponed. After the summer, España continued to look favourably upon the PSI. Various articles were dedicated to the occupation of factories and to the path that led to the split of Livorno. However, the context was already different, both internationally and in both Mediterranean

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countries. In that context, Araquistáin, the editor of España, completely changed the position he had held during the first half of the year. Assuming the expulsion of the reformists in the PSI and seeing the tensions caused by the twenty-one conditions imposed by Moscow, he now opposed the integration of the PSOE into the Comintern, considering the twenty-one conditions ‘a cradle of iron that is nailed in the workers’ organizations of the whole world, to weaken them … and to delay their emancipation’. In accordance with the view expressed by Serrati, he also considered it necessary ‘to replace the marked violence of the Russian revolutionaries with the fine sharpness of the Italian’, in reference to Serrati, the leader of maximalist wing.65 Therefore, Italy functioned like a mirror for a sector of Spanish socialism. In the specific case of España and Araquistáin himself, far from putting Italy aside after the interest showed in Bombacci’s project, he began to analyse what was happening in Italy and considering the PSI as the new possible benchmark for Latin countries. It was understood that Serrati’s position was the most appropriate for the Spanish context. Thus, the draft of the constitution of the Bombacci Soviets, so valued in the first half of 1920, ended up being put aside, but what was happening in Italy was still very relevant. Having said that, the draft of the constitution of the Soviets did not remain only in Madrid: the following year, it was also published in Argentina. However, the context was very different. In the first postwar period in Argentina, even more than in Spain, the level of interest in what was happening in Italy was remarkable. Of course, the main reason was the presence of many Italian immigrants and the cultural ties between the two countries. A significant number of Italian Argentines were members of socialist and communist parties, some of them held important positions, as in the case of Victorio Codovilla, who arrived in Buenos Aires in 1912 with a PSI card, or Rodolfo Ghioldi, the son of Italian immigrants. Both La Vanguardia, the official publication of the PS, and La Internacional, the official publication of the internationalists, paid close attention to the debate on Italian socialism of the ‘red biennium’. La Vanguardia published various articles by Serrati and translated news and opinions that appeared in Avanti! The ties with Spain were also very close: Spanish intellectuals and writers such as Julio Álvarez del Vayo contributed to various Argentine newspapers. This circulation of ideas went beyond the socialist movement; in fact, after the founding of the PCA, the Argentine communists, in addition to the Russian Bolsheviks, often resorted to texts by Italian communists, such as Umberto Terracini,

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and Spanish communists, such as Juan Andrade, Eduardo Torralba Beci and Andreu Nin.66 Likewise, the anarchists, beyond their Spanish comrades such as Ángel Pestaña, translated various Italian texts, such as those by Errico Malatesta and Luigi Fabbri. When Editorial Argonauta published La crisis del anarquismo in 1921 an intense debate on the Russian Revolution took place within Argentine anarcho-syndicalism. In a similar way to what was happening in Spain and Italy, the anarchist movement in Argentina also began to strongly question Soviet Russia. With regard to the minority anarcho-Bolshevik sector, linked to the newspaper Bandera Roja, the criticisms grew: those of the La Antorcha group were joined by those of the La Protesta group that between 1919 and 1920 were still in favour of the Soviet path.67 In this context, we must include the interest that a sector of Argentine unionism showed for the experience of Italian factory councils. In the FORA IX Congress in 1919, a heterogeneous section was constituted in the Federation of Revolutionary Trade Union Groups (Federación de Agrupaciones Sindicalistas Revolucionarias [FASR]), which from 1920 to 1923 published the newspaper La Batalla Sindicalista. This sector was critical of the leadership of the union that had joined the International Trade Union Federation of Amsterdam – as did the Spanish UGT of Largo Caballero – and was committed to the radical government of Yrigoyen. In addition, the FASR defended the Bolsheviks and recognized the right to enact the dictatorship of the proletariat, also coming up with a doctrinal reworking of what unionism was and what the role of the union in society should be. However, in the face of a more firmly pro-Bolshevik sector, within the red trade unionists, another sector was formed, led by Luis Lotito, which was more reluctant to renounce its identity of origin. With the aim of preserving the centrality of the union for the revolutionary strategy and contrasting the mythification of the Soviet, Lotito viewed the Italian experience of the factory councils as a model for the revolution he desired.68 But Lotito was not an exception here. It is also interesting to see how the university circles of the left had their eyes fixed on Italy. This was the case for of Insurrexit. Revista universitaria, a magazine with a libertarian and internationalist position, published between 1920 and 1921. Some of its promoters, such as Hipólito Etchebehere and Mika Feldman, later ended up in the PCA.69 In its first issue in September 1920, an article appeared on the occupation of factories. According to the editors, an important result of the Italian events was:

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the Latinization of the Russian movement. There has been much discussion about whether the organization of Soviets in the Latin world would be convenient, much has been said about the Russian Revolution being a Slavic movement that we did not understand well …and even more, it had been repeated much that the movement had deep flaws that needed to be avoided.

What the Italian ‘valuable experiment’ demonstrated was that the Russian experience was the bearer of principles or modes of political action that could influence different contexts. In short, the question was raised again in a similar way to how Pedroso did in the pages of España a few months earlier: the Italian formula allowed the Russian model to adapt to the Latin world.70 To a significant extent, this was what another publishing house Argonauta Editorial also demonstrated. Alongside the aforementioned book by Fabbri and other important texts on Soviet Russia by Emma Goldman, Rudolf Rocker and Piotr Kropotkin, Argonauta Editorial also published the minutes of the Bologna Congress of the Italian Anarchic Communist Union (UCAI) and, above all, a volume that brought together texts by socialists, members of the L’Ordine Nuovo group, anarchists and Italian revolutionary syndicalists. Symptomatically entitled Hacia una Sociedad de productores. Lucha de ideas sobre los organismos de la revolución proletaria en Italia (Towards a Society of Producers: A Struggle of Ideas on the Organizations of the Workers’ Revolution in Italy), the pamphlet is a reliable example of the need of the Argentine left for political and theoretical discussion on this situation. After a text by the socialist philosopher Zino Zini, who highlighted the difference between citizen and producer, in the first part, ‘The plans of the new social organization’, the volume presented the debate that has taken place in Italy on the question of the Soviets. The translation of Bombacci’s project and three very critical opinions appeared: that of Togliatti, cited above; that of the revolutionary syndicalist Enrico Leone; and that of the anarchist Sandro Molinari, who wrote under the pseudonym of ‘Argon’ and who represented the UCAI and the newspaper Umanità Nova, which had been founded in 1920 by Malatesta. The second part of the pamphlet, ‘The foundations of the new social organization’, was dedicated to the factory councils. In the first place, a text by the L’Ordine Nuovo group was published that presented the ‘Marxist communist’ conception of the councils; second, a text by Maurizio Garino, a metal worker and member of the UCAI – who promoted these organizations together with the L’Ordine Nuovo group in Turin of 1919 – in which the ‘anarchic communist’ conception of the councils was defended. Finally, the resolutions of the PSI National Council of January

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1920 and the Bologna Congress of the UCAI of July 1920 were also provided.71 In this publication, Editorial Argonauta wanted to offer materials for the debate that was taking place in Argentina and that, as we have seen, confronted the various sectors of anarchism in the country. In the background, there was the battle that was being fought within the FORA IX Congress regarding its connection to the Moscow International, defended by the anarcho-Bolsheviks. Something similar (despite the apparent differences) was happening during the same months in the Spanish CNT. Beyond the publication of Bombacci’s project, what interested the editors were the criticisms that all the authors made of the Soviets and the defence of the factory councils in terms of both the L’Ordine Nuovo group and the anarchist aspects. Molinari and Garino firmly opposed the creation of the Soviets in bourgeois regimes because their action would be ‘anti-revolutionary and utopian’. Only after the revolutionary insurrection should the Soviets be formed: at that point, the anarchists would enter them to ‘keep them in their initial, autonomous, decentralizing, federative character and prevent them from transforming into authoritarian and state political organisms’. Meanwhile, they should participate in the factory councils, ‘technical bodies for expropriation and the necessary immediate continuation of production’, avoiding any possible ‘collaborationist deviation’.72 As we know, things were different in the three countries. The dream of the Soviets and the reality of the councils were crushed under the boots of the reaction that has started to reorganize itself in 1919. Three years later, Mussolini came to power in Rome. At that time, the socialist movement was already very divided and was no longer on the offensive; rather, it was trying to resist the advance of fascism. The revolutionary possibilities had vanished throughout Europe. However, the circulation of ideas did not stop; rather, they accelerated, moving through the anti-fascist networks or through the official channels of the Comintern. But that is another story. Steven Forti received a Ph.D. in History from the Universitat Autònoma de Barcelona (UAB) and the University of Bologna (2011), and is a researcher at the Institute of Contemporary History (IHC) of the NOVA University of Lisbon and Lecturer at the UAB. His research is focused on political history and political thought in the twentieth and twenty-first centuries, with a particular focus on Europe in the interwar period. He has written for several newspapers and magazines. His publications are: El peso de la nación. Nicola Bombacci, Paul Marion y Óscar Pérez Solís en la Europa de entreguerras (2014); El proceso sepa-

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ratista en Cataluña. Análisis de un pasado reciente (2006–2017) (edited with Arnau Gonzàlez i Vilalta and Enric Ucelay-Da Cal, 2017); Patriotas indignados. Sobre la nueva ultraderecha en la Posguerra Fría (with Francisco Veiga, Carlos González Villa and Alfredo Sasso, 2019); and Extrema derecha 2.0. Qué es y cómo combatirla (2021).

Notes This chapter was funded by national funds through the FCT – Fundação para a Ciência e a Tecnologia, I.P., under the Norma Transitória – DL 57/2016/ CP1453/CT003. 1. See Kirby, War, Peace and Revolution. 2. On Italy, see Spriano, Storia del Partito Comunista Italiano, vol. I; Caretti, La rivoluzione russa; and Cortesi, Le origini del PCI. On Spain, see Maeker, La izquierda revolucionaria; Forcadell, Parlamentarismo y Bolchevización; and Elorza and Bizcarrondo, Queridos camaradas; Avilés Farré, La fe que vino de Rusia. On Argentina, see Corbière, Orígenes del comunismo argentino; Pittaluga, Soviets en Buenos Aires; and Camarero, Tiempos rojos. 3. This is not the place to discuss the labour movement in detail; instead, the focus will be on the socialist parties of Italy, Spain and Argentina. Thus (except for certain references), the issue of what was happening in the anarchist, anarcho-syndicalism organizations and with the syndicalist revolutionaries in the three countries will not be discussed here. 4. In the case of the PSOE and later the PCE, the influence of French socialism and communism also played a role. 5. Fuentes Codera, España en la Primera Guerra Mundial; Tato, La trinchera austral. 6. Fuentes Codera, ‘1917, a Turning Point’, 131–46. 7. Ucelay-Da Cal, ‘Spain’s “Crisis of 1917”’, 235–59. 8. Candeloro, Storia dell’Italia, vol. VIII, 332; Giovannini, L’Italia massimalista, 105–13, 150–60; Spriano, L’occupazione delle fabbriche, 21–39. 9. Tuñón de Lara, La España del siglo XX, vol. I, 99–116; Bilsky, La Semana Trágica; Andreassi, ‘Los límites del reformismo’, 275–85. 10. See, respectively, Forti, ‘El espejo italiano’, 148; Silvestre, ‘Los determinantes de la protesta’, 75; and Andreassi, ‘Inmigración y huelga’, 124. 11. Giovannini, L’Italia massimalista, 192; Erice, ‘El impacto de la revolución’, 339. 12. La Vanguardia, 7 July 1918, 1; and La Vanguardia, 7 January 1921, 2. 13. Forti, ‘El espejo italiano’, 145, 147; Erice, ‘El impacto de la revolución’, 339. 14. Camarero, ‘El Partido Socialista’, 167; Pittaluga, Soviets en Buenos Aires, 46. 15. Forti, ‘El espejo italiano’, 145–46; Termes and Alquézar, Historia del socialismo; Walter, The Socialist Party of Argentina; Walter, ‘Elections in the City’, 600–601.

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16. Fuentes Codera, ‘1917, a Turning Point’, 141–44; Martín Ramos, Historia del Partido Comunista, 13–29; Camarero, Tiempos rojos, 2181–223. 17. Caretti, La rivoluzione russa, 106–85; Petracchi, ‘L’impatto della rivoluzione’, 51–84; Bianchi, Pace, pane, terra, 133–202; König, Lenin e la rivoluzione, 43–49. 18. Bedeschi, ‘I socialisti riformisti’, 185–95. 19. Arfé, Storia del socialismo, 233; Giovannini, L’Italia massimalista, 125. 20. Caretti, La rivoluzione russa, 115–16, 178–79. 21. Dundovich, Bandiera rossa, 51. 22. Caretti, La rivoluzione russa, 196–220. 23. Arfé, Storia del socialismo, 282. 24. Meaker, La izquierda revolucionaria, 262–90. 25. Camarero, ‘El Partido Socialista’, 165–69. 26. Pittaluga, Soviets en Buenos Aires, 80–83; Camarero, Tiempos rojos, 2040–307. 27. Camarero, Tiempos rojos, 2181, 2307, 2763. This increase is also due to the fact that at the beginning of 1921, other socialists who came from the Third International current of the defeated PS in the extraordinary congress of Bahía Blanca also joined. 28. Martín Ramos, Historia del Partido Comunista, 30–65; Erice, ‘El impacto de la revolución’, 342–53; Elorza and Bizcarrondo, Queridos camaradas, 15–35. 29. Caretti, La rivoluzione russa, 217–26, 255–73; Cortesi, Le origini del PCI, 201–302; Dogliani and Gorgolini, Un partito di giovani. 30. Arfé, Storia del socialismo, 288; Caretti, La rivoluzione russa, 24; Cortesi, Le origini del PCI, 206–7. 31. Zoffmann Rodríguez, ‘El menchevique madrileño’, 25–33. 32. Zoffmann Rodríguez, ‘El menchevique madrileño’, 25–33. 33. Camarero, Tiempos rojos, 2580. 34. König, Lenin e il socialismo, 105–40; Martín Ramos, Historia del Partido Comunista, 30–50. 35. On Bombacci, who had a peculiar political career, abandoning communism at the end of the 1920s and converting to fascism until he ended up being executed together with Mussolini in 1945, see Forti, El peso de la nación, 41–273. 36. Benzoni and Tedesco, ‘Soviet, Consigli di fabbrica’, 200–3. 37. Tasca, La nascita del fascismo, 16. 38. Bordiga and Gramsci, Dibattito sui Consigli, 9. 39. ‘Il Congresso Socialista di Bologna’, Comunismo, 15–31 October 1919, 90. 40. ‘L’emendamento Bombacci’, Avanti!, 13 December 1919, 1. 41. ‘Il Consiglio nazionale socialista radunato a Firenze’, Avanti!, 14 January 1920, 1. 42. Caretti, La rivoluzione russa, 244–54. 43. ‘Il Consiglio nazionale socialista radunato a Firenze’, Avanti!, 14 January 1920, 1. 44. Giovannini, L’Italia massimalista, 131, 209. 45. Nicola Bombacci, ‘La costituzione dei Soviet in Italia’, Avanti!, 28 January 1920, 2.

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46. Egidio Gennari, ‘Per un Soviet urbano’, Avanti!, 21 February 1920, 1; 22 February 1920, 2, 24 February 1920, 2. 47. Egidio Gennari, ‘Formiamo i Soviet’, La Squilla, 28 February 1920, 1. 48. Nicola Bombacci, ‘I Soviet in Italia. Pregiudiziali, critiche e proposte concrete’, Avanti!, 27 February 1920, 2. 49. Palmiro Togliatti, ‘La costituzione dei Soviet in Italia (Dal progetto Bombacci all’elezione dei Consigli di Fabbrica)’, L’Ordine Nuovo, 14 February 1920, 291; 13 March 1920, 315. 50. Amadeo Bordiga, ‘Per la costituzione dei Consigli operai’, Il Soviet, 4 January 1920, 2; 11 January 1920, 2–3; 1 February 1920, 2–3; 8 February 1920, 2; 22 February 1920, 2. 51. Carlo Niccolini, ‘La costituzione dei Soviety’, Avanti!, 5 February 1920, 5. 52. g.m.s. [Giacinto Menotti Serrati], ‘Qualche osservazione critica preliminare’, Avanti!, 14 March 1920, 3. 53. Arfé, Storia del socialismo, 274. 54. Graziadei, La guerra mondiale, 16, 10. 55. ‘La Constitución de los Soviets en Italia’, España, 14 February 1920, 7–10. 56. See Araquistáin, La revista ‘España’, 25–62. 57. España, 7 February 1920, 1–22. 58. ‘La Constitución de los Soviets en Italia’, España, 14 February 1920, 7. 59. Mario Pittaluga, ‘El Congreso Nacional Socialista Italiano’, El Sol, 3 November 1919, 7. 60. ‘Crónica internacional. El socialismo en Italia’, España, 13 March 1920, 6. 61. ‘Crónica internacional. La crisis italiana’, España, 22 May 1920, 7. 62. Luis Araquistáin, ‘Sintomatología revolucionaria’, España, 21 February 1920, 1. 63. Manuel Pedroso, ‘Socialismo constructivo’, España, 28 February 1920, 1–2. 64. Manuel Pedroso, ‘Más cerca que Rusia’, España, 10 July 1920, 1–2. 65. Luis Araquistáin, ‘¿Unidad o escisión del socialismo?’, España, 16 October 1920, 1–2. 66. Pittaluga, Soviets en Buenos Aires, 33. 67. Doeswijk, Los anarcobolcheviques. 68. Aquino, ‘Bajo la influencia’, 123–42. 69. Bustelo y Domínguez Rubio, ‘Radicalizar la Reforma Universitaria’, 31–62. 70. ‘Los obreros italianos’, Insurrexit. Revista universitaria, 8 September 1920, 5–6. 71. Hacia una sociedad. 72. Hacia una sociedad, 78–79.

Bibliography Andreassi, Alejandro. ‘Inmigración y huelga. Argentina, 1900–1920’. Ayer 4 (1991), 117–45. ———. ‘Los límites del reformismo en la Argentina agroexportadora (La experiencia de la clase trabajadora bajo el radicalismo, 1916–1930)’, in Pi-

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lar García Jordán et al. (eds), Estrategias de poder en América Latina. VII Encuentro-Debate. América Latina ayer y hoy (Barcelona: University of Barcelona, 2000), 271–96. Aquino, Cristian E. ‘Bajo la influencia de la Revolución Rusa. La Federación de Agrupaciones Sindicalistas Revolucionarias a través de La Batalla Sindicalista, 1920–1923’. Archivos IV(7) (2015), 123–42. Araquistáin, Luis. La revista ‘España’ y la crisis del Estado liberal. Santander: Universidad de Cantabria, 2001. Arfé, Gaetano. Storia del socialismo italiano (1892–1926). Turin: Einaudi, 1965. Avilés Farré, Juan. La fe que vino de Rusia. La revolución bolchevique y los españoles (1917–1931). Madrid: Biblioteca Nueva, 1999. Bedeschi, Giuseppe. ‘I socialisti riformisti italiani e la rivoluzione bolscevica in Russia’, in Giorgio Petracchi (ed.), Annali della Fondazione Ugo la Malfa. Storia e politica, vol. XXXI: L’Italia e la rivoluzione d’ottobre. Masse, classi, ideologie, miti tra guerra e primo dopoguerra (Milan: Unicopli, 2017), 185–95. Benzoni, Alberto, and Viva Tedesco. ‘Soviet, Consigli di fabbrica e “preparazione rivoluzionaria” del PSI (1918–1920)’. Problemi del socialismo 2–3 and 4, (1971), 188–210; 637–665. Bianchi, Roberto. Pace, pane, terra. Il 1919 in Italia. Rome: Odradek, 2006. Bilsky, Edgardo. La Semana Trágica. Buenos Aires: CEAL, 1984. Bustelo, Natalia, and Lucas Domínguez Rubio. ‘Radicalizar la Reforma Universitaria. La fracción revolucionaria del movimiento estudiantil argentino, 1918–1922’. Anuario Colombiano de Historia Social y de la Cultura 44(2) (2017), 31–62. Camarero, Hernán. ‘El Partido Socialista de la Argentina y sus espinosas relaciones con el movimiento obrero: un análisis del surgimiento y disolución del Comité de Propaganda Gremial, 1914–1917’. Revista Izquierdas 22 (2015), 158–79. ———. Tiempos rojos. El impacto de la revolución rusa en Argentina. Kindle edition. Buenos Aires: Sudamericana, 2017. Candeloro, Giorgio. Storia dell’Italia moderna. VIII: La prima guerra mondiale, il dopoguerra, l’avvento del fascismo (1914–1922). Milan: Giangiacomo Feltrinelli Editore, 1979. Caretti, Stefano. La rivoluzione russa e il socialismo italiano (1917–1921). Pisa: Nistri-Lischi, 1974. Corbière, Emilio. Orígenes del comunismo argentino. Buenos Aires: CEAL, 1984. Cortesi, Luigi. Le origini del PCI. Rome-Bari: Laterza, 1977. Doeswijk, Andreas. Los anarcobolcheviques rioplatenses (1917–1930). Buenos Aires: CEDINCI, 2013. Dogliani, Patrizia, and Luca Gorgolini. Un partito di giovani. La gioventù internazionalista e la nascita del Partito comunista d’Italia (1915–1926). Florence: Le Monnier, 2021. Dundovich, Elena. Bandiera rossa trionferà? L’Italia, la Rivoluzione di Ottobre e i rapporti con Mosca, 1917–1927. Milan: FrancoAngeli, 2017. Elorza, Antonio, and Marta Bizcarrondo. Queridos camaradas. La Internacional Comunista y España, 1919–1939. Barcelona: Planeta, 1999.

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Erice, Francisco. ‘El impacto de la Revolución rusa en el movimiento obrero español: el surgimiento del PCE’, in Juan Andrade and Fernando Hernández Sánchez (eds), 1917. La Revolución rusa cien años después (Madrid: Akal, 2017), 331–56. Forcadell, Carlos. Parlamentarismo y bolchevización. El movimiento obrero español, 1914–1918. Barcelona: Crítica, 1978. Forti, Steven. El peso de la nación. Nicola Bombacci, Paul Marion y Óscar Pérez Solís en la Europa de entreguerras. Santiago de Compostela: Universidade de Santiago de Compostela, 2014. ———. ‘El espejo italiano. El Partido Socialista y la Confederación General del Trabajo frente a la ocupación de las fábricas y los campos’, in Alejandro Andreassi (ed.), Crisis y revolución. El movimiento obrero europeo durante la guerra y la revolución rusa (1914–1921) (Barcelona: El Viejo Topo, 2017), 141–58. Fuentes Codera, Maximiliano. España en la Primera Guerra Mundial. Una movilización cultural. Madrid: Akal, 2014. ———. ‘1917, a Turning Point in Neutral Countries. The Great War and Russian Revolution in Spain (and Argentina)’, in Gerhard Besier and Katarzyna Stoklosa (eds), 1917 and its Consequences (London: Routledge, 2020), 131–46. Giovannini, Elio. L’Italia massimalista. Socialismo e lotta sociale e politica nel primo dopoguerra italiano. Rome: Ediesse, 2001. Gramsci, Antonio, and Amadeo Bordiga. Dibattito sui Consigli di Fabbrica. Rome: Savelli, 1973. Graziadei, Antonio. La guerra mondiale ed il Socialismo comunista. Milan: Società Editrice Avanti!, 1920. Hacia una sociedad de productores. Lucha de ideas sobre los organismos de la revolución proletaria en Italia. Buenos Aires: Editorial Argonauta, 1921. Kirby, David. War, Peace and Revolution: International Socialism at the Crossroads 1914–1918. New York: St Martin’s Press, 1986. König, Helmut. Lenin e il socialismo italiano, 1915–1921. Il Partito Socialista Italiano e la Terza Internazionale. Florence: Vallecchi, 1972. Maeker, Gerald H. La izquierda revolucionaria en España (1914–1923). Barcelona: Ariel, 1978. Martín Ramos, José Luis. Historia del Partido Comunista de España. Madrid: La Catarata, 2021. Mosse, George L. Fallen Soldiers: Reshaping the Memory of the World Wars. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1990. Petracchi, Giorgio. ‘L’impatto della rivoluzione russa e bolscevica in Italia tra guerra e primo dopoguerra’, in Giorgio Petracchi (ed.), Annali della Fondazione Ugo la Malfa. Storia e politica, vol. XXXI: L’Italia e la rivoluzione d’ottobre. Masse, classi, ideologie, miti tra guerra e primo dopoguerra (Milan: Unicopli, 2017), 51–84. Pittaluga, Roberto E. ‘Soviets en Buenos Aires. La izquierda de la Argentina ante la Revolución en Rusia’, Ph.D. thesis. Buenos Aires: Facultad de Filosofía y Letras, Universidad de Buenos Aires, 2014.

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Silvestre, Javier. ‘Los determinantes de la protesta obrera en España, 1905– 1935: ciclo económico, marco político y organización sindical’. Revista de Historia Industrial 24 (2003), 51–79. Spriano, Paolo. L’occupazione delle fabbriche. Settembre 1920. Turin: Einaudi, 1968. ———. Storia del Partito Comunista Italiano. Da Bordiga a Gramsci. Turin: Einaudi, 1967. Tasca, Angelo. La nascita del fascismo. Turin: Bollati Boringhieri, 2006. Tato, María Inés. La trinchera austral. La sociedad argentina ante la Primera Guerra Mundial. Rosario: Prohistoria Ediciones, 2017. Termes, Josep, and Ramón Alquézar. Historia del socialismo español, Vol. II: 1909–1931. Barcelona: Conjunto Editorial, 1989. Tuñón de Lara, Manuel. La España del siglo XX, Vol. I: La quiebra de una forma de Estado (1898–1931). Madrid: Akal, 2000. Ucelay-Da Cal, Enric. ’Spain’s “Crisis of 1917”’, in Stefan Ranke and Michael Wildt (eds), Revolutions and Counter-revolutions: 1917 and its Aftermath from a Global Perspective (Frankfurt am Main: Campus Verlag, 2017), 235–59. Walter, Richard J. The Socialist Party of Argentina, 1890–1930. Austin: University of Texas Press, 1977. ———. ‘Elections in the City of Buenos Aires during the First Yrigoyen Administration: Social Class and Political Preferences’. Hispanic American Historical Review 58(4) (1978), 595–624. Zoffmann Rodríguez, Arturo. ‘El menchevique madrileño: Nikolái Tasin y la revolución rusa en España’. Ebre 38. Revista internacional de la Guerra Civil (1936–1939) 8 (2018), 25–51.

Chapter 3

Italian Anarcho-syndicalism Connections and Links between Spain and Argentina Marco Masulli

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Anarcho-syndicalism as a Transnational Movement The radical political and economic changes that took place worldwide between 1989 and 1991 came to embody a more rigid process of revising the cultural paradigms that had dominated the first half of the twentieth century, and even came to affect the field of historiography. So it was that the first cracks appeared in ‘methodological nationalism’, which was understood as a scientific perspective that ‘assumes as a natural given that the World is composed of societies divided up along lines drawn by nation states’.1 Faced with the impossibility of considering ‘the nation state as the basic analytic unit for historical research’ any longer and therefore of considering ‘transnational or borderless processes as deviating from the “original” model’ since the 1990s, the idea of understanding society as an ‘entity without borders’ was becoming increasingly plausible to historians.2 This idea was also further consolidated by the ongoing historiographical change in the field of labour movement history, which had begun during the 1970s3 and believed, according to Dogliani, that ‘workers’ internationalism was not only an idea and an organisation’.4 Academic interest in the many expressions of internationalism was growing, and particular attention was given to the dynamics of the ‘collective actions of a group of workers in one country who set aside their short-term interests as a national group on behalf of a group of workers in another country, in order to promote their long-term interests as members of a transnational class’.5

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In the field of historiography, a demand for a reassessment of how the history of workers’ movements – which has now become the history of labour – is studied is particularly evident with the adoption of a ‘transnational’ perspective.6 As a sociological category, transnationalism appears to be strongly linked to the phenomenon of emigration. The focus of transnational analysis is therefore first and foremost on relationships and interaction between social actors from different territorial and therefore sociocultural contexts, who come into contact with each other and establish continuous reciprocal influences over each other. If a transnational approach can be said to offer, as Clavin notes, ‘more a new “research perspective” than a revolutionary methodology’,7 this in itself would include an endless variety of possible case studies and run the risk of becoming, as has been speculated, a ‘catchall concept’.8 This evidence has led to a need to define the transnational social space in the field of sociology as a series of bonds of exchange, solidarity and reciprocity that engender a form of cohesion between different ethnic and social groups, one that is based on common collective symbols, interests and images. Therefore, if the concept of transnationalism generally has connotations of being an attempt to look ‘beyond national boundaries and seek to explore interconnections across the borders’,9 when applied to the history of work, it manifests as a research perspective that is free from a Eurocentric perspective, and is therefore one of global labour history. However, Hanagan remarked that the above ‘definition is meant to be inclusive and accommodating, but not so broad as to be meaningless’. It was considered best to narrow the field and limit a transnational approach to studies that focused on ‘state border crossings that result from labor market demand, state labor policies, the actions of workers, or the practices of working-class institutions’.10 This change of perspective led to the consolidation of a parallel age of historiography that gradually began to re-evaluate minority movements and human and political trajectories, including radical ones, which had for a long time been de facto excluded from or marginalized in scientific examination. As Berger reminds us, the idea that ‘it is impossible to understand the evolution of the labour movement without studying the history of its minorities, since they propose other methods and other perspectives than those of the bigger organizations’11 has been accepted since the 1980s. Even the experience of directaction syndicalism, after enjoying an earlier, though long-isolated, historiographically prolific period in the 1970s, started to be the subject of reassessment and study from both international and transnational

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perspectives, becoming part of the great flurry of interest in anarchist studies during the same period. Anarchism, with its ideological and organizational links to direct-action syndicalism, was defined by Moya as ‘the first and most widespread transnational movement in the World, organised from the bottom up and without formal political parties’.12 Hence, the affinity between anarchism and direct-action syndicalism, based on irrefutable historical evidence that in many ways risks rendering the two movements indistinguishable from one another, is reflected in a common research methodology. Biographical and transnational-network analysis13 have in fact recently revealed themselves as particularly adept tools for studying movements whose institutions had varying levels of structural instability and lacked clear ideological-programmatic uniformity, but, above all, whose militants were highly mobile. As also stressed by Bruno, biography may be regarded ‘as a genre, as a method, and as a resource’.14 Therefore, for the purposes of this chapter, the biographical method will be applied as a tool for making a new contribution to a broader mental ‘map of exile’,15 which may shine light on the existence of cultural transfer and transnational affinity within the anarchist and syndicalist movements. The historiography of anarchism has never failed to address the issue of exile or to pay particular attention to the impact of anarchists and syndicalist militants in the host countries. Yet, as Di Paola has remarked, only recently has there been an understanding of the need to go beyond simply ‘linking these stories, but exploring them as an integral and essential part of wider processes’,16 which demonstrates the existence of a relative organizational continuity within the anarcho-syndicalist movement on both sides of the Atlantic. The purpose of this chapter is to analyse some aspects of international anarcho-syndicalism through the lens of the circulation of people, ideas, and practices among Italy, Spain, and Argentina from the end of the nineteenth century to the 1930s.

Le syndicalisme n’est pas une étiquette: Political and Organizational Connections among Italy, Spain and Argentina As stated in the Argentine anarchist publication La Protesta in December 1922: ‘Here, the events have had such an influence upon the spirit of the working class, that one can well feel in its soul the social tremors that reach us from beyond the seas.’17 In the same year, representatives from across the diverse world of international anarcho-syndicalism

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met in Berlin to reconstitute the International Workers Association (IWA). This initiative came at a time when workers’ internationalism was generally being redefined and was especially positioning itself in opposition to the Red International of Labour Unions and its attempts to infiltrate revolutionary syndicalist movements. The centre of gravity for the reborn IWA was, as its first secretary Rudolf Rocker wrote, ‘in the Latin countries, where libertarian socialism has been able to maintain a strong influence in the workers’ movement since the years of the First International’.18 Within Latin countries, Italy was one of the major centres for widespread internationalist ideas and programmes. The origins of Italian socialism, and not just libertarian socialism, were closely linked to the events of the Risorgimento. In fact, within this, a generation of Garibaldian militants, born during the first half of the nineteenth century, played a decisive role in bringing a democratic and republican character to the Risorgimento process. As a result of this, many of the militants who had been disappointed by the result of the Risorgimento saw, in the Italian Federation of the IWA, an opportunity to achieve the synthesis between the will for political revolution and the dream of a social revolution. It was the same aspiration that drove Giuseppe Fanelli – a representative of the far left Garibaldian and ‘confessed’ Bakuninist Internationalist – to undertake a mission of propaganda19 to Spanish territory between 1868 and early 1869, where he had lay the foundations for the Spanish Regional Federation (FRE), the Iberian wing of the IWA, which immediately took on a strongly Bakuninist position.20 During the 1880s, while the FRE was freeing itself from the heavy hand of repression that had forced it to go underground, some representatives of the first generation of Italian anarchists were making preparations to go beyond the fringes of Europe. Devoto recalls how, between the end of the 1880s and the beginning of the 1890s, many Italian internationalists came to Argentina ‘making the most of the support that the government had promised to anarchists who were willing to leave the country’.21 When the first ‘gangs of anarchists’ landed in Buenos Aires, among them Errico Malatesta they found the first groups of internationalists already active, divided on ethnic lines, and founded by French, Italian and Spanish exiles.22 Though it would be wrong to say that Malatesta’s arrival per se was responsible for the birth of an anarchist movement organized in Argentina, his presence was without a doubt a crucial factor in its taking root among the working class.23 This fact is confirmed by the proliferation of Italian-language publications, above all La Questione sociale, and by the establishment of trade unions in Buenos Aires such as the baker’s union founded by the Italian Ettore Mattei and personally supported

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by Malatesta. The influence of Italian militants also played a key role in the founding of the Federation of Argentine Workers (FOA) in 1901. The most well-remembered of these is Pietro Gori24 who wrote, among other things, the preface to the Spanish and Italian translations of the work of the father of French syndicalism, Fernand Pelloutier, entitled L’Organisation corporative et l’Anarchie (Corporate Organization and Anarchy). Alongside the Italians, Spanish militants also had a huge impact on the union model that was taking shape in Europe at the end of the nineteenth century. Such was the case of militants like Antoni Pellicer Paraire, who was described by Zaragoza Ruvira as ‘the spiritual father of the federation (FOA, AN)’25 and whose family was introduced to anarchism by Fanelli’s ‘preaching’ in Spain.26 Inglán Lafarga was another such militant; one of the founders of the periodical La Protesta Humana,27 which later became La Protesta, a publication closely linked to the future Argentine Regional Workers’ Federation (FORA). If, however, the first waves of Italians and Spaniards to arrive in Argentina laid the foundations for a dialogue to be opened between the European Latin libertarian movements and those outside of Europe, it would be wrong to believe that the world of Argentine activism had limited itself to imitating practices and organizational models that had been ‘imported’ from Europe. Argentine anarcho-syndicalism always remained different from its ‘pure’ revolutionary, and formally apolitical, counterpart and was influenced by the well-known Malatestian positions expressed at the International Anarchist Congress of Amsterdam (1907), during which the movement made a critical examination of itself with the idea of a ‘self-sufficient’ syndicalism that had come from France. However, it was this very tendency, inspired by the syndicalists of France, that would give rise to the FOA (1901), which, until its split with the socialists in 1902, would welcome workers from across the political spectrum.28 Yet, over time, anarchists who were committed to the Federation, which took the name FORA in 1904, would progressively abandon the original approach in favour of a plural union model, more openly demonstrating its dissonance with the ambitions of the anarchist movement. Over time, this position would also become more entrenched through the actions of two militants of Spanish origin who had settled in Argentina, namely López Arango and Diego Abad de Santillán. These two would always defend the choice of defining the FORA’s official stance as anarcho-communist, as had been decided at its fifth Conference (1905). It was therefore impossible for a large part of the organizationalist trends of the Argentine anarchist movement to apply a union model that was detached from politics. It was for

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this reason that the revolutionary syndicalist element tried to form its own association, the Argentine Regional Workers’ Confederation (CORA), in 1909, and to foster transnational links with organizations that had remained faithful to the principles of the Charter of Amiens, finding important support in Alceste de Ambris. It was to be the latter who, while still chair of the USI (Italian Syndicalist Union) at the time, would represent the Argentine organization at the First International Syndicalist Congress in London in 1913. This was the first instance of a transnational meeting within the movement that was geared towards the creation (without any particular success) of an independent organization as an alternative to its social democratic-leaning counterpart. However, as early as 1914, the CORA was reintegrated into the FORA with the clear intention of steering the organization’s political power away from anarchist elements. The attempt was not fully successful, and instead caused the two trends to split in 1915, leading to the constitution of two distinct organizations: the anarchist FORA V and the syndicalist FORA IX. The latter was then integrated into the Argentine Syndicates’ Union (USA) in 1922. This split came at the time of a large-scale crisis suffered by Argentine anarcho-syndicalism in the preceding years,29 characterized by an internal debate sparked by the outbreak of the First World War. Though the FORA was navigating a time of crisis, the transnational spread of direct-action syndicalism was enjoying a surprising surge in popularity. This expansion was linked to the sweeping economic, social and political changes of the prewar and postwar periods. However, it was not a linear process, nor were the plans and strategies it used, which were shared across the entire spectrum of national affiliations, whose organizational models also varied greatly. The formation of the National Confederation of Labour (CNT) in Spain in 1910 was part of this expansive phase of syndicalism and was viewed by Iberian libertarians with great interest. For them, this represented – particularly through its links to the French General Confederation of Labour (CGT) – a possible means of opposing the approach taken by the major unions, whose point of reference was the central social democrats of Germany. Despite this, Pere Gabriel has brought to light how this late opening-up to the revolutionary syndicalist model would lead the Spanish organization to take on very different qualities from those of the CGT. In fact, that opening came precisely during a ‘loss of enthusiasm for the CGT itself’.30 Therefore, anarchism also stands out as having been a strong influence on the development of Spanish syndicalism from the start and, according to Álvarez Junco, as having been manifested above all in ‘flexibility and spontaneity as principles … the absence of hierarchy, bureaucracy,

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discipline, or obligation except for solidarity’.31 However, a historiography largely influenced by the militants’ perspective32 would label the experience of Solidaridad Obrera, a Catalan syndicalist group that predated the formation of the CNT, ‘as a genuine product of anarchism’. The reality was, in fact, much more plural and complex.33 It was a diverse environment that found, as did the Italian USI two years later, a binding element in the French syndicalist experience. This offered an organizational and theoretical alternative to trends in the labour movement that were not represented in the General Union of Workers (UGT) project. Various tendencies would come to coexist within the CNT, each with its own corresponding militant groups, whose diversity was marked as much by generational factors as by the professions to which they belonged. Syndicalists like Joan Peiró and Ángel Pestaña believed in unions as the social unit of the future, and thus advocated a disciplined, worker-led structure, and sought out qualified industrial workers in Catalonia. However, libertarian militants such as Francisco Ascaso and Buenaventura Durruti saw the syndicalist practice as ‘revolutionary gymnastics’, and proposed more radical theories and methods, directing their efforts towards less-qualified workers and construction workers in particular.34 This complexity caused rising tensions that would break out into open conflict between competing tendencies with Primo de Rivera’s coup d’état, reaching its peak during the republican period. This clash, as Eulàlia Vega noted, led to an ‘increasing radicalization of anarchist militants as opposed to the hesitation of more moderate trends’,35 which in turn explains the use of the Iberian Anarchist Federation (FAIb) to exert pressure on the syndicalist movement from 1927.36 When compared to the other two major Latin syndicalist groups, namely the USI and the CGT,37 such open discord between anarchist and syndicalist movements38 undoubtedly makes the Spanish anarcho-syndicalist experience an exception in European terms, but not in international terms. On the other hand, according to Rocker, it was especially in Spain and in Spanishspeaking countries in Latin America that anarchism and direct-action syndicalism would be ‘adopted on a large scale, so much so as to speak of truly mass movements’.39 Contrary to how the situation would play out in Spain and Argentina, the Italian USI not only never constituted a challenge to the dominant reformist General Confederation of Labour (CGdL), but it also never became established enough to achieve the status of a mass movement. Despite this, due to the decisive contribution of the most active forces of the libertarian socialist movement, the USI came to exercise a notable level of influence over the affairs of Italian-speaking proletari-

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ans until the end of the Italian factory occupations in 1920. However, especially when compared to the CNT and the FORA V, anarchosyndicalism was never a mainstay of the USI, nor was it ever intended to be. Instead, it consisted of a variety of quarrelsome voices that ultimately ended up disintegrating over time. With the outbreak of the First World War, the interventionist element, led by revolutionary syndicalist leader Alceste de Ambris, would be the first to be cast out from the organization, going on to found the Italian Labour Union (UIL) in 1918. Later, inspired by the emotive power of the events of 1917 in Russia and the so-called ‘Biennio Rosso’, it was the pro-communist element, consisting of the revolutionary syndicalist faction, that would tear the USI apart from within over the course of the 1920s, leaving the organization in the hands of a libertarian majority. However, as Levy has also noted, ‘even when the USI was dominated by anarchists after 1916, it never became an anarcho-syndicalist organization, and … the anarchists’ own national organization, the Italian Anarchist Union (UAI), never recognized the USI as the sole organization for workers who were anarchists’.40 Moreover, in Italy, the term ‘anarcho-syndicalism’ in itself would not appear until later. This term, when not used to discredit revolutionary syndicalism in its early stages, did not indicate the existence of a specific internal trend, but rather ‘that anarchists had an active presence in the labour movement as a matter of fact’.41 Despite this, from the 1920s onwards, after the internal ruptures of transnational syndicalism, it became increasingly clear that anarchist militants had begun to dominate the movement. Organizations continued to profess no political affiliation, especially in Europe. In spite of this, it became increasingly clear that this was nothing more than a dressed-up strategic choice intended to create obstacles for social-democratic organizations on the one hand and Soviet organizations on the other by using the IWA, which was re-established for this purpose in 1922. It was during this rebuilding period that structural differences would emerge between European and Argentine organizations in terms of political and organizational approaches. It was at this time that the Argentine anarchist movement first sent Abad de Santillán as a representative to an international conference. In this case, as previously mentioned, the Argentine organization took a critical stance on the political allegiance of European syndicalist organizations. According to the foristas (members of FORA), though these organizations were motivated by a ‘laudable proposal to intensify anarchist propaganda’, they could not comprehend the futility of having three different types of international organizations specializing, respectively, in unions, anarchism and anti-militarism. According to

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the FORA, the international anarchist movement instead needed to ‘rebuild its ideological unity and attain consistency in its activities over various fields’.42 It is in this context that the critique should be understood, as motivated by the pages of La Protesta, and by the ‘hesitation’43 on the part of members of the National Committee of the CNT who, during the Zaragoza Conference (1922), had been reluctant to assert the Spanish organization’s libertarian position when met with pressure from internal pro-Soviet elements. The foristas feared that this pressure – which had also been felt in Argentina during the formation of the USA, which, as well as syndicalists, contained anarcho-Bolshevik elements – had to be exorcized from the body of the new International, which they wanted to be declared exclusively anarchist, and this without delay. However, despite the internal bickering, the success of the Berlin Conference not only established ‘the formalisation of international bonds in the anti-political family’,44 but also led the movement, with the exception of Spain, to abandon all realistic hope of becoming a mass movement. From that moment on, the FORA began what Abad de Santillán would call its ‘less interesting’ period, lasting until the 1930s, when its inability ‘to respond to General Uriburu’s terrible coup d’état’45 dealt it a death blow. As could be read in Guerra di Classe from 1923, the USI managed to survive fascism ‘as well as a syndicalist organization could … with its infrastructure damaged in many places, with almost all its finest members in exile or prison’.46 In fact, after its final conference, held secretly in Genoa in 1925, the organization became de facto synonymous with the USI Emigration Committee established in Paris. The CNT, on the other hand, was forced to go underground for the duration of the Primo de Rivera Regime and had to wait for the outbreak of the Spanish Civil War to prove its own vitality and that of union militants and anarchists around the world, who would not hesitate to take up arms to defend it.

Nostra Patria è il mondo intero: Pathways of Militancy in Italy, Argentina and Spain Thus, over the course of its history, the transnational syndicalist movement took on a considerable range of organizational models. For this reason, it is by studying the stories of its militants that it is possible to discern clearer consistency across the movement, which may in itself be seen more as a system of methods and daily practices than as an established theory of class action. In the following paragraphs, a comparison will be made between the stories of two Italian-speaking an-

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archist militants, representing two different generations of militants, both of whom operated in the Argentine labour movement and later volunteered in the Spanish Civil War, where they worked to help found the National Confederation of Labour-Iberian Anarchist Federation (CNT-FAIb). Their participation in various events in the history of the international anarchist and syndicalist movement should in itself help to provide a clearer picture of the dynamics triggered by the circulation of ideas and practices within networks of militants that were, in turn, connected to the transatlantic emigration phenomenon. The intention is to provide a model of biographical study that, by affording appropriate importance to personal choices, can still be used to compile an image of, to quote Georges Sorel, ‘how much of the individual is present in the events’47 and therefore provide a diachronic, though very limited, real-life account of the movement. It is well known that the period spanning 1870 to 1920 represents the culmination of the first large wave of migration from Italy to Argentina, which experienced a minor slowdown only in the early 1890s. In his essential study on the presence of Italians in Argentina, Fernando Devoto made note of how ‘a large number of immigrants maintained indirect relations with their fellow countrymen and interacted with them through the shared broadcasting centre represented by newspapers’.48 This was all the more true of militants and agitators in libertarian circles. Anarchists have always marked their continuous wanderings around the world by founding newspapers, often with names similar to those of their country of origin, and through maintaining long-distance journalistic collaborations, as observers. The case of Alberto Meschi was no exception. Born in 1879 in Fidenza, a northern Italian town with a long socialist tradition, the anarchist Meschi was a mason and assistant carpenter. He emigrated to Argentina in 1907 and, according to the authorities, he quickly ‘made himself known to the Italian anarchists in the area’ and became a member of FORA’s Executive Committee. He also did work for the forista publication La Protesta, the anti-militarist paper Luz del Polidado, and as a foreign correspondent for Il Libertario in La Spezia and L’Alleanza libertaria in Rome. By 1909, however, Meschi had already been driven out of the country49 under anti-anarchist legislation issued by the Argentine government following the assassination of Colonel Falcón, which also had effects on the Italian-speaking elements of the FORA.50 As evidence of the great following that Meschi had accumulated in such a short space of time, his expulsion was interpreted almost as a symbol of FORA’s defeat in itself by opposing union tendencies, to such an extent as its Federal Council felt obliged to refute such statements.51

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Even though as an anarchist he was part of the FORA – which at the same time was having to contend with its schism with the revolutionary syndicalists – Meschi showed a great interest in French syndicalism, which is clearly evident in the articles he sent to Italian anarchist newspapers from Argentina.52 In one of these in particular, he praised the ability of ‘comrades in France, who … wrestled workers’ organizations away from the hands of the reformists and were rewarded with the sympathy of the proletariat’.53 Having returned to Italy,54 he had already become head of the Chamber of Labour (CdL) in Carrara by 1911, which, in spite of an established anarchist presence, was also open to republicans. Not only did this see a rapid increase in membership, from 1,355 in January 1911 to 8,309 in January 1913,55 but it also managed to use strikes to win important victories against employers. One of these, a marble miners’ strike in 1911,56 even earned him a mention on the pages of the French publication Le Libertaire for his example.57 It was only the outbreak of the First World War, and the resulting start of a bitter internal conflict in the USI, that forced Meschi to abandon the idea of a syndicalism free from political contention and to side decisively with the anti-militarist cause. He would return to Carrara after the war in November 1918 and would try to reorganize the CdL and the editorial staff of the Il Cavatore magazine. After an intense period of struggles during the Biennio Rosso, the CdL in Carrara was occupied by fascist squads. Like many, Meschi was forced to flee to Paris. From 1923, the exodus of anti-fascists gradually reached the level of a mass movement and was distinguished from the previous wave by the major presence of professionals and white-collar workers. While many of the more highly qualified exiles, and those holding proper passports, experienced no great difficulty in finding jobs, the situation of political emigrants in France who lacked the necessary documents to stay was completely different.58 For them, the only lifelines were the solidarity networks, committees and aid groups like the Emigration Committee of the USI, which were increasingly taking on the function of welcoming new arrivals ‘with money … a job, legal aid or healthcare … without asking anyone for passports’.59 After an initial adjustment period, anarchist circles began to reorganize in exile. Following their usual custom, they began to circulate newspapers and magazines, which corresponded to the creation of ethnically distinct groups that joined together periodically to address specific issues or problems. At this stage, the most involved syndicalist-leaning groups were therefore particularly keen to combine efforts with the French unions. In 1923, the group closest to anarcho-syndicalist positions in Paris was the ‘Pietro Gori’ group, in which Meschi was one of the most

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prominent movers. He had the first issue of La Voce del Profugo printed in June of the same year. This initiative enjoyed the initial attention of syndicalist leader Armando Borghi, who was determined to ‘keep the USI standing and make a solid foundation for it in the IWA and French anarcho-syndicalism’.60 In that same year, another Italian anarchist militant went into exile. Aldo Aguzzi, born in Voghera in 1902 and belonging to another generation of Italian anarchism, committed himself to a syndicalist movement that was at a completely different stage from that of Alberto Meschi. A biographical note drawn up by the Italian police records a man who was a member of his local libertarian group and was tirelessly committed to his local CdL.61 After having distinguished himself in the fight against the rise of fascism, Aguzzi emigrated to Argentina in 1923. Settling in Buenos Aires, he immediately became one of the most active members of the Italian-speaking anarchist community.62 However, when he left Italy, the USI was by then devastated not only by infighting, but above all by the blows dealt by Blackshirt violence, which culminated in the union’s forced closure shortly thereafter. It was perhaps also for this reason that he made only a marginal commitment to syndicalism once he arrived in Argentina, while the greater part of his activity was focused on supporting political victims of fascism and on his prolific publishing activity.63 Unlike Meschi, Aguzzi’s activism in Argentina took the direction of a different fundamental element of the Argentine movement: that of ‘individualist’ anarchism. This trend, like those in favour of anarchist organizations, counted many militants of Italian origin among its greatest proponents, above all Severino Di Giovanni. He, too, came to Argentina in 1923 and immediately stood out for his acts of what La Protesta called ‘anarcho-banditism’. The sensational, terrorist-like nature of actions taken by the group he led, and above all the explosion of a bomb at the Italian Consulate in Buenos Aires, led to a wave of persecutions, the effects of which were felt right across the movement, especially by Italian speakers. This explosion led to the interrogation of none other than Aguzzi. He was later acquitted, but in 1927 had already been subject to investigations for a dynamite attack on the National City Bank of Buenos Aires, organized by Di Giovanni.64 It was precisely the attack on the Consulate that led the FORA to definitively break with individualist anarchists. However, this split was not maintained on the level of political dialogue. In October 1929, Emilio López Arango, the editor-in-chief of La Protesta, was assassinated by Di Giovanni. Though lacking definitive proof, the periodical did not hesitate to link the murder to the individualist anarchist’s motives, against whom there had been serious

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accusations of being a fascist provocateur – accusations from which Aguzzi, who intervened in defence of Di Giovanni, dissociated himself. The figure of Aguzzi becomes particularly interesting here for the neutral position he assumed throughout the struggles of Argentine anarchism. In fact, in May 1929, Aguzzi had participated in the Buenos Aires Anarchist Conference, which assembled representatives of ten Latin-American syndicalist organizations and led to the formation of the Continental American Workers’ Association (ACAT), which was affiliated with the IWA.65 The creation of this new structure had a dual function for the FORA: not only that of opposing the Latin-American Syndical Confederation promoted by the Red International of Labour Unions (Profintern), but also that of reaffirming its heterodoxy after the political direction taken by the syndicalist IWA. However, Aguzzi’s renewed interest in union affairs may be explained by the influence of Luigi Fabbri. In fact, after López Arango’s assassination, this wellknown anarchist would incite Aguzzi – as reported in a police note – ‘to gather together, at La Protesta, those comrades from Argentina who had disbanded during the bloody internal conflict’.66 In fact, Aguzzi’s leanings towards the La Protesta group, which had operated under the pseudonym ‘Massimo Amaro’ since 1932, can be seen in his working with the periodical, writing articles dedicated not only to the antifascist cause, but also promoting union activity.67 However, it could be useful to point out that not all militants managed to be equally optimistic. The death of López Arango and, more generally, the violently divisive climate within anarchism, combined with strong government repression, would have convinced a militant like Abad de Santillán of the need to leave the country. In 1934, Abad de Santillán returned to his homeland, Spain, and in a short time he became one of the major interpreters of the dissidence to the moderate line taken by the CNT leaders and an undisputed point of reference within the FAI. Having assumed the direction of the FAI periodical Tierra y Libertad and enrolled in the Syndicate of Graphic Arts, at the outbreak of the Civil War, he was able to demonstrate his revolutionary attitude as a member of the Committee of the Anti-fascist Militias and of the Council of the Economy of the Generalitat.68 Remaining to Spain, only for a short time, in the mid-1930s, the paths of Aguzzi and Meschi would not have crossed. In the meantime, the state of Italian syndicalism in exile in France had changed drastically. La Voce del Profugo, which expressed the views of the ‘Gori’ Group, had already ceased publishing by the beginning of January 1924. The murder in that year of the socialist Member of Parliament

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Giacomo Matteotti and the subsequent crisis of the liberal parliamentary system forced opponents of fascism to undertake a profound reassessment of the nature of the fascist movement and the means at their disposal to oppose it effectively.69 In reaction to this, the ‘Gori’ Group adopted a policy of openness towards the other anti-fascist forces, in direct contrast to the anti-unity approach followed by the USI, which had been re-established during the Refugee Convention it held in Paris in 1925. For the pro-unity ‘Gori’ Group, this was seen as a defeat. Thus, its militants began to detach themselves from the methods and goals of syndicalist action: the group’s particular demands, especially those of a syndicalist nature, ended up being swallowed by the anti-fascist struggle. After splitting once again, even the police saw the core of the USI in exile as being ‘including few anarchists’.70 However, the movement managed, at least formally speaking, to reorganize itself soon before the outbreak of the Spanish Civil War. As Susanna Tavera has also remarked, ‘the attraction that the Spanish Civil War held for Italian exiles was also a consequence of the links that had largely come out of the preceding decade, the 1920s’.71 These exiles initially banded together closely around the Catalan question, before then including the issue of the rise of fascism across Europe and the theoreticalorganizational questions raised by Spain’s republican period. In anarchist affairs, during the Conference of Sartrouville (1935), which had gathered a good number of exiles,72 it was decided that the movement’s isolation should be counteracted by opening up dialogue with other anti-fascist forces. These proposals allowed the well-known anarchist Camillo Berneri to cross the border in July 1936 and establish relations with the CNT-FAI73 in order to constitute, along with republicans and members of Justice and Freedom (GL), a formation of volunteers united exclusively by the will to fight fascism: the Italian Division of the Ascaso Column was born. The Division was active on the Aragon front, which saw the ‘highest concentration of forces fighting for social revolution and not only in defence of the Republic’,74 and preceded the founding of the famous International Brigades by several months. According to police sources, in October 1936, Berneri received over ‘2,000 pesetas with which to set up a syndicalist newspaper’.75 This was the new series of Guerra di Classe, which was now produced in Barcelona, having resumed publishing activity on 9 October, with the first page clearly expressing the value that the volunteers placed on the Spanish enterprise: ‘we are fighting in a struggle whose repercussions today are on a global scale, and whose repercussions in the future even more so’.76 The most prominent members of the by then dissolved

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‘Gori’ Group, among others, flocked to Spain. The common identifying trait shared by volunteers who had come to Spain, especially in the early stages of the war, was without a doubt their belonging to ‘antifascism’. This demonstrates the pragmatic nature that the anarchists had often ascribed to syndicalism. Though the formal structures of the USI would in themselves continue to exist, only a trivial number of those Italians felt and declared themselves to be ‘syndicalists’ upon arriving in Spain, with most instead claiming allegiance to ‘anarchism’ or ‘anti-fascism’.77 In August 1936, a group of Italian anti-fascist volunteers belonging to GL left France ‘via Perpignan … helped by the local “Comité pour l’Espagne”’. Alberto Meschi was part of this group, leaving for Spain from Austerlitz Station in Paris, with specific instructions from Carlo Rosselli.78 Departing mainly from Marseille, Lyon and Paris, and crossing the border at Perpignan, finally, after being identified and allowed to enter revolutionary Spain through offices in Port Bou, the volunteers arrived in Barcelona. They were well aware that ‘the apparent normality of life in the central districts of Barcelona’ was masking ‘feverish preparations … a process of social transformation which was made difficult and at the same time more necessary by the multiple and complex needs of the war’.79 Soon after arriving, Meschi would participate in military operations at Monte Pelado and, in October 1936, was deployed to the front to ‘fight against the nationalist insurgents’.80 In December, however, he was forced to return to France early due to his poor health.81 Yet, soon after, the rapid pace of events would bring to light the contradicting approaches among the anti-fascist forces present in Spain. Even the combined efforts of GL and the anarchists soon began to falter.82 In the meantime, the inclusion of the CNT in the Catalan and republican government, together with the militarization process, began to stir strong discontent in the libertarian camp. With the formation of Caballero’s government, the ‘fundamental patterns that had been adopted by anarcho-syndicalism over the course of its history in terms of organization and practice in unions’ began to change.83 The anarchist committees and collectives, and the agrarian ones in particular, were gradually dissolved, and their economic functions were absorbed by the government. But, above all, the now-centralized power recalled the management of war operations and therefore also control of the militias.84 As volunteers, the libertarian elements of the Italian Division reacted to this process by declaring themselves ‘released from all moral obligations, and claiming full freedom of action’.85 The militarization of the militias was the litmus test for a highly critical moment for the

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CNT, which was faced with the unresolved problem of matching the ends of revolutionary action with the means. The direction taken by the movement’s assemblies seemed clear for the moment: the priority was to win the war and postpone the problems of managing revolutionary objectives to a later date. This choice aroused suspicion from the Italian volunteers, whose position was summarized by Berneri. As a delegate of the USI and the Italian Division, not to mention his being widely known as one of the most eclectic and original thinkers of third-generation anarchism,86 Berneri considered this move by the CNT to be a ‘dangerous turn of events’: not only did the ‘lack of a unified command’ fail to make the news coming from the front any less disconcerting, but the lack of connection between ‘strictly military’ affairs and the ‘social-political conditions’ revealed a deviation from the War/Revolution’s most noble objectives. As the conflict was developing an international dimension, so much so as to affect ‘the destiny of the world’87 according to Abad de Santillán, Soviet involvement in Spanish affairs, which was decidedly marked in the first months of 1937, would come to have significant repercussions on the conflict’s political management, which only created deeper divisions behind anti-fascist lines and later culminated in the dramatic events of May 1937. After the first months on the front, disappointment with how the war was being managed, and especially with other forces engaged on the anti-fascist front, began to create a sense of resignation. By this time, the Italian Division was well on its way out and was dissolved in April 1937. Disappointed and exhausted, some militants would surrender to the Italian authorities, renouncing their past with varying degrees of seriousness, while many others crossed the border to join the French and Italian resistance struggles. It was within this context that Aldo Aguzzi took over the direction of Guerra di Classe, immediately after Camillo Berneri was killed. His first article to appear in the Spanish edition of the periodical took the tone of a final call to arms for the defence of international anarchism against enemies who were no longer, he denounced, only outside but also behind revolutionary lines. ‘The tragedy of May’, said Aguzzi, ‘was the prelude to a … dispute which, today, rather than folly, is betrayal’.88 After continuing to defend the CNT-FAI’s actions in the press for a long time and attempting to obstruct Moscow’s manoeuvres to discredit members of the Workers’ Party of Marxist Unification (POUM), Aguzzi left Spain and moved to Marseille in 1938. After returning to Buenos Aires, he was found dead in 1939, having taken his own life. Through his articles, he had helped to write some of the final pages in the history of transnational direct-action syndicalism.

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Marco Masulli received a Ph.D. in Contemporary History from the University of Genoa and the University of Girona in 2019. He has published several essays dedicated to the history of anarchism and the trade union movement from a transnational perspective.

Notes 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24. 25. 26. 27. 28. 29. 30. 31. 32. 33. 34.

Bohórquez-Montoy, ‘Transnacionalismo’, 277. Van der Linden, ‘Enjeux pour une Histoire’, 4. Iriye, Global and Transnational History, 8. Dogliani, ‘The Fate of Socialist Internationalism’, 55. Van der Linden, Workers of the World, 259. Hanagan and van der Linden, ‘New Approaches’, 1–11. Clavin, ‘Defining Transnationalism’, 436. Clavin, ‘Defining Transnationalism’, 434. Iriye, Global and Transnational History, 11. Hanagan, ‘An Agenda for Transnational Labor History’, 455. Berry, A History of the French Anarchist Movement, 6. Migueláñez Martínez, ‘El Proyecto Continental del Anarquismo’, 74. Clavin, ‘Defining Transnationalism’, 436. Bruno, ‘Biografía e historia’, 156. Salvati, ‘Conclusioni’, 176. Di Paola, ‘Sviluppi e problematiche degli studi sull’esilio anarchico tudi sull’esilio anarchico’, 322. ‘Experiencia’, La Protesta, XXVI, 9 December 1922. Rocker, La revolución, 149. Venza, ‘La Spagna e gli anarchici Italiani’, 209–26. Termes, Anarquismo y sindicalismo, 39. Devoto, Storia degli Italiani, 300. Zaragoza, ‘Anarchisme et mouvement ouvrier’, 12–13. Bayer, ‘L’influenza dell’immigrazione italiana’, 531–544. The figure of Pietro Gori is generally inserted into an intermediate generation between the first and the second, the latter being classically identified in the movement’s exponents born around the 1870s. Zaragoza, ‘Anarchisme et mouvement ouvrier’, 25. Baer, Anarchist Immigrants, 17–18. Suriano, Paradoxes of Utopia, 120–26. Gómez-Müller, Anarquismo y anarcosindicalismo, 184–85. Migueláñez Martínez, ‘1910 y el declive del anarquismo argentino’, 436–52. Gabriel, ‘Sindicalismo y huelga’, 40. Álvarez Junco, La ideología política, 397. Casanova, ‘Guerra y revolución’, 63–65. Gil Andrés, ‘La aurora proletaria’, 92. Casanova, De la calle al frente, 78–79.

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35. Vega, ‘Anarquismo y sindicalismo’, 56. 36. Although the CNT, Casanova noted, was a ‘movement dominated in general terms by trade union concerns, independent of the political parties … to gain control of the organization required a minimum knowledge of libertarian ideas … The ideological formation pathways that served to make the leap to the leadership were located in “extra-union” areas: libertarian athenaeums, rationalist schools, affinity groups’. Casanova, ‘Auge y decadencia’, 54. 37. Lehning, L’anarcosindacalismo, 11–27. 38. A difference that, in the 1930s, was interpreted by Camillo Berneri, an important Italian anarchist and volunteer in the Spanish Civil War, in these terms: ‘the anarcho-syndicalist current [in Italy] was mainly subject to the errors and insufficiencies of anarchism and the Unione Sindacale did not know how to draw clear and organic programmatic lines. It could not be mainly due to the heterogeneous nature of its paintings, due to the eclecticism prevailing in its printing’. In Camillo Berneri, ‘L’ora dell’anarcosindacalismo’, Guerra di classe 1 (serie dell’estero), September 1930. 39. Rocker, Contro la corrente, 47. 40. Levy, ‘Currents of Italian Syndicalism’, 243. 41. Lehning, L’Anarcosindacalismo, 11. 42. ‘La unidad en la propaganda’, La Protesta, XXVI, 2 December 1922. 43. ‘Las vacilaciones del sindicalismo español’, La Protesta. Suplemento, II, 5 March 1923. 44. Migueláñez Martínez, ‘La presencia argentina’, 103. 45. Gómez-Müller, Anarquismo y anarcosindicalismo, 209. 46. ‘A piombo. Morto che parla’, Guerra di classe, IX, 18 November 1923, 31. 47. Sorel, Scritti, 128. 48. Devoto, Storia degli Italiani, 163. 49. Archivio Centrale dello Stato (ACS), Casellario Politico Centrale (CPC), b. 3249, fasc. ‘Meschi Alberto Guglielmo Mario’, Cenno biografico al 1910. 50. L.J.M.. ‘Sezione Italiana. Ai compagni di lingua italiana’, La Protesta, XIV, 20 January 1910. 51. Consejo Federal. ‘La F.O.R.A. al proletariado’, La Protesta, XIV, 20 Januray 1910. 52. A[lberto] Meschi, ‘Dall’Argentina. Congresso operaio sud-americano’, Il Libertario, 15 April 1909; A[lberto] Meschi, ‘La storia del primo maggio argentino’, Il Libertario, 17 June 1909. 53. A[lberto] Meschi. ‘Gli anarchici e l’organizzazione operaia’, Il Libertario, 26 May 1910. 54. ACS, CPC, b. 3249, fasc. ‘Meschi Alberto Guglielmo Mario’, Cenno biografico al 1910. 55. Antonioli et al., Dizionario biografico, 170. 56. ACS, CPC, b. 3249, fasc. ‘Meschi Alberto Guglielmo Mario’, Cenno biografico all’11 ottobre 1911. 57. ‘Mouvement Internationale. Italie’. Le Libertaire, 45, 2 September 1911. 58. Cerrito, ‘L’emigrazione libertaria’, 834.

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59. Vittorio Messerotti, ‘Comitato d’emigrazione dell’USI in Francia (sunto di relazione)’, Calendimaggio, 1924. 60. Di Lembo, ‘Borghi in Francia’, 95–96. 61. ACS, CPC, b. 33, fasc. ‘Aguzzi, Aldo’, Cenno biografico al 10 aprile 1920. 62. ACS, CPC, b. 33, fasc. ‘Aguzzi, Aldo’, Prefettura di Pavia, Sovversivi attentatori, 2 September 1933. 63. Pantaleone, ‘Tra coscienza etnica’, 122–24. 64. ACS, CPC, b. 33, fasc. ‘Aguzzi, Aldo’, Direzione Generale P.S. – Affari Generali e Riservati, Attentati anarchici, 29 December 1927. 65. ACS, CPC, b. 33, fasc. ‘Aguzzi, Aldo’, Direzione Generale P.S. – Affari Generali e Riservati, Appunto n-500/2013, 29 January 1930. 66. ACS, CPC, b. 33, fasc. ‘Aguzzi, Aldo’, Dichiarazioni di Lanciotti Umberto, 15 June 1930. 67. ACS, CPC, b. 33, fasc. ‘Aguzzi, Aldo’, Regia Ambasciata d’Italia, Rapporto sull’attività di Aldo Aguzzi, 3 November 1932. 68. Casanova, ‘Diego Abad de Santillán’, 131–33. 69. Manfredonia, ‘Les anarchistes italiens’, 226–27. 70. Ministero degli Affari Esteri, Nota sull’Unione Sindacale a Parigi, 28 November 1929, ACS, Associazioni sovversive, cat. G1, busta n. 127. 71. Tavera, ‘Caro amico, caro nemico’, 49. 72. Di Lembo, Guerra di classe e lotta umana, 191–92. 73. ‘Rapporto Generale dell’attività dell’USI (Dal luglio 1936 all’aprile 1937)’, Guerra di classe II, 1 May 1937, 14. 74. Venza, Anarchia e potere, 109. 75. ACS, CPC, b. 3249, fasc. ‘Meschi Alberto Guglielmo Mario’, Nota riservata al Ministero Affari Esteri, 16 October 1936. 76. ‘Levando l’ancora’, Guerra di classe I, 9 October 1936. 77. Acciai, Antifascismo, 66–67. 78. ACS, CPC, b. 3249, fasc. ‘Meschi Alberto Guglielmo Mario’, Direzione Generale di P.S., Copia confidenziale n.500/23850, Parigi, 13 August 1936. 79. L.M. ‘I problemi della rivoluzione’. Guerra di classe, I, 9 October 1936, 1 80. ACS, CPC, b. 3249, fasc. ‘Meschi Alberto Guglielmo Mario’, Divisione Polizia Politica, Nota n. 500/28441, 2 October 1936. 81. Centro Documental de la Memoria Histórica (CDHM), caja PS Madrid 486/6, 166 and 167, Lettera di Alberto Meschi a Lorenzo Giusti, 16 December 1937. 82. Bifolchi, ‘La colonna italiana’, 149. 83. Casanova, ‘Auge y decadencia’, 63. 84. Graham, The Spanish Republic, 129. 85. Gruppo italiano ‘Colonna Ascaso’, ‘La militarizzazione’. Guerra di classe, I, 16 December 1936, 2. 86. De Maria, ‘Metodo biografico’, 99–102. 87. Diego Abad de Santillán, ‘La Spagna e il mondo’. Guerra di classe, I, 17 October 1936, 2. 88. Aldo Aguzzi, ‘Dopo un’altra prova’. Guerra di classe, II, 16 June 1937, 18.

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Bibliography Acciai, Enrico. Antifascismo, volontariato e Guerra civile in Spagna. La Sezione Italiana della Colonna Ascaso. Milan: Unicopli, 2016. Álvarez Junco, José. La ideología política del anarquismo español. Madrid: Siglo XXI, 1976. Antonioli, Maurizio et al. (eds). Dizionario biografico degli anarchici italiani. Pisa: BFS, 2003–4 (vols 1–2). Baer, James. Anarchist Immigrants in Spain and Argentina. Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 2015. Bar, Antonio. La CNT en los años rojos. Madrid: Akal,1981. Bayer, Osvaldo. ‘L’influenza dell’immigrazione italiana nel movimento anarchico argentino’, in Bruno Bezza (ed.), Gli Italiani fuori d’Italia: Gli emigrati italiani nei movimenti operai dei paesi d’adozione (1880–1940) (Milan: FrancoAngeli, 1983), 531–44. Berry, David. A History of the French Anarchist Movement, 1917–1945. Oakland: AK Press, 2008. Bifolchi, Giuseppe. ‘La colonna italiana sul fronte di Huesca’. Rivista Abruzzese di Studi Storici dal Fascismo alla Resistenza 3 (1980), 141–53. Bohórquez-Montoy, Juan P. ‘Transnacionalismo e historia transnacional del trabajo: hacia una síntesis teórica’. Pap. Polít. 1(14) (2009), 273–301. Bruno, Paula. ‘Biografía e historia. Reflexiones y perspectivas’. Anuario IEHS 27 (2012), 155–62. Casanova, Julián. ‘Guerra y revolución: la edad de oro del anarquismo español’. Historia Social 1 (1988), 63–76. ———. De la calle al frente. El anarcosindicalismo en España, 1931–1939. Barcelona: Crítica, 1997. ———. ‘Auge y decadencia del anarcosindicalismo en España’. Espacio, Tiempo y Forma, Serie V, H. Contemporánea 13 (2000), 45–72. ———. ‘Diego Abad de Santillán: memoria y propaganda anarquista’. Historia Social 48 (2004), 129–47. Cerrito, Gino. ‘L’emigrazione libertaria italiana in Francia nel ventennio fra le due guerre’, in Bruno Bezza (ed.), Gli italiani fuori d’Italia. Gli emigrati italiani nei movimenti operai dei paesi d’adozione 1880–1940 (Milan: Franco Angeli, 1983), 831–911. Clavin, Patricia. ‘Defining Transnationalism’. Contemporary European History 4(14) (2005), 421–39. De Maria, Carlo. ‘Metodo biografico e scansioni generazionali nello studio del socialismo anarchico italiano’, in Giampietro Berti and Carlo de Maria (eds), L’anarchismo italiano, Storia e storiografia. (Milan: Biblion, 2016), 91–108. Devoto, Fernando. Storia degli italiani in Argentina. Rome: Donzelli, 2006. Di Lembo, Luigi. ‘Borghi in Francia tra i fuoriusciti (estate 1923–autunno 1926)’. Bollettino del Museo del Risorgimento (1990), 91–143. ———. Guerra di classe e lotta umana. L’anarchismo in Italia dal ‘Biennio rosso’ alla Guerra di Spagna (1919–1939). Pisa: BFS, 2001.

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Di Paola, Pietro. ‘Sviluppi e problematiche degli studi sull’esilio anarchico nel mondo anglosassone’, in Gianpietro Berti and Carlo de Maria (eds), L’anarchismo italiano. Storia e storiografia (Milan: Biblion, 2016), 321–36. Dogliani, Patrizia. ‘The Fate of Socialist Internationalism’, in Glenda Sluga and Patricia Clavin (eds), Internationalisms: A Twentieth-Century History (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2017), 38–60. Echezarreta, D. Gabriel, and A. Martin Yaveroski. ‘El anarquismo argentino y la Gran Guerra’. Política y Cultura 42 (2014), 125–53. Gabriel, Pere. ‘Sindicalismo y huelga. Sindicalismo revolucionario francés e italiano. Su introducción en España’. Ayer 4 (1991), 15–46. Gil Andrés, Carlos. ‘La aurora proletaria. Orígenes y consolidación de la CNT’, in Julián Casanova (ed.), Tierra y Libertad. Cien años de anarquismo en España (Barcelona: Crítica, 2010), 89–117. Gómez-Müller, Alfredo. Anarquismo y anarcosindicalismo en América Latina: Colombia, Brasil, Argentina, México. Medellín: La Carreta Editore, 2009. Graham, Helen. The Spanish Republic at War (1936–1939). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002. Hanagan, Michael P. ‘An Agenda for Transnational Labor History’. International Review of Social History 49 (2004), 455–74. Hanagan, Michael P., and Marcel van der Linden. ‘New Approaches to Global Labor History’. International Labor and Working-Class History 66 (2004), 1–11. Iriye, Akira. Global and Transnational History: The Past, Present, and Future. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2013. Lehning, Arthur. L’anarcosindacalismo. Scritti scelti, Maurzio Antonioli (ed.). Pisa: BFS, 1994. Levy, Carl. ‘Currents of Italian Syndicalism before 1926’. International Review of Social History 45 (2000), 209–50. Manfredonia, Gaetano. ‘Les anarchistes italiens en France dans la lutte antifasciste’, in Pierre Milza (ed.), Les italiens en France de 1914 à 1940 (Rome: École française de Rome, 1986), 223–55. Migueláñez Martínez, María. ‘1910 y el declive del anarquismo argentino. ¿Hito histórico o hito historiográfico?’. IV Encuentro de Latinoamericanistas Españoles: congreso internacional, Universidad de Santiago de Compostela (2010), 436–52. ———. ‘La presencia argentina en la esfera del anarquismo y el sindicalismo internacional: las luchas de representación’. Historia, Trabjo y Sociedad 4 (2013), 89–117. ———. ‘El proyecto continental del anarquismo argentino: Resultados y usos de una propaganda transfronteriza (1920–1930)’. Ayer 94 (2014), 71–94. Pantaleone, Sergi. ‘Tra coscienza etnica e coscienza di classe. Giornali italiani anarco-comunisti in Argentina (1885–1935)’. Giornale di Storia Contemporanea 1 (2008), 101–26. Rocker, Rudolf. La revolución. Buenos Aires: Reconstruir, 1945. ———. Contro la corrente, David Bernardini and Devis Colombo (eds). Milan: Eléuthera, 2018.

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Salvati, Mariuccia. ‘Conclusioni’, in Carlo de Maria (ed.), Maria Luisa Berneri e l’anarchismo inglese (Reggio Emilia: Biblioteca Panizzi Archivio Famiglia Berneri-Aurelio Chessa, 2013). Sorel, Georges. Scritti politici, Vivarelli, Roberto (ed.). Turin: Utet, 2006. Suriano, Juan. Paradoxes of Utopia: Anarchist Culture and Politics in Buenos Aires, 1890–1910. Oakland: AK Press, 2010. Tavera, Susanna. ‘Caro amico, caro nemico. Carlo Rosselli, Camillo Berneri e i libertari catalani (1936–1937)’. Quaderni del Circolo Rosselli 52(2) (1996), 49–66. Termes, Josep. Anarquismo y sindicalismo en España. La Primera Internacional 1864–1881. Barcelona: Ariel, 1972. Van der Linden, Marcel. Workers of the World: Essays toward a Global Labor History. Leiden: Brill, 2008. ———. ‘Enjeux pour une histoire mondiale du travail’. Le Mouvement social 241(4) (2012), 3–29. Vega, Eulàlia. ‘Anarquismo y sindicalismo durante la Dictadura y la República’. Historia Social 1 (1988), 55–62. Venza, Claudio. Anarchia e potere nella guerra civile spagnola (1936–1939). Milan: Elèuthera, 2016. ———. ‘La Spagna e gli anarchici italiani. La missione di Giuseppe Fanelli (1868–1869), in Gianpietro Berti and Carlo de Maria (eds), L’anarchismo italiano. Storia e storiografia (Milan: Biblion, 2016), 209–26. Zaragoza Ruvira, Gonzalo. ‘Anarchisme et mouvement ouvrier en Argentine à la fin du XIXe siècle’. Le Mouvement Social 103 (1978), 7–30.

Chapter 4

Machiavelli and Republicanism Readings and Receptions in Argentina and Spain (1920–40) Leandro Losada

å

The transformation that occurred in Argentine political ideas during the two decades between the end of the First World War and the beginning of the Second World War is usually known as the crisis of ‘liberal Argentina’. The political circumstances were an eloquent manifestation of that crisis. In 1930, a coup d’état overthrew President Hipólito Yrigoyen, head of the Radical Civic Union (Union Cívica Radical [UCR]), a party that had come to power in 1916 (also with Yrigoyen) in the first presidential elections held under the so-called Sáenz Peña Law, which came into force in 1912 and had established a secret and compulsory suffrage for the male population. As of 1930, with Yrigoyen overthrown, Argentine politics was marked by authoritarian and corporate trials (during the so-called ‘provisional government’ of General José Felix Uriburu between 1930 and 1932) or the misrepresentation of electoral disputes and the consequent distortion of republican and liberal institutions established by the Constitution of 1853/1860, especially during the presidency of General Agustín Justo between 1932 and 1938. This period culminated once again in a coup d’état in 1943. So, the overall perspective exposed the scepticism and challenges of the founding political project of Argentina’s nation of the nineteenth century, precisely condensed in the Constitution of 1853/1860, according to which the country should honour its position as a civilized nation, that is, a liberal democratic republic.1 Interpretations on this topic have fluctuated between two extremes. On the one hand, it has been argued that ‘liberal Argentina’ was replaced by an ‘authoritarian Argentina’, understood as a local expres-

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sion of the most widespread crisis of liberal democracy in the West between the wars.2 On the other hand, the significance of this substitution was clarified, stating that the crisis of ‘liberal Argentina’ would have actually had its climax in the coup d’état that occurred in 1943, and not in the previous in 1930.3 In both perspectives, the problem was thought to be based on the relationship between liberalism and democracy, founded on a premise of the singularities that historiography has attributed to Argentina in terms of being a country ‘born liberal’. Therefore, the question was posed of how to conceive liberalism without programmatic contenders or relevant dogmas, and that it was a kind of ‘common sense’ that cut across intellectuals and political divisions.4 However, this chapter focuses on another political and doctrinal ideology: republicanism. This is for historiographical and historical reasons. Regarding the former, the relationship between republicanism, liberalism and democracy is an open problem, and it was more studied for the nineteenth century than for the twentieth century.5 Some interpretations have pointed out a synthesis or convergence between a liberal tradition and a republican tradition.6 Conversely, other studies have highlighted the republican foundations of authoritarian political experiences, such as the governments of Juan Manuel Rosas from 1830 to 1850.7 The plurality of republican visions has also been highlighted (classical, Catholic and Hispanic, inspired by the American and French Revolutions), which nurtured republicanism during the wars of independence.8 Regarding historical reasons, it is possible to affirm that if republicanism was not a novelty, it did receive considerable and unusual attention between the 1920s and 1940s. It is symptomatic that this occurred in a scenario of crisis and political instability, and during a period of growing distrust of the possibilities, or desirability, of liberal democracy. In this regard, it is worth clarifying that the focus here will not be on examining the forms that the republic had acquired in Argentina, and the diagnoses and proposals that were drawn from them.9 In the following discussion, the attention will be placed on texts and authors that dealt with republicanism doctrinally and historically – that is, what its principles and fundamental main points were, what its distinctive historical experiences and its key authors were, and what its relationship was with liberalism and democracy. These questions have been addressed in various forms and intentions, and through different figures and voices such as historical essays, texts of political intervention and academic studies, as well as the people and voices who participated in it.

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Second, another peculiarity regarding republicanism during this period was that it was linked to and even affected by another phenomenon in Argentine political thought: the reception and interpretation of the work of Niccolò Machiavelli. For a large number of those who undertook this task between the 1920s and the 1940s, reflecting on republicanism was a consequence or a symptom of how they thought of Machiavelli.10 The singularity of the Argentine reception (the association between Machiavelli and republicanism) can be seen when it is compared to what happened in Spain during this same period, or, more precisely, in the writings of some Spanish authors who were interested in the work of Machiavelli. In this case, the relationship between the author of The Prince and republicanism was not the main key of the reading of his works; on the contrary, it was read in relation to political leadership (and one form in particular – caudillismo) and conceived as an author whose republican references were subordinate to what was defined as the central issue of his work: ‘order’.

Republicanism and Anti-liberalism The portrayal of Argentine anti-liberalism in the 1920s and 1930s has varied according to the problems and themes studied. In some cases, nacionalismo was conceived as its distinctive manifestation, distinguishing between ‘republican nacionalistas’ and ‘dogmatic nacionalistas’, or between ‘restorative nacionalistas’ and ‘populist nacionalistas’, according to their political choices and doctrinal references. Other approaches have suggested Thomist Catholicism as the most important expression of local anti-liberalism, from which nacionalismo should be distinguished and understood.11 Such perspectives, in turn, have been challenged by more flexible depictions, which pointed out the connections between nacionalistas and Catholics, or the heterogeneity of the Catholic field itself.12 These dissimilar positions and political references (from pro-fascism to the restoration of a ‘Christian state’, passing through an acceptance of the democratic tradition, or the popular element, in Argentine history) are connected with another point highlighted by historiography: the diversity of doctrinal foundations as developed by classical and scholastic, reactionary and traditionalist authors. Even so, the emphasis has been on underscoring the predominance of political intervention before theoretic elaboration in Argentine anti-liberalism theory.

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With this is mind, it is worth highlighting other, less explored facets. These refer, precisely, to the attention that local anti-liberalism paid to republicanism. The critique of liberal democracy was not only voiced through the deliberation of authoritarian and corporative contemporary experiences (which had different natures, from fascism to Franco’s regime). It was also expressed by contrasting the concepts of republic and liberal democracy. This opposition was widespread, as is noted in authors often placed in different extremes, when not confronted, of Argentine anti-liberalism. The second point to note is that the interest in republicanism turned from approval to criticism. Such fluctuations responded, above all and as the studies already cited have highlighted, to political motives, changes in assessment and positioning around the political situation. But, even so, such repositioning can also be attributed, or in any case based, on theoretical references, which inform upon doctrinal backgrounds. Regarding the first point, invocations of the republic were recurrent in a foundational publication of Argentine nationalism, La Nueva República (which began in 1927). These invocations may, in turn, be differentiated. On the one hand, there was a distinction between republic and democracy based on the affirmation that the Argentine Constitution of 1853/1860 consecrated the former and not the latter.13 This vision positioned democracy opposite to a liberal republic. A distinction was made between liberalism and democracy, based on a re-reading, rather than an open criticism, of nineteenth-century liberalism (connotations that have based the observation on the tenuous anti-liberalism of La Nueva República in its first moments).14 Having said that, republic also opposed democracy with a repertoire far removed from liberalism. For example, Julio Irazusta (1899– 1982), a prominent contributor to La Nueva República, associated republic with ‘mixed government’, understood as a political form (a combination of institutions with monarchical, aristocratic and democratic features) that was in turn a translation of the ‘natural order of things’ – that is, of a hierarchical and non-egalitarian society. Republic understood in this way made it possible to reconcile ‘the yearnings of freedom with the demands of authority’.15 In another text, Irazusta highlighted that republic implied the admission of ‘differences established by nature’. Therefore, it was necessary to alert the ‘unwary’ who believed that ‘every republic should tend towards democracy’.16 These considerations were supported by a wide range of historical references and authors, including the Roman Republic and the French monarchy, Plato, Aristoteles, Thomas Aquinas and Machiavelli.17

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The opposition between republic and democracy was also proposed by others, such as Julio Meinvielle (1905–73), exponent of the most intransigent form of Catholicism. Meinvielle’s argument, supported by Thomas Aquinas, had more orthodox doctrinal support than that of Irazusta’s argument. The republic was, again, a mixed government, while democracy was ‘the wicked government exercised by many’. The republic allowed for the combination of ‘natural inequality’ with the ‘participation of all citizens in government’, because instead of ‘arithmetic equal participation’, the republic implied granting ‘political rights, proportional to each social role’. Therefore, the republic could be the basis of the corporate and authoritarian regime of the Christian state underpinned by Meinvielle in this text, since it conformed ‘to the republican tradition of countries like ours’ and at the same time was different from the ‘modern republics’, ‘a mix of demagogy with the oligarchy of the crooked’.18 Moving forward into the 1930s and 1940s, interest in republicanism did not disappear, but what did change was the way in which it was assessed. Suggestively, this change in evaluation is noticed in the works of authors usually classified as ‘republican nacionalistas’, such as the above-mentioned Irazusta or Ernesto Palacio (1900–79).19 In this exercise, an extensive genre stood out: the study of the history of republican Rome. This became a visible and enduring topic in the concerns of the authors mentioned. This historical experience, which had been analysed in the pages of La Nueva República, was subject to a critical review in books like Catiline or Historia de Roma (by Ernesto Palacio) or Tito Livio (by Julio Irazusta). Palacio emphasized the impostures of Roman republicanism. The republic protected the interests of the oligarchy (a corrupt aristocracy). The revalidation of Catiline is based precisely on the fact of having unmasked, and confronted, the falsehoods of the republic. The ‘republican’ attachment to the institutions was only a masquerade to protect the interests of the most favoured: ‘the perfection of the republican regime requires the existence of a ruling class consubstantial [sic] with the public good, of a true aristocracy … When this is not so, and there is an oligarchy, freedoms are translated into a robbed freedom and exploitation, they turn against the people, who must seek a protector in the personal power of a caudillo, of a proclaimed dictator’.20 The revolutionary rupture of the institutional order and the ‘democratic dictatorship’ that Catiline sought were thus vindicated: ‘we must depart from the law and go to the revolutionary means to break the system, instituting a personal power that will organize the Republic again. But the anti-oligarchic dictatorship: the dictatorship of the leader of the

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people against his exploiters, possessed of legal means; the democratic dictatorship’.21 Again, the comparison was between republic and democracy, but, in contrast to the content of the La Nueva República, in favour of the latter and a denunciation of the former. This perspective can be seen in another contemporaneous book, which also undertook a critical review of republican Rome and was based on the text by Palacio, signed by Joaquín Díaz de Vivar (1907–2002): ‘In the Republic, for example, a form of government that the political writers of ancient times believed indispensable for the existence of Democracy, a privileged class can make the established legal order serve exclusively in its interest, torturing the common people and then transforming the republic in an anti-democratic government.’22 On the other hand: ‘With the action of Caesar, Democracy achieves the realization of its program in a comprehensive manner, and despite its Caesarist exteriorization, the new order implements the old force.’ For this reason, Caesar’s death ‘carried out in the name of liberal principles to save republican institutions, was in reality, if you look at it, an act of democratic disturbance’.23 In Tito Livio, Julio Irazusta made similar insights, discussing the prestige of the Roman Republic ‘with a Western spirit’, ‘modelled by him [Livio] to see everything well in the republic destroyed and all evil in the empire built on its ruins’.24 In this direction, instead of underlining the functionality of the republic for the interests of the powerful (in the manner of Diaz de Vivar or Palacio), Irazusta questioned the qualities that, in his opinion, had founded republican reputation: the excellence of its constitution and its association with freedom. Thus, Irazusta defined greatness, rather than freedom, as the engine that drove the republic. Hence, ‘imperialism’ had been one of its distinctive features. This statement was connected to the other point he made: the brilliance of republican Rome had not been sustained by its institutional design. Its endurance had been due less to the application of an abstract and perfect model and more to the fact that ‘the Roman constitution was the result of Roman politics and not the latter a result of that constitution’.25 From this, it was inferred that ‘the Roman situation advanced uninterruptedly thanks to systematic violations of the constitution’.26 Irazusta thought that there was no contradiction between republic and imperialism, unlike what republican historians had tirelessly repeated (a false contrast that the United States demonstrated, in his judgement, in the present of Irazusta).27 And it indicated, in turn, the problems facing republican Rome in terms of undertaking an expansion that it needed to do for its survival. In sum, the aristocratic Roman republic idealized by Livy – defined as a ‘liberal

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conservative’28 – had not been ‘an ideal of perfect government’, but an enterprise of conquest (more brutal with subjects than the empire of the Caesars).29 For Irazusta, the other element that had driven the republic was the performance of its aristocracy of having been ‘open to merit’ and having highlighted the importance of harmony. Both aspects enabled the reverent obedience of the people, which lasted even when equal political rights were enshrined (that is, natural hierarchies were retained despite political equality).30 This was the foundation for ‘the age of great virtues, purified in the aristocrats by a better understanding of the indispensable solidarity with the lower order, acquired by the commoners in their eagerness to rise to the nobility, without suppressing it’.31 Thereafter, the revision of Roman republican history encouraged criticisms of the republic as a political form and as a historical experience, whether because it protected the interests of the powerful, or because it underpinned an imperialist experience (which its defenders had detailed or idealized), or because its splendour was due less to its institutional architecture than to the virtue and the concord achieved between the aristocracy and the people. Certainly, these shifts can be related to the changing views of these intellectuals in local politics. Palacio and Irazusta had encouraged the coup d’état of 1930, appealing from La Nueva República to the devotional commitment of the ‘Argentine aristocracy’ to end the demagoguery of Hipólito Yrigoyen (the President ousted by the coup). The failed attempt to install an authoritarian and corporate government under General José Félix Uriburu and its replacement by an institutional restoration, accompanied by electoral distortions, concocted by General Agustin Justo was a cause of disenchantment and irritation for both. The result of this was that they veered away from praising aristocracy to the repudiation of ‘oligarchy’, which was understood as the maker or at least an accomplice of corporate failure and a constitutional return. This is how Julio Irazusta and his brother Rodolfo put it in an emblematic text on anti-liberal nacionalismo, La Argentina y el imperialismo británico, in 1934.32 The defence of Catiline by Palacio can in turn be read as a posthumous revalidation of Uriburu (and an anticipation of his enthusiasm for Peronism, which would also attract Diaz de Vivar). However, Irazusta’s more restrained approval of these options was more in tune with his reconciliation with the Unión Cívica Radical at the end of the 1930s (a political party that at the beginning of that decade was overthrown with his support), and the distance that he kept regarding

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Peronism. Overall, the critique of the republic was linked to progressive distancing of the forms of government as a subject of interest for these authors. Their interest would be focused in a political reflection that prioritized its connection with the social or economic dimensions, as indicated by the same topic of oligarchic domination or their concerns for imperialism or the state (rather than for the political regime – perspectives that can be found in Irazusta’s Tito Livio or that Palacio expressed in his Teoría del Estado).33 Even so, one point should be stressed. If it is conceded that the Argentine situation underlies these works on classical republican Rome, it means that these authors saw in the Roman republic a model that served to expose the dilemmas and impostures of a liberal republic like Argentina. Roman republicanism was a parameter (indeed, the paradigmatic reference) of liberal republicanism. Equating Roman republicanism and liberalism was explicit in Palacio and Díaz de Vivar. The republican historiography discussed by Irazusta is also comprised of authors associated with liberalism, from Mommsen to Montesquieu. From this perspective, republicanism, rather than being an antidote to liberalism and democracy, as was pointed out in the late 1920s and early 1930s (using republican Rome as an example), became associated with liberalism and was opposed to democracy (the realization of which could require Caesarist forms, not republican ones).34 This rereading of republicanism (from an antonym of liberalism to converging with it) can be connected to another aspect that is less related to the future of political stakes and more with theoretical references and dogmas – specifically, with the path that, throughout these works, can be reconstructed from reading Machiavelli. It has been seen that Machiavelli was among the authors who supported the notion of a hierarchical, even corporate, republic that affirmed the principle of authority. Such an interpretation was discussed in his later works. Irazusta identified Machiavelli as one of the disciples of Livy, who, even as a glossator rather than a commentator with original interventions, contributed to the unjustified glorification of the Roman republic. Irazusta also disputed some of Machiavelli’s considerations, such as the relationship between the crisis of the republic and the extension of the military command.35 It has been said that his arguments for republican splendour emphasized the zeal for greatness, aristocracy and concord. From Irazusta’s perspective, these statements, which can also be found in the work of Ernesto Palacio,36 were opposed with those attributed to Livy as well as with Machiavelli in his Discourses and his signalling of a free republic, thanks to the conflict and the participation of the democratic element.37

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Otherwise, it should be noted that Palacio and Irazusta objected to Machiavelli’s other facets of thought that were also a reason for repudiation among other anti-liberal voices of the period more clearly framed in Catholicism, such as Meinvielle or Tomas Casares (1895– 1976): the separation between Christian and political morality.38 Regarding this point, for example, Ernesto Palacio stated: ‘“The Prince” is wrong when, with deliberate ignorance of moral laws, he defends the mere conquest or conservation of power, which is not an aim in itself and does not justify the means used to obtain it, since its possession has to be justified by beneficial exercise.’ According to Palacio, political ambition should not be sacrificed to morality. In reality, ‘the dilemma simply does not exist. A necessary means to obtain a beneficial purpose cannot be bad’. The separation between politics and morals made by Machiavelli was a ‘false problem’ that weakened instead of reinforcing political action. According to Palacio, the justification of the means by the end (‘a necessary means to obtain a beneficial end cannot be bad’) had to be moral and not only political – it had to have goodness rather than only efficacy. It was certain that Palacio and Irazusta were accused of ‘Machiavellianism’ within anti-liberalism itself due to their deliberation of political action or their desire for power and opportunism. This accusation denotes the disqualification that predominated over Machiavelli in local anti-liberalism).39 And, in turn, it is evident that the tone of both writers against Machiavelli did not reach the extremes of Meinvielle or Casares, as the span of their influences was eclectic.40 But even so, Machiavelli was not among the constant references of Palacio and Irazusta, nor was he a praised author; on the contrary, he was a target of criticisms and disputes, traits that show traces of Thomism, indicating how widespread it was in local anti-liberalism, even among those who were not members of its most orthodox ranks.41 The truth is that overall, when looking at the texts of the 1920s to the 1940s, a change in how Machiavelli is viewed is evident, which is juxtaposed with the changing views of Roman republicanism. At first associated or included in a classical republicanism that was associated with order and virtue, or that was conceived as an antidote to liberal democracy (and in which Machiavelli coexisted with Thomas Aquinas and Aristotle), Machiavelli and the history of republican Rome culminated in an association with a form of republicanism aligned with liberalism.42 At this point, it is worth comparing this reception of Machiavelli with that of Spanish anti-liberalism. One of the Spanish authors who had great interest in Machiavelli was Francisco Javier Conde (1908–

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74). In his reading, the main aspect of Machiavelli’s thought had not been republicanism, and, in any case, his republicanism was not associated with liberalism. For Conde, the central issue for Machiavelli had been order, not freedom. And his stature as a fundamental figure of modernity lay in having proposed a close relationship between the political order and the military order. At the same time, for Conde, the features of Machiavelli’s thought that had resulted in the objections of Palacio and Irazusta defined the Machiavelli’s wisdom, a ‘positive, technical and pragmatic’ knowledge: Machiavellian knowledge does not pursue a transcendent objective, nor is it ultimately sanctioned by the idea of a Providence that governs human things and business; wisdom lies in fully understanding human movement, predicting the course of political events and then managing it with the greatest possible perfection. That is why the ‘wise’ prince is not subject to faith or to the word given and must dispense with both when the reasons that led him to give them are lacking. The positive, technical and pragmatic character of Machiavellian knowledge neutralizes from the beginning the sphere of knowledge against moral and religious values.43

As can be seen in this quote, the separation between politics and Christianity defined Machiavelli’s wisdom. In this regard, Conde emphasizes that the separation of Christian morality did not imply immorality, but neutrality: ‘The words good and bad lose their autonomous and substantive moral content to become neutral terms of a mathematical function.’44 For this reason, the knowledge of Machiavelli was defined as ‘technical’. And, at the same time, this neutrality was related to another feature of his thinking: ‘rationality’. Rationality and technique made Machiavelli a foundational theorist of the modern state: ‘The political order will therefore be a highly rational order, where everything is rationally planned and calculated. Through this passage of Machiavelli, we witness the birth of the modern State as a form of ultrarational political organization, with its tendency to rational centralism in the face of traditional and feudal law.’45 In parallel, this rational dimension was complemented by an ‘irrational’ facet, condensed into the notion of virtú. Conde affirmed (in discussion with authors such as Friedrich Meinecke) that Machiavelli’s virtue, which was understood as the ability to anticipate events and the ability to dominate Fortune, has its distinctive feature in persuasion, not in violence: ‘The Machiavellian virtue does not consist only in commanding with violence and ferocity, it consists simultaneously in “persuading”’; ‘Virtú is, after all, that outstanding quality

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of intelligence that allows man to dominate the movement of human things.’46 In another regard, Machiavelli’s relationship with the modern state did not connect him with liberalism. On the contrary, according to Conde, Machiavelli’s objectives or aims were clear: he had been a theorist of order, stability, discipline, even of ‘stillness’ and command, whose model for political order was the military order. Before the concern about corruption, stability had been the main theme of Machiavelli’s thought. Rather than praising the disorder in Roman life, his attention had focused on stability: Political or civil life is the opposite of living in corruption. But there is still another Machiavellian expression that reveals much better the meaning that ‘living political’ has in Machiavelli: it is the word ‘quietness’, ‘live quietly’. True political living is living in true stillness … Machiavelli’s problem … is precisely ‘stability’ … The primary task of political wisdom is to ‘stop’ the movement of human nature, which is as good as stopping human passions.47

Therefore: ‘The “vivere quietly” is founded, then, on coercion.’48 Hence, Machiavelli’s modern trait is ‘the essential link between the political order and the military order’: ‘What is specifically “modern” is that Machiavelli introduces the military order into the very essence of politics, attributing to the State the monopoly of the military.’49 In Conde’s reading, then, Machiavelli seems closer to (and a kind of anticipator of) the work of Max Weber rather than to that of Carl Schmitt. The ‘wisdom’ of Machiavelli is characterized by having proposed rationality and the monopoly of legitimate violence as attributes of the state, and for having noticed the importance of nonrational aspects in political leadership (it does not seem unreasonable to see a connection between Conde’s interpretation of Machiavellian virtue and Weberian charisma, a theme that has been identified as his enduring interest). Certainly, order and stability could be understood as features of Machiavelli that could connect him with liberalism. In fact, Conde compares Machiavelli to Descartes by stating that ‘when Machiavelli has posed to himself the problem of what the ultimate goal of politics is, he has only succeeded in giving an answer, the same that will later be raised by Descartes the axis of “modern” metaphysics: security’.50 However, that is not Conde’s emphasis. In his reading, Machiavelli is an author concerned above all with the aims that political life should achieve, not with the forms of government. And those aims are order and stability. The choice of the best form of government is subordinate to these objectives and depends on another Machiavellian trait: the

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‘wisdom of proportion’ – that is, the relative importance of corruption at a given time in a given society. If it is predominant, the option will be the principality; if it is not, it will be the republic. In other words, Machiavelli’s choice of the republic is not ideological or doctrinal, but pragmatic, in conjunction with his ‘technical knowledge’. According to Conde, for Machiavelli, ‘strictly speaking, there are only two possible ways of politically ordering human reality as a perfect figure: “il vero principato e la vera repubblica”’.51 Republic, in fact, ‘means a global order’.52 In short, for a notorious figure of Spanish anti-liberalism of the first half of the twentieth century like Conde, Machiavelli was an author of order and the state. On the one hand, this means that from his perspective, Machiavelli had not been an author of tyranny or of emergency powers (his objection to linking Machiavelli with the notion of a ‘state of exception’ has been noted). This can be related to visible concerns in Conde’s work, such as the search to link personal and charismatic leaderships with representation and rationality. In another regard, according to Conde, Machiavelli had given a solid foundation to political authority by conferring value neutrality on it. For this reason, the separation between Christian morality and politics did not weaken leadership, but rather strengthened it. Regarding republicanism, or the idea of a republic, these were secondary aspects in Machiavelli’s work, which also had no connection with freedom or liberalism. On the contrary, the horizon of Machiavelli’s republic was order, command, discipline and stability, not freedom. In other words, according to Conde, Machiavelli had proposed an idea of a republic, and of republicanism, similar to that argued for by the Argentine anti-liberals in the 1920s and 1930s and opposed to their later thinking, when they associated Machiavelli and republicanism with liberalism. The positive assessment of Machiavelli by Conde, at least in comparison with that of the Argentine anti-liberals, deserves to be highlighted. Certainly, among Conde’s enduring interests, command and leadership have been emphasized, especially his attention for charismatic forms, and, as has been seen, he understood that Machiavelli had been a pioneer in its identification and study. However, it has also been noted that Machiavelli was not an author who was especially valued by Conde or that, at least, he had ambivalent and oscillating thoughts about him. Conde’s views were developed during the second half of the 1940s. This was because at that time, his efforts were focused on a foundation or a ‘theory’ of ‘caudillaje’ by Francisco Franco in opposition to other versions that circulated about it during the Franco regime, for which he emphasized Catholic and traditionalist traits (to the detriment of

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the populists). In turn, due to the context post-1945, Conde continued this task, highlighting the specifically Spanish character of Franco’s leadership and thus distancing Franco from any reference to Nazism or fascism, with which Conde himself had postulated connections with Machiavelli on some occasions.53

Republicanism and Liberalism Between the late 1920s and the 1950s, Mariano de Vedia y Mitre (1881– 1958) became interested in republicanism and proposed an interpretation that would conflate it with liberalism and democracy. In that interpretation, his reading of Machiavelli played a key role. De Vedia y Mitre’s reflections mainly responded to academic concerns. Unlike the Argentine authors examined in the previous section, he did not actively participate in the press or political writings. Instead, his interest in Machiavelli and in political ideas in general related to his responsibilities as a professor. De Vedia y Mitre was the first Professor of Political Law at the Law School of the University of Buenos Aires, a position he held between 1922 and 1946; this is a facet of his biography that has remained in the background (he is best known for his role as Mayor of Buenos Aires between 1932 and 1938, during the presidency of Agustín Justo). In this sense, de Vedia’s career reveals the resurgence of law studies that occurred in Argentina after the university reform of 1918, which, among other things, required a more systematic and erudite approach to fields of study that until then had been secondary, among them the history of political thought.54 In this position, de Vedia was the promoter of the first book in Argentina published by the university dedicated specifically to the study of the work of Machiavelli (in 1927, on the occasion of the 400th anniversary of his death). Likewise, de Vedia was a pioneer in the history of political ideas from an academic approach (he published a thirteen-volume work on the subject in 1946).55 Throughout these texts, special attention to republicanism and Machiavelli was noted as one of de Vedia’s inevitable references. Machiavelli’s identification with republicanism inspired De Vedia to give a unique characterization of Machiavelli and his work, and an equally particular interpretation of republicanism. De Vedia thinking that the status of Machiavelli as a republican author was based on a specific assessment of his main texts. He considered the Discourses to be Machiavelli’s greatest work and The Prince to be a secondary text. The latter was dedicated to an exceptional situation –

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the political and territorial fragmentation of the Italian peninsula – and therefore also proposed an exceptional solution: princedoms. De Vedia thus discussed two extended traditions of interpreting this book and its author: one that proposed that its subject was the tyrant (and that made Machiavelli synonymous with immorality and an apologetics of arbitrariness – an interpretation with a long and heterogeneous genealogy in the West, with its roots in the sixteenth century and in humanistic, Catholic and Protestant sources), and one that, when faced with this, saw in The Prince a veiled denunciation of arbitrariness.56 On the other hand, in the Discourses, according to de Vedia, Machiavelli had reflected on politics in normal situations, thus revealing his true facet – an author identified with the republic and with freedom as an essential principle: ‘the essence of his thought is included in the Discorsi, where he reasons about the way in which people achieve freedom and are governed by it; in The Prince he discusses the means of founding a new and absolute monarchy to obtain the independence and unity of the country’.57 Machiavelli was ‘passionate about freedom’,58 making the ‘main objective of the government the maintenance of freedom’.59 According to de Vedia, Machiavelli’s republicanism affirmed freedom in an external dimension (the key to his patriotism is the invocation to rid Italy of the barbarians in the last chapter of The Prince), but also in an internal dimension, by proposing the ‘equality of all inhabitants’ – that is, the absence of internal relations of domination. The internal freedom of the city then assumes an equal level of participation in public affairs, combined with a recognition of social diversity. It did not imply anything like the sovereignty of the people or the homogeneity implicit in the idea of one man, one vote. But neither does Macchiavelli allude to the notion of natural inequalities or to a consecration of deferential hierarchies, or to the primacy of the aristocracy or of concord. This was manifested in his notion of mixed government, in which de Vedia noted a rupture with the classics, or at least with the version that Polybius had created. De Vedia proposed that for Machiavelli, a mixed government was conditioned by conflict; this was what explained its nature and virtuous dynamics: the republic in Rome put the Senate in front of the government of the consuls, but the people who did not feel represented in the Senate was a constant and permanent reason for public danger, for conspiracies and seditious movements against the established authority, and Machiavelli adds that Rome owes its republican freedoms to these disagreements between the people and the Senate. If the people had not been alert, with their thoughts, and with their desire for freedom,

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if they had not finally obtained the creation of the tribunes of the people to control the acts of the Senate, the republic would not have existed nor would democracy have emerged.60

Conflict played a decisive role in this. But also, more than the struggles between the rulers and the people, the democratic institutions (the ‘tribunes of the people’) were the guarantors of freedom. That is why de Vedia saw Machiavelli as a democrat: ‘His thinking is essentially democratic.’61 Machiavelli had thought about politics from the interests of the people, not from those of the prince.62 And he had warned about the danger of the aristocracy for a republic: ‘he remains faithful to the principle that the greatest damage to the fate of the State comes from the conduct and action of the privileged classes… He ensures that as long as the magnates exist in the State there cannot be a regime of freedom and equality’.63 Therefore, according to de Vedia, Machiavelli did not teach opposition between republic and democracy. On the contrary – and this was another example of his rupture with the classics – he had been the first author to conceive of the republic in its modern sense, as a ‘popular government’, as he did at the beginning of The Prince (a statement that shows de Vedia saw Machiavellian republicanism in Machiavelli’s two great works).64 In short, the lesson that de Vedia interpreted from the work of Machiavelli was that it provided a convergence between republicanism, liberalism (or, at least, love and commitment to freedom, external and internal to the city) and democracy, which blended the inadequacies of each of these traditions separately or limited their dangers (the ‘individualism’ of liberalism and the despotic potentiality of popular sovereignty).65 In addition, it should be noted that for de Vedia, Machiavelli was a ‘genius’ for having split politics and morality, and thus establishing modern political thought. However, the amorality of his politics did not mean immorality, nor did it open up the way to tyranny. Machiavellian politics had a moral dimension (which had nothing to do with Christianity – the separation of politics and Christianity was another of his outstanding legacies).66 The goal of this moral dimension was the freedom of the people: ‘According to his thought, the reason of State consists in the freedom of the people, in the equality of all the inhabitants of the country, and in the face of this single higher objective the prince can break the promise of faith.’ The morality of Machiavellian politics did not underpin authority, but rather freedom.67

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Such statements can be contrasted with the views of the Argentine anti-liberals discussed in the previous section. The depiction is the same, but the assessment is different, precisely because the portrait is so similar: Machiavelli as an exponent of liberal republicanism. Machiavelli was modern; he did not refer to order and hierarchy, or to politics subordinated to morality (or, in any case, a moral horizon of politics that alludes to freedom in this world and is understood as something different from Christian morality); it ranks conflict above concord, and the democratic element over the aristocratic element (which allowed reconciliation between the republic and democracy, conceiving it as ‘popular government’).68 A comparison between the reading of de Vedia and that of Francisco Conde, on the other hand, yields more nuanced contrasts. For both of them, the separation between Christian morality and politics made by Machiavelli did not make him immoral and was at the same time the trait that justified his stature as the founding father of modernity, either because he was a foundational theorist of the state or because he had proposed a properly political knowledge, independent of moral evaluations. The great difference, of course, lay in the substantive principle that each author gave to Machiavelli’s thought: freedom, according to de Vedia (which, moreover, gave his work a moral horizon); and order and command, according to Conde. De Vedia’s texts were said to have been primarily academic; political motivations cannot be attributed to them (or at least not explicitly), nor are they texts for public consumption, as was usual among Argentine anti-liberals. In any case, they were clearly in opposite political places. De Vedia was linked to Argentine liberalism and not only for reasons related to his dogma (he was the great-nephew of Bartolomé Mitre, President of Argentina between 1862 and 1868, and an key figure in nineteenth-century liberal Argentina along with Juan Bautista Alberdi and Domingo Faustino Sarmiento). It is also worth remembering that he was part of Agustin Justo’s government, which was criticized by Palacio and Irazusta. In fact, de Vedia left his position as professor as soon as Perón came to power in early 1947. Maybe of even more relevance is the fact that he had conflicted directly with the Irazusta brothers (who were considered responsible for preventing them from receiving the municipal literature award, while he was mayor, for their book La Argentina y el imperialismo británico).69 And de Vedia’s works were discussed and cited by Casares and Meinvielle precisely because they saw in him an author who defended Machiavelli and who proposed a notion of politics separate from religion.70

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Conclusions Some final evaluations based on the above coverage will now be given. In the first place, a point already made at the beginning will be revisited: in Argentina, there was interest in the historical and dogmatic characterization of republicanism during the 1920s and, above all, in the coup d’état of 1930. Suggestively, the period opened by the political crisis of 1930 has been defined as a Machiavellian moment.71 This statement can be interpreted in two possible ways: as a scenario of uncertainty that encouraged political and doctrinal reflection; and as an interest in Machiavelli.72 Both tendencies were recognized and linked by some contemporaries.73 Second, the interest in republicanism, the history of republican Rome and Machiavelli indicate an awareness of Italian history, thought and politics.74 From this point onwards, and as often happens, it is possible to find precursors and reconstruct paths in this direction (which is worth studying), going back at least to the Romantic era of the nineteenth century (such as the links between Giuseppe Mazzini’s Young Italy and Young Argentina supported by the generation of 1837 of the above-mentioned Sarmiento or Alberdi), without forgetting the incentive that the massive immigration from Italy between the nineteenth and twentieth centuries created for the roots and expansion of Italian culture in Argentina.75 As far as this is concerned, the studies addressed here show several phenomena to consider in the field of the transnational circulation of knowledge. Beyond his interest in fascism (with which Mariano de Vedia y Mitre linked Machiavelli, explicitly alluding to the connection that Mussolini himself had made with Machiavelli – he had translated and taught the ‘Prelude to Machiavelli’ by Duce, and Leopoldo Lugones had praised Machiavelli for being a forefather of fascism),76 the reading that De Vedia y Mitre gave to Machiavelli as a republican committed to national unity and state building had, among its sources, a whole tradition of reading spread across Italy, and that in the years of the Risorgimento had been reactivated by intellectuals and jurists that de Vedia cited and referred to, such as Luigi Passerini, Gaetano Milanesi, Pietro Fanfani, Francesco de Sanctis, Oreste Tommasini and Vittorio Emmanuele Orlando. Likewise, it can be said that for Julio Irazusta, but especially for Ernesto Palacio, the reading of Machiavelli was influenced by Gaetano Mosca and Vilfredo Pareto, the elite theorists whose impact on these authors is explicit in their texts, such as Palacio’s Teoria del Estado. Third, and returning to the issue of the views displayed on republicanism, it has been shown that authors linked to anti-liberalism and

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figures linked to liberalism, ending up in associating republicanism and liberalism. This similarity deserves to be highlighted because the merging of republicanism and liberalism by Machiavelli did not occur in other contemporary forms of Spanish-speaking political thought, as was seen in the case of Francisco Javier Conde. His reading, compared to the Argentine reception, recognizes similarities with that which occurred in liberalism (Machiavelli understood as a founder of modern political thought due to his separation between politics and Christian morality) as well as in anti-liberalism (Machiavelli conceived of as an author of order and of command and even having resonances in fascism). The most notable contrast between Conde’s and anti-liberal Argentines’ views is focused on not having defined Machiavelli as the author of a republicanism supported by freedom as a substantive principle – a conclusion, as has been noted, that was reached by liberals and anti-liberals in Argentina. On this point, the convergence of republicanism and liberalism was deserving of a critical reception among anti-liberals (for whom Thomism was a source of doctrinal criticism rather than an alternative version of politically viable republicanism). On the contrary, for liberal authors like de Vedia y Mitre, this convergence was understood as a virtuous synthesis. The common and distinctive element was a ‘liberal’ reading of Machiavelli. Four observations can be drawn from this. The first observation is that in Argentine political thought, the synthesis or convergence between liberalism and republicanism was also a new phenomenon, at least since the years of constitutional organization in the mid-nineteenth century. From this point on, the fact that Argentina was a liberal republic had been a central part of the national project and was one of its most enduring consensuses. However, it should not be forgotten that the compatibility between republicanism and liberalism based on their fundamental principles had been questioned by some of the main representatives of local liberalism. Such is the case, for example, for Juan Bautista Alberdi’s objections and criticisms of republicanism (among whose references included Machiavelli) and his values passions (glory and patriotism) based on or inspired by the distinctions of Fustel de Coulanges and Benjamin Constant between the freedom of the ancients and the freedom of the modern era.77 The association of Machiavelli with immorality and drama was also made by Alberdi, Sarmiento and Esteban Echeverría.78 The second observation is that it does not seem unreasonable to conclude that the version of the convergence between republicanism and liberalism with greater future projection, or at least with greater inertial gravitation in Argentine historical common sense, was the one

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formulated by anti-liberalism. In other words, the association of liberal republicanism with the oligarchic domination, or, in any case, with an aristocratic conception, rather than with a repertoire that promotes popular participation, is based on the internal and external freedom of the city and gives a virtuous role to the conflict.79 The marginal, even forgotten character of this last version, as formulated by de Vedia y Mitre, could be attributed to political reasons – that is, to the unpopularity that even today persists in the collective memory of the 1930s and the governments of that time, which de Vedia integrated. His claim for a popular and patriotic republicanism was yet another demonstration of the contrasts between the words and deeds of its protagonists – another imposture of ‘liberal republicanism’. However, from an academic perspective, marginality could be relativized by remembering its place of enunciation, the main place where classes of Argentine elites studied under de Vedia for more than twenty years: the Law School of the University of Buenos Aires. This should also be qualified by considering the predominance that Thomism acquired there. In fact, de Vedia was replaced as Professor of Political Law in 1947 by Faustino Legón, a renowned Thomist-affiliated jurist (whom Arturo Sampay, a lawyer in the constitutional reform promoted by Peronism in 1949, recognized himself as a disciple). From this point of view, his intellectual intervention emerged as a symptom of the declining liberalism in ideas and in the Argentine intellectual field of the time, and even of its cultural significance in a broader sense. The third observation is that the infrequency of a republican modulation in liberalism, or of an incorporation of republicanism into liberal thought (at least inspired by a republican reading of Machiavelli like the one offered by de Vedia) informs us about some features of Argentine liberalism and not only of its decline. On the one hand, it reveals versions that have been little explored so far, which add streaks and richness to its physiognomy. On the other hand, and in relation to the above, if this reflection was opposed to that of anti-liberalism, it also had elements that confronted nineteenth-century liberalism, which had been suspicious of republicanism and Machiavelli himself (as de Vedia had warned and argued).80 The fourth and last observation is that the repudiation of or disdain for Machiavelli (and especially of a republican Machiavelli) within Argentine anti-liberalism during the first half of the twentieth century, as well as for the liberalism of the 1800s, shows a perhaps surprising concordance at first glance between political and ideological antithesis. And it suggests a hypothesis to think transversally about Argentine political thought: the difficulty to incorporate the conflict into politi-

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cal reflection (replaced by various versions of the consensus or of the agent assumed to achieve it: the state, the church, the market, etc.). Such prudence or suspicion could even be conceived as a difficulty in thinking about politics if one assumes that one of its distinguishing characteristics is conflict.81 Leandro Losada is a specialist in the history of elites and of political thought in Spanish America. He is a researcher for the State Council for Scientific and Technical Research (CONICET), and Associate Professor and Director of the Institute for Political Research (IIP) at the State University of San Martín (UNSAM), Argentina. He has been Wallace Fellow at I Tatti, the Harvard University Center for Italian Renaissance Studies (Florence), and visiting researcher at the École des Hautes Études en Sciences Sociales (Paris), Universidad Complutense de Madrid, Centro de Estudios Políticos y Constitucionales (Madrid), Universitat de Girona, Università degli Studi di Milano, Università per Stranieri di Siena and Freie Universität Berlin. His writing has been published in academic journals in Spain, Germany, Mexico, Colombia, the United States and Canada. His most relevant books are La alta sociedad en la Buenos Aires de la Belle Époque (2008), Historia de las elites en la Argentina (2009) and Maquiavelo en la Argentina (2019).

Notes 1. Losada, Política y vida pública; Halperin Donghi, Vida y muerte; Halperin Donghi, Argentina y la tormenta del mundo; Halperin Donghi, La República Imposible. 2. Rock, Argentina autoritaria; Zanatta, Del estado liberal a la nación católica; Potash, Ejército y la política; Rouquié, Poder militar y sociedad; Tato, Viento de fronda; Prislei, Fascismo argentino; Finchelstein, Fascismo trasatlántico. 3. Devoto, Nacionalismo; Devoto, ‘Para una reflexión en torno al golpe del 4 de junio de 1943’; Pasolini, Marxistas liberales; Zanca, Cristianos antifascistas; Nállim, Transformación y crisis del liberalismo. 4. Halperin Donghi, ‘Argentina: Liberalism in a Country Born Liberal’; Roldán, ‘La cuestión liberal’. 5. Sabato, Republics of the New World. 6. Botana, Tradición republicana. 7. Myers, Orden y virtud. 8. Entín, ‘Catholic Republicanism’. 9. Roldán, Crear la democracia. 10. I have studied this issue in depth in Losada, Maquiavelo en la Argentina. 11. Zuleta Álvarez, Nacionalismo argentino; Buchrucker, Nacionalismo y peronismo; Zanatta, Del estado liberal. 12. Devoto, Nacionalismo; Zanca, Cristianos.

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13. Irazusta, ‘Con motivo del sufragio universal’; Irazusta, ‘El aniversario de la Constitución’. 14. Devoto, Nacionalismo, 169–262. 15. A mixed government could occur in ‘monarchies, aristocracies or republics’. Thus, a fluctuation can be perceived in the use of the notion of the republic as a form of society and as a form of government, and in this sense, as a synonym of the best formula (mixed government), and as a particular variant of that ideal formula. Facing this, Irazusta poses ‘democratic republic’, an expression that seems to combine criticism of liberal democracy (democracy as an inexorable derivation of liberal individualism expressed in universal suffrage) with the notion of the classical roots of democracy as government of a sector of society (the most numerous). The ‘democratic republics’ ‘deny multiplicity that is a condition of mentioned hierarchy (natural) and aspire uniformity through the sacrifice of all the classes for benefitting only one’: Irazusta, ‘Forma mixta de gobierno’, 58–59. 16. Irazusta, ‘República y democracia’. 17. The relevance of Charles Maurras, an author often associated with this variant of nacionalismo, has also been highlighted. See Devoto, Nacionalismo, 200–1. 18. Meinvielle, Concepción católica de la política, 160–87. 19. It should be said that this category, postulated by Zuleta Álvarez, alludes above all to a mode of political action (that the Argentine republican institutions must have assumed instead of fortifying an authoritarian regime inspired by European experiences) more than to a dogmatic position. 20. Palacio, Catilina, 132. On the role of the aristocracy, see also Palacio, Historia de Roma, 20. 21. Palacio, Catilina, 168–69. 22. Díaz de Vivar, Ideas, 26. 23. Díaz de Vivar, Ideas, 64–65. 24. Irazusta, Tito Livio, 287; see also 11–20, 179–91. 25. Irazusta, Tito Livio, 106. 26. Irazusta, Tito Livio, 81. 27. Irazusta, Tito Livio, 286–96. 28. Irazusta, Tito Livio, 185. 29. By the 1920s, another famous anti-liberal intellectual, Leopoldo Lugones, had already questioned the republic and defended the empire: see Lugones, ‘Historia del dogma’. 30. Irazusta, Tito Livio, 17–20, 98–99, 124–26, 163–66. 31. Irazusta, Tito Livio, 130. 32. Devoto and Pagano, Historia de la historiografía, 201–85; Halperin Donghi, Historiografía; Cattaruzza and Eujanián, Políticas de la historia. 33. Zuleta Álvarez, Nacionalismo, vol. I, 263–414; vol. II, 423–508; Losada, ‘Las elites y los “males”’; Devoto, ‘Acerca de la clase dirigente’. 34. The invocation of dictatorship against the republic (which was especially explicit in Palacio’s work) can also be thought of as a symptom of the association of republicanism and liberalism, whereas it is an inconsistent characteristic of modernity, and not one of the Roman republic. Maybe it

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38. 39. 40.

41.

42.

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is inappropriate to propose that these authors were unaware of the republican roots of the dictatorship in Rome. However, they did understand it as an instrument of instability before an institution of preservation of order in exceptional situations. The dictatorship for Palacio is a synonym of the separation of legality and the revolutionary rupture, while for Irazusta, it is an expression of the aporias of the republic and not its virtues, because it put at risk in the long term the normative framework (and this consequently relativized the boundaries between republic and empire). Irazusta, Tito Livio, 145–66. As cited above, for Palacio, ‘la perfección del régimen republicano requiere la existencia de una clase gobernante consubstancializada [sic] con el bien público, de una verdadera aristocracia’. Palacio, Catilina, 132. Irazusta recognizes and numbers the conflicts of republican Rome, but in them, he sees an imperfection in the constitutional design before the cause of a ‘free government’: Irazusta, Tito Livio, 111–20. Moreover, his considerations on the relationship between republic, war and conquest can be read as a discussion with Machiavelli, because if it is argued that he recognized the role of war to guarantee and extend the internal and external freedom of the city (the external freedom to ignite the vivere político through an armed peoples). He also criticized war that was guided by the desire for conquest and opposed greatness and freedom. See Viroli, De la política a la razón de Estado, 196–99. Palacio, Catilina, 181–82; Irazusta, Tito Livio, 100–1; Casares, Conocimiento, 53–73. See, for example, the critique of Palacio in Sampay, Introducción a la teoría del Estado, 468–69. Palacio, Teoría del Estado. In any case, it can be said that this text is more in debt to the theory of the elites of the Italian ‘neomachiavellis’ (Gaetano Mosca and Vilfredo Pareto) than to that of Machiavelli. These authors, along with Spengler, Ortega y Gasset, Toynbee, Taine and Renan, can be found among his references. See Irazusta, Tito Livio, 20. The positive invocations to Machiavelli existed in local anti-liberalism, but especially in the works of authors that were far from Catholicism, at least during a large part of their public and intellectual career. This was the case for Leopoldo Lugones, who nevertheless understood Machiavelli as a precursor to fascism (as Mussolini himself had) before an eventual antiliberal republicanism. The association between Machiavelli and fascism can also be found in the work of Marcelo Sánchez Sorondo, who also advises an aristocratizing inflexion in the interpretation of Machiavelli when relating his thought to a political biology and an aesthetic (an ‘art’) made ‘for a minority’. Lugones, ‘Elogio de Maquiavelo’, 297–301 (originally published in La Nación, 19 June 1927); Sánchez Sorondo, Clase dirigente. Irazusta admitted his ‘delay’ in knowing Tito Livio and from there the republican historiography, detailing that he read it for the first time between 1932 and 1933 – in other words, after the phase of the La Nueva República: Irazusta, Tito Livio, 11. In the long run, these interventions can even be read from a different position – for example, in the long tradition (as far

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43. 44. 45. 46.

47. 48. 49. 50. 51. 52. 53. 54. 55. 56.

57. 58. 59. 60. 61. 62. 63. 64. 65. 66. 67.

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back as the fifteenth century) of Thomist objection to Machiavelli in Hispanic American political thought. On the other hand, the mix of classic republicanism and Catholic republicanism was not unusual during the time of colonial rupture at the beginning of the nineteenth century (of course, if these were to invoke freedom and not hierarchies). See González García and Herrera Guillén, Maquiavelo en España; Entín, ‘Catholic Republicanism’. Conde, El saber político, 154. Conde, El saber político, 171. Conde, El saber político, 198. Conde, El saber político, 179–80; see also 172–77. Conde specifies here, in what seems to be a counterpoint to Carl Schmitt (with whom Conde had been close, and whom he does not quote in this passage), that the ‘irrational dimension’ of Machiavelli’s policy does not mean understanding his doctrine ‘as theory of “cases of exception” or states of necessity. [Well, this] is equivalent to transplanting into his work notions and concepts that only have a reason for being within the coordinates of the political theory of the 19th and 20th centuries’. Conde, El saber político, 162–63. Conde, El saber político, 164. Conde, El saber político, 201. Conde, El saber político, 204. Conde, El saber político, 196. Conde, El saber político, 188. ‘Fascist irrationalism is, in reality, as a last resonance of Machiavellian rationalism, although of an inverse sign’, quoted in Saz, ‘Franco, ¿caudillo fascista?’, 43. Buchbinder, ¿Revolución en los claustros?; Agüero and Eujanián Variaciones del reformismo; Arlotti, ‘Lecciones’. Losada, ‘Republicanismo y liberalismo’. De Vedia y Mitre, Derecho Político, vol. 1, 291; de Vedia y Mitre, Historia de las ideas, vol. V, 332–34; Ruffo-Fiore, Machiavelli. As seen in the previous section, for the Spanish Conde, Machiavelli had been an author of order and command, but not of tyranny. De Vedia y Mitre, Maquiavelo, XLVIII. De Vedia y Mitre, Derecho Político, vol. 1, 286. De Vedia y Mitre, Maquiavelo, XLIV; see also de Vedia y Mitre, Historia de las ideas, vol. V, 302. De Vedia y Mitre, Maquiavelo, XLIV. De Vedia y Mitre, Derecho Político, vol. 1, 272. De Vedia y Mitre, Derecho Político, vol. 1, 290. De Vedia y Mitre, Derecho Político, vol. 1, 275; de Vedia y Mitre, Historia de las ideas, vol. V, 310. De Vedia y Mitre, Historia de las ideas, vol. V, 306–9. Losada, ‘Soberanía y libertad’. De Vedia y Mitre, Historia de las ideas, vol. V, 287–88. De Vedia y Mitre, Derecho Político, vol. 1, 286; see also Losada, ‘Republicanismo y liberalismo’.

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68. Another author who wrote on the subject of local liberalism was José Luis Romero, who was also interested in republican Rome and Machiavelli, conceiving him as a ‘modern’ and as a republican (noting, in any case, the tensions of his republicanism with liberalism). See Romero, La crisis de la República Romana; Romero, Maquiavelo historiador. 69. Gálvez, Recuerdos, 654–56; Mutsuki, Julio Irazusta, 103. 70. Casares, Conocimiento, 53; Meinvielle, Concepción, 73–74. 71. Halperin Donghi, Argentina y la Tormenta, 81. 72. Pocock, El momento maquiavélico. 73. Astrada, La Real Politik; Romero, Maquiavelo historiador. 74. Barbano et al., Sociologia, storia, positivismo. 75. Patat, Un destino sudamericano. 76. See note 41; Mitarotondo, Un preludio a Machiavelli. 77. Some of the interpretations have framed this contrast in terms of two republican traditions: one classic and the other modern (or liberal). See Carozzi and Ferrero, ‘El siglo XIX’. 78. Losada, Maquiavelo en la Argentina, 23–39. 79. A projection that, indeed, cannot only be attributed to a nationalist publicist view. Public life and political discourses reveal similar topics, inspired by the discussions on circumstances, repertoires and political party traditions and personal judgements: see Losada, ‘El ocaso de la “Argentina liberal”’. 80. De Vedia y Mitre, Historia general, vol. XIII, 52–53 and 104–7; Losada, ‘Republicanismo y liberalismo’. 81. Esposito, Confines de lo político, 19–37.

Bibliography Agüero, Ana Clarisa, and Alejandro Eujanián (eds). Variaciones del reformismo. Tiempos y experiencias. Rosario: Universidad Nacional de Rosario, 2018. Arlotti, Raúl. ‘Las primeras lecciones de Derecho Político en la Facultad de Derecho y Ciencias Sociales de la UBA’, in Tulio Ortiz (ed.), Nuevos aportes a la historia de la Facultad de Derecho de la Universidad de Buenos Aires (Buenos Aires: Facultad de Derecho, UBA, 2014), 47–82. Astrada, Carlos. La Real Politik. De Maquiavelo a Spengler. Córdoba: Estudio Gráfico Biffignandi, 1924. Barbano, Filippo, Carlos Barbe, Mariella Berra, Mabel Olivieri et al., Sociologia, storia, positivismo. Messico, Brasile, Argentina e L’Italia. Milan: Franco Angeli, 1992. Botana, Natalio. La tradición republicana. Alberdi, Sarmiento y las ideas políticas de su tiempo. Buenos Aires: Sudamericana, 1997. Buchbinder, Pablo. ¿Revolución en los claustros? La reforma universitaria de 1918. Buenos Aires: Sudamericana, 2012. Buchrucker, Cristian. Nacionalismo y peronismo. La Argentina en la crisis ideológica mundial (1927–1955). Buenos Aires: Sudamericana, 1987.

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Carozzi, Silvana, and Maximiliano Ferrero. ‘El siglo XIX rioplatense y el ensayo liminar de una nación republicana’, in Gabriela Rodríguez Rial (ed.), República y republicanismos. Conceptos, tradiciones y prácticas en pugna (Buenos Aires: Miño y Dávila, 2016), 227–44. Casares, Tomás. Conocimiento, política y moral. Jerarquías espirituales. Buenos Aires: Docencia, 1981. Cattaruzza, Alejandro, and Alejandro Eujanián. Políticas de la historia. Argentina, 1860–1960. Buenos Aires: Alianza, 2003. Conde, Francisco Javier. El saber político de Maquiavelo. Madrid: Instituto Nacional de Estudios Jurídicos, Ministerio de Justicia and CSIC, 1948. De Vedia y Mitre, Mariano. Curso de Derecho Político, 2 vols. Buenos Aires: Biblioteca Jurídica, 1934. ———. Derecho Político General, 2 vols. Buenos Aires: Kraft, 1952. ———. Historia general de las ideas políticas, 13 vols. Buenos Aires: Kraft, 1946. ———. (ed.). Maquiavelo. Buenos Aires: Facultad de Derecho y Ciencias Sociales, Universidad de Buenos Aires, 1927. Devoto, Fernando. Nacionalismo, fascismo y tradicionalismo en la Argentina moderna. Buenos Aires: Siglo XXI, 2002. ———. ‘Para una reflexión en torno al golpe del 4 de junio de 1943’. Estudios sociales 46(1) (2014), 171–86. ———. ‘Acerca de la clase dirigente como problema en el pensamiento de la derecha nacionalista argentina’, in Carlos Altamirano and Adrián Gorelik (eds), La Argentina como problema (Buenos Aires: Siglo XXI, 2018), 207–21. Devoto, Fernando, and Nora Pagano. Historia de la historiografía en la Argentina. Buenos Aires: Sudamericana, 2009. Díaz de Vivar, Joaquín. Ideas para una biología de la democracia. Buenos Aires: La Facultad, 1937. Entín, Gabriel. ‘Catholic Republicanism: The Creation of the Spanish American Republics during Revolution’. Journal of the History of Ideas 79 (2018), 105–23. Esposito, Roberto. Confines de lo político. Nueve pensamientos sobre política. Madrid: Trotta, 1996. Finchelstein, Federico. Fascismo trasatlántico. Ideología, violencia y sacralidad en Argentina y en Italia, 1919–1945. Buenos Aires: FCE, 2010. Gálvez, Manuel. Recuerdos de la vida literaria. Entre la novela y la historia. En el mundo de los seres reales. Buenos Aires: Taurus, 2003. González García, Moisés, and Rafael Herrera Guillén (eds). Maquiavelo en España y Latinoamérica (del siglo XVI al XXI). Madrid: Tecnos, 2014. Halperin Donghi, Tulio. ‘Argentina: Liberalism in a Country Born Liberal’, in Joseph Love and Nils Jacobsen (eds), Guiding the Invisible Hand: Economic Liberalism and the State in Latin America (New York: Praeger, 1988), 99–117. ———. Ensayos de Historiografía. Buenos Aires: El Cielo por Asalto, 1996. ———. Vida y muerte de la República verdadera (1910–1930). Buenos Aires: Ariel, 1999. ———. La Argentina y la tormenta del mundo. Ideas e ideologías entre 1930 y 1945. Buenos Aires: Siglo XXI, 2003.

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———. La República Imposible (1930–1945). Buenos Aires: Ariel, 2004. Irazusta, Julio. Tito Livio. O del imperialismo en relación con las formas de gobierno y la evolución histórica. Mendoza: Universidad Nacional de Cuyo, 1951. ———. ‘La forma mixta de gobierno (31-1-1928)’, in Julio Irazusta (ed.), El pensamiento político nacionalista. T. 1. De Alvear a Yrigoyen (Buenos Aires: Obligado, 1975), 55–59. ———. ‘República y democracia (15-3-1928)’, in Julio Irazusta (ed.), El pensamiento político nacionalista. T. 1. De Alvear a Yrigoyen (Buenos Aires: Obligado, 1975), 79–82. Irazusta, Rodolfo. ‘Con motivo del sufragio universal (28-4-1928)’, in Julio Irazusta (ed.), El pensamiento político nacionalista. T. 1. De Alvear a Yrigoyen (Buenos Aires: Obligado, 1975), 96–104. ———. ‘El aniversario de la Constitución (5-5-1928)’, in Julio Irazusta (ed.), El pensamiento político nacionalista. T. 1. De Alvear a Yrigoyen (Buenos Aires: Obligado, 1975), 105–106. Losada, Leandro. ‘Las elites y los “males” de la Argentina. Juicios e interpretaciones en tres momentos del siglo XX’. Desarrollo Económico 54(214) (2015), 387–409. ———. ‘El ocaso de la “Argentina liberal” y la tradición republicana. Reflexiones en torno a los discursos públicos de Agustín Justo, Roberto Ortiz y Marcelo T. de Alvear, 1930–1943’. Estudios sociales 54(1) (2018), 43–66. ———. ‘Soberanía y libertad. Balances y diagnósticos de Mariano de Vedia y Mitre sobre el liberalismo (Argentina, 1920–1950)’. Anuario IEHS 33(2) (2018), 39–60. ———. Maquiavelo en la Argentina. Usos y lecturas, 1830–1940. Buenos Aires: Katz Editores, 2019. ———. ‘Republicanismo y liberalismo en la Argentina. Mariano de Vedia y Mitre (1920–1950)’. Ayer. Revista de historia contemporánea 119(3) (2020), 109–34. ———. (ed.). Política y vida pública. Argentina (1930–1943). Buenos Aires: Imago Mundi, 2017. Lugones, Leopoldo. ‘Historia del dogma’. Boletín de la Facultad de Derecho y Ciencias Sociales I (1921), 1–112. ———. ‘Elogio de Maquiavelo’. Repertorio Americano XV(19) (1927), 297–301. Meinvielle, Julio. Concepción católica de la política. Buenos Aires: Cursos de Cultura Católica, 1941. Mitarotondo, Laura. Un preludio a Machiavelli. Letture e interpretazioni fra Mussolini e Gramsci. Turin: G. Giappichelli, 2016. Mutsuki, Noriko. Julio Irazusta. Treinta años de nacionalismo argentino. Buenos Aires: Biblos, 2004. Myers, Jorge. Orden y virtud. El discurso republicano en el régimen rosista. Bernal: Universidad Nacional de Quilmes, 1995. Nállim, Jorge. Transformación y crisis del liberalismo. Su desarrollo en la Argentina en el período 1930–1955. Buenos Aires: Gedisa, 2014. Palacio, Ernesto. Catilina contra la oligarquía. Buenos Aires: Rosso, 1935. ———. Historia de Roma. Buenos Aires: Albatros, 1939.

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———. Teoría del Estado. Buenos Aires: Eudeba, 1973. Patat, Alejandro. Un destino sudamericano. La letteratura italiana in Argentina (1910–1970). Perugia: Guerra, 2005. Pasolini, Ricardo. Los marxistas liberales. Antifascismo y cultura comunista en la Argentina del siglo XX. Buenos Aires: Sudamericana, 2013. Pocock, John G.A. El momento maquiavélico. El pensamiento político florentino y la tradición republicana atlántica. Madrid: Tecnos, 2008. Potash, Robert. El Ejército y la política argentina. Tomo I: 1928–1945. De Yrigoyen a Perón. Buenos Aires: Hyspamérica, 1986. Prislei, Leticia. Los orígenes del fascismo argentino. Buenos Aires: Edhasa, 2008. Rock, David. La Argentina autoritaria. Los nacionalistas, su historia y su influencia en la vida pública. Buenos Aires: Ariel, 1993. Roldán, Darío (ed.). Crear la democracia. La Revista Argentina de Ciencias Políticas y el debate en torno de la República Verdadera. Buenos Aires: FCE, 2006. ———. ‘La cuestión liberal en la Argentina en el siglo XIX. Política, sociedad, representación’, in Beatriz Bragoni and Eduardo Míguez (eds), Un nuevo orden político. Provincias y estado nacional, 1852–1880 (Buenos Aires: Biblos, 2010), 275–91. Romero, José Luis. La crisis de la República Romana. Los Gracos y la recepción de la política imperial helenística. Buenos Aires: Losada, 1942. ———. Maquiavelo historiador. Buenos Aires: Signos, 1970. Rouquié, Alain. Poder militar y sociedad política en la Argentina. Tomo I. hasta 1943. Buenos Aires: Emecé, 1998. Ruffo-Fiore, Silvia. Niccolo Machiavelli: An Annotated Bibliography of Modern Criticism and Scholarship. Westport, CT: Greenwood Press, 1990. Sabato, Hilda. Republics of the New World: The Revolutionary Political Experiment in Nineteenth-Century Latin America. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2018. Sampay, Arturo. Introducción a la teoría del Estado. Buenos Aires: Politeia, 1951. Sánchez Sorondo, Marcelo. La clase dirigente y la crisis del régimen. Buenos Aires: Adsum, 1941. Saz, Ismael. ‘Franco, ¿caudillo fascista? Sobre las sucesivas y contradictorias concepciones falangistas del caudillaje franquista’. Historia y Política 27 (2012), 27–50. Tato, María Inés. Viento de fronda. Liberalismo, conservadurismo y democracia en la Argentina, 1911–1932. Buenos Aires: Sudamericana, 2004. Viroli, Maurizio. De la política a la razón de Estado. La adquisición y transformación del lenguaje político (1250–1600). Madrid: Akal, 2009. Zanatta, Loris. Del estado liberal a la nación católica. Iglesia y Ejército en los orígenes del peronismo. 1930–1943. Bernal: Universidad Nacional de Quilmes, 1996. Zanca, José. Cristianos antifascistas: conflictos en la cultura católica argentina, 1936–1959. Buenos Aires: Siglo XXI, 2013. Zuleta Álvarez, Enrique. El nacionalismo argentino, 2 vols. Buenos Aires: La Bastilla, 1976.

Chapter 5

The Idea of Latinità in the Political Culture of Fascism in Latin America The Argentine Case Federica Bertagna

å

Prodromes The objective of this chapter is to analyse how the idea of latinità played a role in the dissemination of fascism in Latin America, concentrating on the case of Argentina, a country that, due to the sociodemographic weight of Italians there (far superior to that in any other migratory destination), attracted the attention of Mussolini’s regime, as had happened with Italian governments from the unification onwards.1 To this end, it is useful to reconstruct the context for the operation that fascism wanted to conduct, analysing the meanings attributed up to that moment to the idea of latinità in relation to Latin America – that is, the political and cultural uses of the term. Regarding Italy, it can be said that before fascism, the concept of latinità and the relationship with Latin America ran on parallel tracks that almost did not intersect. On the one hand, during the Risorgimento, the idea that Italy was the heir to Rome – Giuseppe Mazzini’s Terza Roma, after imperial Rome and that of the popes2 – was very present and also linked to this the idea that Italy had a civilizing mission, but that this mission would take place in Europe and, eventually, Africa.3 On the other hand, Latin America towards the middle of the nineteenth century was still something exotic, if not strange: when Paolo Mantegazza, the founder of Italian anthropology, travelled to the region, he described the populations of the Argentine inland as the sole

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(and negative in his opinion) result of the intermarriage between Indians and Spaniards.4 Everything changed in the second half of the century, when thousands and later tens of thousands of Italian emigrants began to settle in Río de la Plata. The formation of these large communities was viewed by some of the ruling class as potentially advantageous from an economic and commercial rather than a political point of view. Some went even further and came to speak of Argentina as a potential ‘Italian Australia’, as the geographer, economist and diplomat Cristoforo Negri had already predicted in 1864, believing that Italy could have a level of economic influence that could match that of England in Australia. In fact, between 1870 and 1914, while Italian emigration to the South American continent became a ‘flood’ in Argentina itself, it was in Africa that Italy tried to ‘become great’, with varying degrees of success. In Latin America, Italy did make itself present, but, with the partial exception of Francesco Crispi’s government, the initiatives were almost always private (such as those of the Società Dante Alighieri, founded in Florence to protect and promote Italian culture in the world), and directed in any case exclusively at the Italian communities, or directly emerging from them (such as the Italian schools, created and financed for the most part by the mutual aid societies of emigrants).5 Argentina was by far the country in which the Italian projection was most deeply concentrated. Nevertheless, very early on, at the beginning of the twentieth century, views on the South American republic had already begun to be ambivalent: on the one hand, for many liberals, it continued to be a virtuous model of successful emigration;6 on the other hand, the interest shown towards the emigrants living there and the preservation of their italianità became a concern for the Italian ruling class in the face of the rapid assimilation that travellers, intellectuals and journalists began to report taking place there.7 With prosperous communities that contained almost a million emigrants born in Italy, Argentina became a negative emblem of this process when Italian nationalism coalesced into a political movement in around 1910. Around the centenary of its independence, Argentina became the example by definition of the damage caused by emigration and the target of the nationalist campaign that opposed this colonial expansion in Africa.8 In 1912, when Italy conquered Libya by defeating Turkey, the rhetoric of the Terza Roma returned, i.e. the idea that Italy should realize the ‘Latin unity’ and should affirm, ‘against the opinion of the Teutons and Anglo-Saxons’, its historical right to expansion. This right was given within a space that continued to be the Mediterranean (which

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was otherwise unavoidable in terms of military expansion): ‘the perimeter of the natural Latin seed is always between the Adriatic and the Mediterranean’.9 On the other hand, the attribution to Central and South America of a Latin belonging/identity and of the same name ‘Latin’ to the region already had a long history beyond Italy, beginning shortly after the middle of the nineteenth century, more or less contemporaneously inside and outside the Latin American continent. In both cases, it was built in contrast to the Anglo-Saxon identity of North America and partly also as a reaction to the imperialist policy of the United States (in this sense, the link between ideas and policies was constant).10 However, until the end of the century, this process seems to have only marginally involved Argentina. The idea of the existence of Latin races circulated in Europe, especially in France during the Second Empire.11 These Latin races were present in Europe itself, but also in the Spanish and Portuguese Americas, and France had to lead them.12 This was a project that would return, in a rather defensive way, when the disastrous defeat of France in the war against Prussia in 1870 resulted in the threat of PanGermanism and Pan-Slavism on the European continent.13 In Latin America, on the other hand, the Colombian José María Torres Caicedo is considered to be the one who first used the expression ‘Latin America’ in 1856 in his poem ‘Las dos Américas’, in which he contrasted ‘The race of Latin America’ with the ‘American Saxon’, which was seen as a threat to the former’s freedom. At the end of the century, when the United States triumphed against Spain in the war over the island of Cuba in 1898, North America’s military superiority and modernity was made clear, making more evident the threat that the United States could represent for Latin America, and once again the idea of latinità appeared in many intellectual and political projects.14 With respect to intellectual projects, two very different works in particular made fundamental contributions to the definition of latinità, which had remained quite vague and undetermined up to that point. Both the short polemic article ‘El triunfo de Calibán’ by the Nicaraguan Rubén Darío, published in 1898, as well as the much more articulated essay “Ariel” by the Uruguayan José Enrique Rodó, published two years later, established a double and opposed association that would become very significant: that between the Latin world and ‘spiritual’ vocation on the one hand, and that between the Anglo-Saxon world and the ‘material’ on the other hand.15 In Argentina between the middle and the end of the nineteenth century, this contrast was not present; moreover, the founding texts of its

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political literature had at their core an almost opposite idea of civilization and progress. In Facundo,16 published by Domingo Faustino Sarmiento in 1845, the antithesis between European and North American civilization, and South American barbarism dominated, and the model to follow for Argentina was represented by the advanced capitalist countries. In his Bases17 of 1852, Juan Bautista Alberdi, who like Sarmiento was a representative of the so-called ‘generation of 1837’, argued that in order to promote Argentine civilization, it was necessary to attract capital and build railways, but above all to import men, businessmen and immigrants from the most advanced countries in Europe, and in particular from the Anglo-Saxon countries, so that they would provide their virtuous behaviour model to the ‘criollos’ and over time would cancel the colonial heritage of Spain, which was identified with ‘backwardness’. On the other hand, in neither of the two works was there the idea of latinità as a relevant factor of identity.18 Confirming how much of Argentine thought was sui generis, Sarmiento’s ideas would be severely criticized by one of the greatest Latin American intellectuals of the nineteenth century, the Cuban José Martí. His work Nuestra América, published in 1891, is considered one of the most important manifestos of the union of Latin American countries. Martí criticized Sarmiento’s cosmopolitan vision: to his dichotomy between ‘external’ civilization and ‘internal’ barbarism, Martí contrasted the opposition between ‘false scholarship’ and ‘nature’, the latter being understood as the identity of Latin America.19 However, the vision of Sarmiento and Alberdi was dominant, if not undisputed, in Argentina until the centenary of the Declaration of Independence of 1910. If indeed in Argentina, as well as in other Latin American countries, the ‘disaster’ of Spain in 1898 contributed to promoting a redefinition of identity in a ‘criollista’ sense, this same redefinition, which clearly included Hispanic components, would reach a relevant point only in the context of 1910. At that time, the relationship with this pre-existing component was once again decidedly valued as the strong basis of a national identity that was now considered to be threatened by the flood of immigration and foremost by the Italian ‘invasion:’ in the national census of 1914, foreigners would account for almost 30% the total population of the country, and 12.5% of the total population were Italian. Within this framework, a new generation of nationalist intellectuals (such as Ricardo Rojas and Manuel Gálvez) began a process of recovering the Spanish legacy, repudiated in Argentina from the independence process onwards,20 a process that would culminate in 1917, when the date of 12 October was declared a national holiday as ‘Día de la Raza’.

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Meanwhile, in Europe, the repercussions of the First World War once again raised the urgency of the need for a union between the Latin countries against Pan-Germanism and the new enemy, Slavic Bolshevism. As the Argentine nationalist intellectual and politician Ernesto Palacio noted, latinità had its moment of glory at that time.21 Italy, which entered the war in 1915 on the side of the Allied powers, actively participated in this climate of ideas. In particular, between 1916 and 1919, the Rivista delle nazioni latine was published: codirected by the Italian sociologist and historian Guglielmo Ferrero and the French writer Julien Luchaire, it proposed an alliance between Italy and France to end German political-cultural hegemony and build a new Europe around the ‘Latin genius’.22 On another note, in 1918, the poet Gabriele D’Annunzio made his call ‘To the Italians of the Latin Republics’, inviting the Italian emigrants in Latin America to contribute to the war effort of one of their ‘two homelands’, with an implicit recognition that their sense of Italian national belonging was at least shared with a similar sentiment towards their countries of residence.23 In the postwar period, at least until the beginning of the 1920s, the Pan-Latinist proposals maintained a varied political colour and, in some cases, a mixed one (like many other initiatives born in a postwar context dominated by chaos and the collapse of the idea of European civilization), but they would progressively lose the democratic connotation they had possessed during the conflict. In this sense, a good barometer of the old and new dynamics around the idea of latinità was the Association de la Presse Latine.24 Founded in 1923, up until 1935 it brought together hundreds of journalists from ‘Latin’ European countries and Latin America, and organized a series of conferences on both sides of the Atlantic Ocean in order to increase the visibility and strengthen positions in the international cultural field of those countries themselves. Three facts should be noted here. First, as the name indicates (even if the one who coined the term was a Portuguese living in Paris), France remained the engine of the main Pan-Latinist initiatives in Europe, as it had been since the middle of the previous century. Second, aggregations of this type – with European roots and French leadership – were generally supported by the Latin American elites, insofar as they allowed them to reaffirm their autonomy and disassociate themselves from Hispanic-Americanism, which despite a fleeting return in the context of 1898, still had a negative colonial association. Third, if the axis of latinità continued to swing around France, fascist Italy would appear: one of Mussolini’s star journalists, Mario Appelius, was in fact the Italian delegate at the Congress of the Association in Cuba in 1928 and reaffirmed that all the Latin

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‘sister’ nations of Europe and Latin America had a mother: Rome. In his greeting to the Congress, Mussolini himself reiterated the concept: LEGATION OF ITALY. – HAVANA. Your Honour, please make yourself an interpreter with the Organizing Committee of the VII Congress of the Latin Press of my warm gratitude for the kind phrases that you have just telegraphed and for the thoughts directed towards Italy and Rome. May the name and spirit of Rome, the imperishable centre of latinità, animate the work of the Congress to which I send my most fervent wishes. MUSSOLINI.25

At this point, it is necessary to take a step back in order to see what latinità meant for Benito Mussolini, and how the relationship between fascism and Latin America was formed following his rise to power in 1922.

Rise We must all facilitate the creation of a large Latin bloc. Not only the Iberian nations, but the Latin republics turn their gaze to Rome and Paris … Anything that will be attempted in the sense of a more intimate understanding among us, among the Latin nations in general, deserves to be encouraged and praised. France and Italy are made to understand each other. We do not speak of Latin blood: the race is a very vague entity, so many are the mixtures over the centuries; but civilization, culture constitute an admirable common heritage. With a Frenchman, we immediately find ourselves in confidence on an identical level; with an Englishman, we must already make an effort to understand each other; with a German, the difference is still more accentuated, and a real abyss separates us from a Russian.26

Mussolini’s ideas on the most convenient form of international relations for Italy and on the ‘spirit of the peoples’ would change radically compared to those expressed in the above interview carried out by a correspondent of a Parisian newspaper in December 1927 but his conception of latinità would remain substantially unchanged throughout his two decades in power: Latinness was not a race, but a civilization, spread out through Europe (Italy, France and the Iberian Peninsula) and the Americas (the Latin republics), and Italy had the role of guide for all them. As historiography has shown, for fascism the symbolic and mythical references to ancient Rome, and therefore to latinità understood as its

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cultural expression, were central not only within the country, insofar as they made it possible to inscribe Mussolini’s regime into the history of Italy, but also as the ideological base of its imperialist foreign policy.27 Within this framework, South America was the ideal context for using the idea of latinità as a tool for cultural penetration and the construction of political hegemony, considering that conquering new territories was obviously not viable outside the European and African context. On the one hand, the region at that point was, as we have seen, fully associated with the latinità, either in the political or in the cultural sense of the term;28 on the other hand, even if it was not a strategic area at the geopolitical level for fascism, which organized its foreign policy according to the traditional guidelines of Italian expansionism (Africa and also the Balkans), Latin America was quite important, due to the presence in the 1920s of Italian communities formed there by millions of emigrants and their descendants.29 This is how Mussolini referred to Latin America in 1923: It’s too easily forgotten, when it comes to the decline of Spain, what Spain has created across the ocean, where our two races have merged to create a new Latin world … The young societies of South America were born from us … We have our blood over there. Our civilization has created a new civilization, our tenacious and square work as the legionary Roman colonies have taught us and bequeathed, has broken up the forests and the desert. We Spaniards and Italians cannot but look proudly down there. We cannot fail to feel in common the joy of contributing to the enhancement of those young nations in which we have committed the centuries-old heritage of our civilization.30

If the ambition of fascist Italy was clear – to take the place that Spain had occupied in the past and to strengthen ties with the Latin-American world by relying on Italian communities (‘Rome and Latinity should flourish and grow among the colonies of South America, almost all Ligurian’) – Mussolini himself was aware that the bases of the operation were not so solid, because ‘the italianità of the people who emigrated to South America is a bit icy and usually dismiss even the word Latin America’.31 This sentence contains, in a nutshell, the double knot that fascism would not be capable of untying: the possibility of building wideranging political influence in the region passed first of all through the maintenance of the italianità of the millions of emigrants established

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in Argentina, Brazil, Chile and also Uruguay, but the italianità itself was already weakening by the 1920s, due to the rapid assimilation of immigrants in their new counties. First fascism itself, which imposed a restraint on emigration from 1927 and then, more abruptly, the crisis of 1929 accelerated the process, resulting in almost no new arrivals in the 1930s. On the other hand, the objective of maintaining the Italian culture of the emigrants and the proposal of a more all-encompassing common Latin affiliation for the Latin American countries as a whole ended up being contradictory, if not directly conflictive. Regarding the first issue, fascism inherited the meagre results of Italian cultural policy, which in Latin America had been completely rhapsodic, proportionally much less assiduous than in the Mediterranean area and comparatively less intense than that of France, as Mantegazza had already observed during his trip, pointing out that France was exerting a cultural influence of such magnitude on the South American continent that French culture ‘levelled everything in its path’, which threatened to erase the Americas’ specificity.32 The approach of fascism in Latin America was precocious and far-reaching: in 1924, the Nave Italia cruise ship, a travelling exhibition of Italian industrial products and works of art, sailed for nine months, arriving at thirteen countries in the region, with the aim of showing the achievements and modernity of Italy and of promoting exports.33 In the preparatory phase, Mussolini affirmed in front of the industrialists gathered to illustrate the initiative that: ‘The best field that is offered to our business is Latin America, which could also be called Italian.’34 The presence of Giovanni Giuriati, extraordinary ambassador, fascist from the beginning and minister in Mussolini’s first government of 1922, indicated that the mission was also political: the aim was to present the new fascist Italy and its proposal of privileged relations with the ‘Latin nations’ of America.35 However, here another obstacle became evident: state policy was confused with party policy, and the latter was generally barely tolerated by Latin American governments (as was shown by the cold reception the cruise ship received in some countries, especially those such as Cuba, where there were no large Italian communities). Indeed, the political propaganda directed at the Italian communities quickly ceased to be an option: the Fasci italiani all’estero, the foreign branches of the National Fascist Party, founded in the early 1920s, provoked conflicts within the communities themselves and with the local authorities, and had to be reorganized in 1928. From that moment onwards, the Fasci were obligated to deal exclusively with

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defending italianità and assistance tasks, and were controlled by diplomacy that was contextually placed under the auspices of the fascist government.36 The field of cultural propaganda was thus in fact the privileged field of action for the fascist regime. Here too, the Nave Italia cruise had marked the way: the travelling exhibition contained a cultural section, aimed at promoting the ‘Latin world civilization’,37 led by the writer and journalist Eugenio Coselschi. In fact, in 1925, the journalist Franco Ciarlantini38 highlighted the formula of ‘spiritual imperialism’ as the key to fascist expansion in the world, with Latin America and especially the Italian communities in Argentina in the frontline. Argentina was in effect the country where the cultural policy of fascism had greater scope and range, and focused on different spheres and different audiences. From journalists’ trips to the diffusion of Italian books,39 from art exhibitions to visits by intellectuals and politicians, from academic exchanges to the creation or financing of cultural institutes and schools, and to transatlantic propaganda flights, a set of initiatives supported the ambitious project of building influence beyond the Italian communities. However, the idea of the common Latin belonging, even putting aside the fact that it seemed more like a slogan or a label (virtually every speech delivered and every published text contain references in this sense) than the basis for a concrete proposal, did not manage to resolve the underlying aporia as represented by the contextual ambition of fascism to safeguard the italianità against the threat of assimilation of emigrants into the Argentine-Latin environment, while at the same time defending the fascist political proposal. Two examples illustrate these limits in different ways: the Mostra del Novecento italiano, an exhibition which took place in Buenos Aires between September and October 1930, and the newspaper Il Mattino d’Italia, which was founded in March 1933. The Mostra del Novecento italiano would be the most successful Italian cultural event in Argentina in the interwar period, but this success, beyond the quality of the works on display, partly depended on the decision of the curator, Margherita Sarfatti, an outstanding intellectual, cultural organizer and close friend of Mussolini, who avoided any kind of reference to fascism, whether in the interviews and conferences she gave within the framework of her visit to Argentina or in the inauguration of the exhibition and the catalogue. Indeed, Sarfatti wanted to personally write the preface to it in order to avoid interference from the local fascist party, despite the fact that the Fascio of Buenos Aires financed the initiative,40 and she referred only to the common Latin be-

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longing: ‘A noble invitation came to us from the Latin lands overseas, where people of our own ancient Roman, Mediterranean, and partly Italian civilization … raise the building of a new civilization.’41 Along the same lines, searching for a dialogue with Argentine culture as part of the Latin family, in March 1930, the most ambitious project of fascism in Argentina was fielded: the newspaper Il Mattino d’Italia,42 edited by Mario Appelius between May 1930 and March 1933. A journalist and writer, and a reporter in Latin America for the Mussolini family newspaper, Il Popolo d’Italia, Appelius arrived in Buenos Aires in December 1929 after several years of travelling through Central and South America, and long stays in Cuba and Mexico.43 With Il Mattino d’Italia, Appelius tried to lay the foundations for a more solid cultural relationship between Italy and Argentina focused on the common Latin belonging and the connection with Rome, which was constantly referenced in the newspaper. The project was intelligent and novel, insofar as it surpassed the rhetoric of ‘Italia al Plata’, repeated ad nauseam by the ruling classes in Italy and by the elites of the Italian community in Argentina. Appelius addressed a triple call: first, to Italy, which until then had acquiesced to collaborate in initiatives of individuals, that were born in the local Argentine environment, to the point that still in 1930 (and this is quite striking), ‘all the Italian cultural initiatives this year in Argentina are local initiatives’;44 second, a call to Argentina, ‘bulwark of latinità in America’, to lead the Latin American world as a symbolic capital and resist the linguistic, cultural and economic penetration of the United States into the continent; and, finally, a very significant call to all three countries – France and Spain and Italy – to collaborate in the struggle for latinità, which they had contributed to shaping, with their respective cultural, linguistic and ethnic contributions.45 The contributions of prominent Argentine intellectuals and writers to Il Mattino d’Italia46 were the backbone of Appelius’ proposal and it was precisely the analysis that they carried out that showed that of the three poles of latinità – France, Spain and Italy – it was precisely Italy that needed to be developed. In particular, Manuel Gálvez, the most prestigious and assiduous Argentine collaborator, exposed these weaknesses. Already a protagonist of the Hispanic revival of the Centennial of 1910,47 in a key article, ‘Latinismo ed ispanoamericanismo’,48 Gálvez stressed that as Argentina had identified at the beginning of the century with Hispanism – which he had advocated, because Spain allowed Argentina to define itself vis-à-vis other European countries – Latinism was now best suited for Argentina. The creation of a ‘spiritual bloc’ with Italy, France and

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Spain was necessary because now the threat was the cultural and economic power of the United States, against which Spain alone, a minor power, could do little. On the other hand, according to Gálvez, in Argentina there had been a phenomenon of racial substitution: due to the enormous Italian immigration, Argentines were already more like the Genoese than those from Madrid: It is no longer possible to say, without running into inaccuracy, that we Argentines are descended exclusively from Spain … We are always a kind of Spaniards because we speak Spanish, but if we move away from Spain every day it is not to move away from our origins, but to return to them. Our most remote origin, and now the closest, is Rome.49

However, there were two important issues involved here. The first was that the thread that linked Argentina to Rome was not the one that Mussolini would have wanted: ‘We are Catholics then Roman’, Gálvez pointed out. In the transition from Hispanism to Latinism, it was therefore Catholicism that led Argentina directly to the Rome of the popes, skipping the intermediate route to Madrid. The second issue was that, regarding Italy’s relationship with Argentina, according to Gálvez, there was a linguistic problem and, in a broader sense, a cultural problem. On the one hand, there was little cultural circulation with Argentina, that is, almost no knowledge of Argentine authors in Italy; on the other hand, there was a scarce distribution of contemporary Italian authors in Argentina due to the lack of translations and the limited proficiency in the Italian language.50

Fall All of this brings us back to the beginning. It was quite clear in the circles of high Italian culture that Argentina was at that time something very different from the ‘colony of Ligurians’ imagined by Mussolini. In fact, the entry on Argentina in the Enciclopedia italiana Treccani (and the same could be said of the entries on other countries in Latin America) in 1929 portrayed it as a country with two sides: on the one hand, the contribution of the ‘Italian element’ was widely celebrated and its population was described as ‘practically all white’, with a predominance of ‘Latins’, that is, Italians and Spaniards; on the other hand, it was recognized that: ‘The children of foreigners are Argentines by law and by sentiment, and there are immigrants who have an affection for Argentina no less profound than that of nationals.’51 The part dedi-

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cated to culture, which was the result of the collaboration of Argentine authors,52 talked about works that were already an autonomous expression of the Argentine identity and about a scarce and recent Italian influence.53 According to Ricardo Rojas, literature in particular was already fully national. This national character was not characterized by the cosmopolitanism that Sarmiento and Alberdi had imagined, but by a different and original mixture: for the author of Eurindia (1924), ‘Argentinity’ and the Latin American identity in general were a valuable fusion of the exotic European and the natural indigenous: ‘The European civilization transplanted to America brought within itself the impulses of its classical culture, but in the new geographical environment the pure species of Hellenism and latinità weakened.’54 On the other hand, the idea of generating influence through ideology would not be viable either. While the ‘universal fascism’ imagined by Eugenio Coselschi – which otherwise arrived very late to Latin America and Argentina55 – was like an empty box, the different authoritarian solutions carried out in the 1930s in Latin America would be branded by Italian fascism as conservative and would be considered far from the revolutionary inspiration that the fascists attributed to themselves, despite the open sympathies towards the fascist regime, and particularly towards Mussolini, of many intellectuals and promoters of the Latin American ruling classes.56 In the Argentine case, when General José Félix Uriburu’s coup took place, Mussolini’s ambassador in Buenos Aires, Bonifacio Pignatti Morano di Custoza, lamented the ‘contempt’ shown by the new rulers towards the ‘progressive moral and material elevation of the bourgeois classes and workers’.57 Gálvez himself, in an appendix entitled ‘The Possibilities of Fascism in Argentina’ included in his book Este pueblo necesita, after having affirmed that it was still a common mistake to consider fascism exclusively an expression of the far right, while ‘in the social and economic sphere, fascism is a doctrine of the left, insofar as it works in favour of the people, and leads to socialist state’, repeated the same concept: ‘Maybe Uriburu was a fascist in the depths of his conscience, but he did nothing to put his ideas into practice.’58 A few months after Uriburu’s coup, the greatest fascist historian, Gioacchino Volpe, on the occasion of the centenary celebrations of the death of Simón Bolívar, stressed that Central and South American countries not only had a Hispanic historical formation, but also had ‘Latin ethnic and spiritual’ components, and that these components established a link between fascist Italy and the Latin American continent.59

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A few years later, Volpe, who was in charge of general relations in the ‘Relazioni politiche, economiche, spirituali tra l’Italia e l’America Latina’ section of the ‘I Convegno nazionale di politica estera’, which took place in Milan in 1936, stressed that if Latin America ‘is in a way unique, and it interests us as a whole, for that solidarity bond that binds us to it and which takes its origin and name from Rome’, the most strategic relations were those with countries with the largest Italian communities and therefore where the Italian influence was greater: Argentina, Brazil, Chile and Uruguay.60 However, according to Volpe, the balance and, above all, the prospects for the future were not promising: ‘Our language, our culture, have failed to occupy a place corresponding to the numerical entity and social importance of those communities, as well as [corresponding] to the intrinsic value of that culture.’ He pointed out the need to go beyond the community, taking advantage of the contributions to the ‘new nationalities’ of the South American continent and, conversely, the prestige acquired by fascist Italy. It was already too late. Since the early 1920s, the exaltation of Pan-Latinism ‘as a weapon to oppose US imperialism’61 was frequently used in geopolitical analysis of the Latin American reality of fascist publicists, but in the middle of the following decade, the advances in political terms in the construction of some form of hegemony had been almost non-existent: Latin American countries continued to orient their international relations according to their respective traditional guidelines (as was to be expected: foreign policies generally do not undergo sudden changes and are almost always independent of the interchanges of diplomats, and, to a certain extent, even of the orientations of the governments of the moment, and of course are even more independent of the discourses of intellectuals). The Ethiopian war and its consequences on the foreign policy of fascism (i.e. the progressive rapprochement of Italy with Hitler’s Germany) on the one hand and of the Latin American countries on the other hand (i.e. the vote in favour of sanctions against Italy by most of the countries in the region) revealed the complete failure of the project of ‘spiritual imperialism’ of fascism, and the complete lack of existence of a ‘Latin bloc’. Argentina’s decision to join the countries in favour of the sanctions in Geneva sounded like evidence, which Il Mattino d’Italia did not hesitate to acknowledge: The denomination of the Latin race takes on more and more vague contours, and Latinità appears day by day as a potential without orientation, while we, who are its most remote authors, and the most

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legitimate and new descendants, are now seeing a hostile retaliation against us of many of our offshoots.62

On 4 November 1935, the first issue of the newspaper Latina gens was published in Buenos Aires, celebrating on its front page the fascist revolution inaugurated by the March on Rome and, even mentioning Sarmiento, the editorial invoked the solidarity of the Latin peoples – still including France – in response to the attacks that the Argentine press had directed at the Italians for the invasion of Ethiopia,63 but the efforts against the sanctions on Italy, and the support for the Argentine Pro-Italy Committee, which upheld the unconstitutionality of the sanctions in Congress, were in vain. Two years later, the fascist scientist and academic Carlo Foà, after a long trip to Brazil and Argentina, suggested that Italy, in its relationship with Latin America, perhaps had to settle for a ‘minimum objective’, which was ultimately the point from which it had started: We cannot expect more from emigration to South America than it can give. We try to use their descendants for Italian purposes, which are limited to the intensification of spiritual and economic relations, to keep cordiality alive, to ensure that Italy is viewed with sympathy, well-judged and well-liked in these new nations.64

In 1940, finally, an entry for latinità was included in the Dizionario di Politica, an impressive work (four volumes with about 1,000 entries) published by the Istituto dell’Enciclopedia Italiana, the prestigious national publishing house founded in 1925 as the Istituto Treccani by Giovanni Gentile and Giovanni Treccani to develop the Enciclopedia. But the project was actually contemplated by its compilers, at Mussolini’s will, as the highest doctrine of fascism, in a tone that was therefore very distant from the scientific inspiration that Giovanni Gentile had wanted to give to the Enciclopedia, the largest cultural endeavour in the country.65 In fact, the term latinità was given different meanings in relation to the different time periods: as in the past, there was an archaic, a classical, a medieval, a universal and a humanistic latinità, but now there was a ‘modern and ours’ latinità. This ‘ours’ or, in other words, fascist latinità was identified almost tautologically with the romanità: ‘for us … modern Italians, as there have been no Latins without Romans … the term Latin cannot exist without the other of Romanity … Romanity is for us the marrow, the living core of Latin’.66

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Even if it were to be admitted that the concept of romanità was actually the aggressive decline of latinità that fascism used from the 1930s,67 in Latin America and Argentina, the former was even less evocative than the second, which at that point had failed as a tool to build a cultural hegemony. The question that Mussolini had asked to the members of the Association de Presse Latine, which was doubtful of the usefulness of their initiatives – ‘So, in practice, what have you done?’68 – reminds us how far the ideas and rhetoric of the speeches can be from the actual developments in politics. Federica Bertagna holds a Ph.D. in the history of European society from the University of Verona, where she currently teaches contemporary history. Her main research topics are the history of international migrations and the history of Italy in the twentieth century. She is the author of more than ninety scientific contributions published in Italy, Spain, France, Germany, the United Kingdom, the United States, Brazil and Argentina. Her book La patria di riserva. L’emigrazione fascista in Argentina (2006) won the ‘Borgo Val di Taro. Scritture dell’emigrazione’ Award in Italy and has been translated in Argentina (as La inmigración fascista en la Argentina, 2007).

Notes 1. Devoto, Historia de los italianos. 2. See Mazzini, Note autobiografiche, 382. 3. See, for example, Mazzini, Politica internazionale, 186–87. Mazzini himself, on the other hand, was quite influential in Río de la Plata, in particular in Montevideo, where the local elite forged close ties in the middle of the nineteenth century with ‘mazziniani’ exiles on the one hand and Argentines on the other (among them Bartolomé Mitre, the future Argentine President). 4. ‘Indian apathy has found in Spanish inertia a very comfortable trunk on which to graft, and a new moral product was born, which you would hardly find in other nations; it is the stoicism of ignorance … It is a congenital horror, educated by the habit of all life, for everything that seems strenuous’: Mantegazza, Rio de la Plata e Tenerife, 36. 5. See Devoto, Historia de los italianos, Chapter 3. In 1889, Crispi’s government approved the first organic law that established subsidies for Italian schools in foreign countries. In Latin America, there were no government schools, like in the Mediterranean, but Argentina began to receive grants from private institutes that fulfilled state laws: see Salvetti, ‘Le scuole italiane’, 534–49. On the Società Dante Alighieri, see Pisa, Nazione e Politica.

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6. An emblematic study was that of the young Einaudi in Un principe mercante. 7. In 1902, Luigi Barzini, the renowned reporter of Corriere della Sera, observed that in Argentina, Italians, despite their number and the efforts of the elite of their communities, had no political influence whatsoever. 8. Gentile’s article is still fundamental: Gentile, ‘L’emigrazione italiana in Argentina’. 9. See the text ‘Gente latina’ of 1912 by Giovanni Borrelli, a liberal colonialist, that went from anti-parliamentary positions to fascist positions in an appendix to his collection of works: Borelli, Albori coloniali d’Italia. The quotations are on pages 189 and 192. 10. Ardao, Genesis de la idea y el nombre de América Latina. 11. When consulting dictionaries, for example, apparently in Spain there was no mention of Latin culture or of Latin race (see the Diccionario de la lengua castellana published in 1852. And in Italy, the terms ‘romanità’ or ‘latinità’ do not appear with the meaning of race or culture in the Dizionario della lingua italiana of Tommaseo (1861). 12. See Shawcross, France, Mexico and Informal Empire; Phelan, ‘El origen de la idea de América’. 13. See the project of a Latin Association of the Revue du Monde Latin (1883– 96): Ferreira dos Santos, ‘La Revue du Monde Latin’. 14. On a political level, attempts to build a ‘Latinamerican Union’ occurred throughout the nineteenth century, overlapping, or in some cases countering, the efforts of building a continental ‘Pan-American’ unit, the latter promoted mainly (but not only) by the United States. At the beginning of the century, Simón Bolívar’s project to federate Latin America was contrasted, in 1823, by the North American President James Monroe, with his renowned doctrine that affirmed the right to supremacy of the United States on the American continent. In the second half of the century, with Bolivar’s plans having failed, Latin America countries organized at least a dozen congresses, between 1850 and 1886, to try to stop the hegemonic pretensions of the United States, with almost no results. At the same time, the United States promoted a series of ‘Pan-American’ conferences, which led to the creation in 1890 of a Commercial Office, which in the twentieth century became the Pan-American Union. 15. The dichotomy between spiritualism and materialism was present in the philosophic drama by Ernest Renan: Renan, Caliban. His Caliban, after rebelling against Prospero screaming ‘Remove the books to him! Stop studying Latin!’, would learn how to appreciate his values, beauty and artworks against the ‘useful’: see Lanaro, ‘Introduzione’, xxv–xxvi. 16. The complete title of the first edition, published in Santiago, where Sarmiento was exiled, was Civilización y barbarie. The last edition, compiled by Sarmiento, was published in Paris with the title Facundo o Civilización y barbarie en las pampas argentinas (Paris: Hachette, 1874). 17. Alberdi, Bases y puntos de partida. 18. Nor is it found in the Dogma Socialista of the other exponent of the generation of 1837, Esteban Echeverría. In his Viajes, on the other hand,

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19. 20.

21. 22.

23. 24. 25.

26. 27. 28.

29. 30.

31. 32.

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Sarmiento contrasts the form of government of the United States with the South American one, calling the latter ‘our Latin form of government’. Martí, Nuestra América. Infanta Isabel’s visit to Argentina during the celebration of the Centenary of the May Revolution played an important role. Two years later, the Institución Cultural Española was founded, which would promote visits of Spanish intellectuals and scientists to Argentina, among them José Ortega y Gasset, Ramón Menéndez Pidal, Benito Pérez Galdós, Américo Castro, Eugenio D’Ors, Federico García Lorca and Severo Ochoa. Palacio, Historia falsificada, 31. See the editorial of the second issue of the journal Il genio latino by Guglielmo Ferrero, cited in Lacaita, Grande guerra, 99–101. Ferrero invited a group of Italian ‘democratic interventionist’ intellectuals and historians to collaborate with the journal, among them Gaetano Salvemini and Giuseppe Antonio Borgese (both would end up being exiled during fascism). D’Annunzio, La Riscossa. Gori, ‘Pan-latinismo e reti di intellettuali’. Mussolini’s cable was sent in response to this message from the organizing committee: ‘The Organizing Committee represented intimate lunch Italian minister, Italian colony and journalists, we toast to Your Excellence and Italy first daughter of Rome’: see de Battemberg, Cuba en 1928, 49. Mussolini, Opera omnia, vol. 23, 108–9. See Giardina, ‘Ritorno al futuro’; Gentile, Fascismo di pietra; Tarquini, Storia della cultura fascista; Guedj and Meazzi, ‘La culture fasciste’; Salvatori, ‘La Roma di Mussolini’. This association between South America and the term Latinità in its cultural sense still exists today: in the dictionary published by the Istituto della Enciclopedia italiana Treccani since the 1980s and later constantly updated, the first definition of the term Latinità is ‘Being Latin, that is, belonging (and the feeling of belonging) to the nation, to tradition, to civilization, to culture, to the Latin language’, and one of three examples of this use of the term is ‘the Latinity of South America’ (see http://www.treccani .it/vocabolario/latinita, retrieved 3 December 2021). See the speech given by Mussolini in the Senate on 3 June 1928, ‘L’Italia nel mondo’, in Mussolini, Opera omnia, vol. 22, 158–63. Both quotes in Mussolini, Opera omnia, vol. 20, 92. It is the synthesis of an interview granted by Mussolini to Papel Mazas, a reporter for the monarchical and conservative newspaper ABC of Madrid, on 14 November 1923, originally published in Il Popolo d’Italia, 16 November 1923. Mussolini’s speech at the University of Genoa (1926), in Mussolini, Opera omnia, vol. 21, 144. Mantegazza, Rio de la Plata e Tenerife. On the other hand, in the nineteenth century, France could consider itself to be an exception than the norm, because the policies destined to systematically organize the diffusion of its culture and language throughout the world by the national state – what we call political culture or cultural diplomacy and propaganda (the dif-

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33. 34. 35. 36. 37. 38. 39.

40.

41. 42. 43.

44. 45. 46.

47.

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ferences between these two expressions are not very evident) – are more a phenomenon from the twentieth century. Fotia, La crociera della nave ‘Italia’. Mussolini, Opera omnia, vol. 19, 321. Moure Cecchini, ‘The Nave Italia’. Benito Mussolini, ‘Nuovo Statuto dei Fasci italiani all’estero’, Il Popolo d’Italia, 5 February 1928. See Franzina and Sanfilippo, Il fascismo e gli emigrati. Fotia, La crociera della Nave ‘Italia’, 9. It is not surprising that the journal founded in 1925 by Ciarlantini would be titled Augustea and that the leitmotif would be the affirmation of Latinità in the world. On the journal, see Gennaro, ‘“L’imperialismo spirituale”’. In 1927, Ciarlantini himself was the curator of the Italian Book Fair in Buenos Aires, the first outside of Italy. See Fotia, La politica culturale del fascismo, 323–34, which analyses in detail all the initiatives in the cultural field of fascism. The ‘Mostra del Novecento italiano’ was an initiative carried out by the cultural association ‘Los Amigos del arte’. Organizing it was problematic for various reasons, among them the lack of interest shown by many Italian artists in participating: see the well-documented work by Moure Cecchini, ‘1930: Margherita Sarfatti’, 217–19. See Mostra del Novecento italiano. On Il Mattino d’Italia, see Camilla Cattarulla, ‘“Cosa direste a Mussolini”; Blengino, ‘La marcia su Buenos Aires’. On the Italian press between the two World Wars, see Bertagna, La stampa italiana in Argentina. It is worth noting that Appelius had doubts about Latinità in Central America: Appelius, L’aquila di Chapultepec. On the subject of Mexico, he indeed asked up until what point it could consider Latin a country, with 40% indigenous peoples and 40% mestizos. The two economic sociocultural forces that clashed in Mexico were, according to him, the ‘indianism’ and ‘latinism’: the latter was the Catholic and conservative part, which came from the Spanish component, while the former was the indigenous part, which emerged from the porfiriato and later with the Mexican revolution in 1910. ‘Intercambi intellettuali’, Il coloniale, 10 August 1930. Nero Lamberti, ‘Collaborazione latina’, Il Matino d’Italia, 18 September 1930. This was probably the pseudonym of Lamberti Sorrentino. Among them were Leopoldo Lugones, the writer and art historian José León Pagano, the jurist of the positivism school Juan P. Ramos, and Gustavo Franceschi, exponent of the clericalism nacionalista, anti-communist, anti-liberal and director of the important Catholic journal Criterio. In the book, a result of his trip to Europe in 1913, he noted: ‘we are, despite our appearances, ultimately Spanish. We are a special kind of Spanish, as they still constitute as a special form of Latin, even though the Roman Empire has disappeared’: Gálvez, El solar de la raza, 19. On Gálvez, see Quinziano, Manuel Gálvez; and Devoto, Nacionalismo, fascismo y tradicionalismo.

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48. Manuel Gálvez, ‘Latinismo ed ispanoamericanismo’, Il Mattino d’Italia, 23 September 1930. 49. Manuel Gálvez, ‘La letteratura argentina in Italia’, Il Mattino d’Italia, 5 February 1931. 50. Manuel Gálvez, ‘La letteratura argentina in Italia’, Il Mattino d’Italia, 5 February 1931; Manuel Gálvez, ‘Le influenze sulla letteratura argentina’, Il Mattino d’Italia, 4 July 1930; Manuel Gálvez, ‘L’ambiente letterario in Argentina’, Il Mattino d’Italia, 5 August 1930. The only Italian influence that seemed relevant was in the theatre (in particular Gabriele D’Annunzio). 51. See the entry on Argentina in the Enciclopedia Italiana Treccani. 52. The names of the authors (Juan P. Ramos, Ricardo Rojas and José L. Pagano) were probably suggested to Giovanni Gentile by Leopoldo Lugones, one of the most prominent Argentine intellectuals and a great admirer of Mussolini, who the philosopher himself was unaware of before contacting him in December 1925, after the Argentine ambassador in Italy recommended him. Among the Italian authors, two stand out: the fascist journalist Lamberti Sorrentino, who lived in Argentina during the second half of the 1920s, and the journalist and Italian teacher Emilio Zuccarini, who lived in Argentina from 1890 and was the author of the most important work available in those times on Italians in Argentina: Zuccarini, Il lavoro degli italiani. 53. These same concepts were expressed in a long survey carried out by the journal Nosotros in 1928 on the Italian influence on Argentine culture. Practically all of the Argentine authors interviewed, some of Italian origin, affirmed that in the local environment, characterized by its cosmopolitism, the only great influence in the cultural field was from France, while the Spanish influence itself was very weak. See ‘Sobre la influencia italiana en nuestra cultura’, Nosotros (1928), 22 and 225–226. 54. Rojas, Eurindia, 14. 55. In 1933, Coselschi tried to unite the fascist movements in the world through the ‘Comitati d’Azione per l’Universalità di Roma’, with almost no real results; only in March 1935 was the committee for all of Latin America created, directed by Tommaso Milani, director of the fascist press agency Roma in Buenos Aires. See Archivio Centrale dello Stato, Ministero della Cultura Popolare, Direzione Generale Servizi della Propaganda, Propaganda presso gli Stati Esteri 1930–43, box 5, file ‘Roma Press 1935’. 56. See Savarino, ‘En busca de un “eje” latino’; Savarino, ‘Juego de ilusiones’; Bertagna, ‘Miradas desde la Italia fascista’. 57. Cited in Zanatta, Del Estado liberal a la Nación católica, 52. 58. Gálvez, Este pueblo necesita, 122. 59. See Volpe, Simone Bolívar, quoted in Filippi, ‘Mito bolivariano e istituzioni latinoamericane’, 53. Three years later, a monument honouring Simón Bolivar was inaugurated on the occasion of the celebration of the Natale di Roma (21 April) instituted by fascism, being donated to the city by the governments of Bolivia, Colombia, Peru, Venezuela, Ecuador and Panama. During the ceremony, Mussolini gave thanks for the ‘very welcome’ gift to ‘Rome, mother and soul of our and your Latinity’. See a video

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60. 61. 62. 63. 64. 65.

66. 67.

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of the ceremony at: https://patrimonio.archivioluce.com/luce-web/detail/ IL5000012489/2/il-saluto-del-ministro-del-venezuela-e-risposta-del-duce .html (retrieved 3 December 2021). Volpe ‘Le relazioni politiche’, 190. Scarzanella and Trento, ‘L’immagine dell’America Latina’. See mostly Giannattasio, Il fascismo alla ricerca del ‘Nuovo Mondo’. T. V., ‘Il giorno di Colombo’, Il Mattino d’Italia, 12 October 1935. Atilio Orlandini, ‘Presentación’, Latina gens, 4 November 1935. Note that in 1936 the newspaper changed its name to Latinità. Carlo Foà, ‘Nazionalismi Sudamericani’, Gerarchia, 17 July 1937, 477–89. Of the two curators, Guido Mancini and Antonio Pagliaro, it was above all Pagliaro, a linguist and former editor of the Encyclopedia, but who had come into conflict with Gentile, who wanted a work full of fascist political culture in the version given by the National Fascist Party. The result was not entirely consistent in this sense, as pointed out in Pedio, La cultura del totalitarismo imperfetto. Cf. ‘Latinità’, in Dizionario di Politica, vol. II, 717. The author of the entry was the philologist and linguist Luigi Sorrento. The distinction that has been proposed (see Gori, ‘Pan-latinismo e reti di intellettuali’) between the phase when a less aggressive foreign policy predominated in the 1920s, and the successive predominantly imperialist phase of the 1930s, in association, respectively, with the concepts of latinità (more cultural) and romanità (more political) does not in reality seem persuasive at all, as it is maybe too subtle. In reality, latinità was used very frequently next to ‘Roma’ and in the Dizionario di Politica is presented like a synonym of romanità. Quoted in Gori, ‘Pan-latinismo e reti di intellettuali’,168.

Bibliography Alberdi, Juan Bautista. Bases y puntos de partida para la organización política de la República Argentina. Buenos Aires: La Cultura Argentina, 1915 [1852]. Appelius, Mario. L’aquila di Chapultepec. Milan: Alpes, 1929. Ardao, Arturo. Genesis de la idea y el nombre de América Latina. Caracas: Centro de Estudios Latinoamericanos Rómulo Gallegos, 1980. Bertagna, Federica. ‘Miradas desde la Italia fascista sobre la Argentina de los años treinta’. Nuevo Mundo Mundos Nuevos (2020), https://doi.org/ 10.4000/nuevomundo.80532. ———. La stampa italiana in Argentina. Rome: Donzelli, 2009. Blengino, Vanni. ‘La marcia su Buenos Aires (Il Mattino d’Italia)’, in Eugenia Scarzanella (ed.), Fascisti in Sud America (Florence: Le Lettere, 2005), 205–33. Borelli, Giovanni. Albori coloniali d’Italia. Modena: Società tipografica modenese, 1942.

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Cattarulla, Camilla ‘“Cosa direste a Mussolini se aveste occasione di parlargli?”: un’inchiesta de Il Mattino d’Italia’, in Eugenia Scarzanella (ed.), Fascisti in Sud America (Florence: Le Lettere, 2005), 175–203. D’Annunzio, Gabriele. La Riscossa. Milan: Bestetti & Tuminelli, 1918. De Battemberg, Domingo. Cuba en 1928. Reminiscencias, documentos, informaciones, gráficos, artículos y opiniones del VII Congreso de la Prensa Latina, Paris: Malherbe, 1928. Devoto, Fernando J. Nacionalismo, tradicionalismo y fascismo en la Argentina moderna. Buenos Aires: Siglo XXI, 2002. ———. Historia de los italianos en la Argentina. Buenos Aires: Biblos, 2006. Einaudi, Luigi. Un principe mercante. Turin: Bocca, 1900. Ferreira dos Santos, Marie-José. ‘La Revue du Monde Latin et le Brésil, 1883– 1896’. Cahiers du Brésil Contemporain 23–24 (1994), 77–92. Filippi, Alberto. ‘Mito bolivariano e istituzioni latinoamericane nel pensiero storiografico fascista’. Quaderni dell’Istituto di Studi Economico-sociali 6 (1988). Fotia, Laura. ‘La politica culturale del fascismo in Argentina’, Ph.D. thesis. Rome: Università Degli Studi Roma Tre, 2015. ———. La crociera della nave ‘Italia’ e le origini della diplomazia culturale del fascismo in Argentina. Rome: Aracne, 2017. Franzina, Emilio, and Matteo Sanfilippo (eds). Il fascismo e gli emigrati. La parabola dei Fasci italiani all’estero (1920–1943). Rome-Bari: Laterza, 2003. Gálvez, Manuel. Este pueblo necesita. Buenos Aires: A. García Santos, 1934. ———. El solar de la raza, 5th edn. Madrid: Editorial Saturnino Calleja, 1920. Gennaro, Rosario. ‘“L’imperialismo spirituale” negli esordi della rivista Augustea (1925–1927)’. Incontri 27(2) (2012), 42–50. Gentile, Emilio. ‘L’emigrazione italiana in Argentina nella politica di espansione del nazionalismo e del fascismo’. Storia contemporanea 3 (1986), 355–96. ———. Fascismo di pietra. Rome-Bari: Laterza, 2007. Giannattasio, Valerio. Il fascismo alla ricerca del ‘Nuovo Mondo’. L’America Latina nella pubblicistica italiana, 1922–1943. Verona: Ombre Corte, 2018. Giardina, Andrea. ‘Ritorno al futuro: la romanità fascista’, in Andrea Giardina and André Vauchez, Il mito di Roma. Da Carlo Magno a Mussolini (RomeBari: Laterza, 2008), 212–93. Gori, Annarita. ‘Pan-latinismo e reti di intellettuali tra le due guerre Il caso dell’Association de la Presse latine’, in Laura Cerasi (ed.), Genealogie e geografie dell’anti-democrazia nella crisi europea degli anni Trenta (Venice: Edizioni Ca’ Foscari, 2019), 159–82. Guedj, Jérémy, and Barbara Meazzi (eds). ‘La culture fasciste entre latinité et méditerranéité (1880–1940)’. Cahiers de la Mediterranée, 95 (2017). Lacaita, Carlo G. (ed.). Grande guerra e idea d’Europa. Milan: Franco Angeli, 2017. Lanaro, Silvio. ‘Introduzione’, in Ernest Renan, Cos’è una nazione? e altri saggi (Rome: Donzelli, 1998) vii–xxxvii. Mantegazza, Paolo. Rio de la Plata e Tenerife. Milan: Gateano Brigola Editorie, 1870.

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Martí, José. Nuestra América. Caracas: Biblioteca Ayacucho, 2005 [1891]. Mazzini, Giuseppe. Politica internazionale, in Scritti editi e inediti, vol. 92 (Imola: Galeati, 1941), 143–72. ———. Note autobiografiche. Milan: Rizzoli, 1986. Mostra del Novecento italiano. Buenos Aires: Amigos del arte, 1930. Moure Cecchini, Laura. ‘The Nave Italia and the Politics of Latinità: Art, Commerce, and Cultural Colonization in the Early Days of Fascism’. Italian Studies 71(4) (2016), 447–76. ———. ‘1930: Margherita Sarfatti entre Buenos Aires, Roma y Milán’. Modos. Revista de história da arte 4(1) (2020), 205–23. Mussolini, Benito. Opera omnia. Edoardo Susmel and Duilio Susmel (eds). Florence: La Fenice, 1951–1980. Palacio, Ernesto. La Historia falsificada. Buenos Aires: Editorial Difusión, 1939. Partito Nazionale Fascista. Dizionario di Politica. 4 vols. Rome: Istituto dell’Enciclopedia Italiana, 1939–1940. Pedio, Alessia. La cultura del totalitarismo imperfetto. Il Dizionario di politica del Partito Nazionale Fascista. Milan: Unicopli, 2000. Phelan, John L. ‘El origen de la idea de América’. Latinoamérica. Cuadernos de cultura latinoamericana 31 (1979), 5–21. Pisa, Beatrice. Nazione e politica nella Società ‘Dante Alighieri’. Rome: Bonacci, 1995. Quinziano, Franco. Manuel Gálvez: La Argentina del Centenario y la ‘nueva raza latina’. Alicante: Biblioteca Virtual Miguel de Cervantes, 2013. Renan, Ernest. Caliban: suite de la ‘Tempète’. Paris: Calmann Lévy Editeur, 1878. Rojas, Ricardo. Eurindia. Ensayo de estética sobre las culturas americanas. Buenos Aires: Losada, 1951 [1913]. Salvatori, Paola. ‘La Roma di Mussolini dal socialismo al fascismo (1901– 1922)’. Studi Storici 47(3) (2006), 749–80. Salvetti, Patrizia. ‘Le scuole italiane all’estero’, in Piero Bevilacqua, Andreina de Clementi and Emilio Franzina (eds), Storia dell’emigrazione italiana, II, Arrivi. Rome: Donzelli Editore, 2001, 534–49. Sarmiento, Domingo Faustino. Civilización y barbarie. Vida de Juan Facundo Quiroga y aspecto físico, costumbres y hábitos de la República Argentina. Santiago: Librería del Progreso, 1845. Savarino, Franco. ‘En busca de un “eje” latino: la política latinoamericana de Italia entre las dos guerras mundiales’. Anuario del Centro de Estudios Históricos ‘Prof. Carlos S. A. Segreti’ 6(16) (2006), 239–62. ———. ‘Juego de ilusiones: Brasil, México y los “fascismos” latinoamericanos frente al fascismo italiano’. Historia Crítica 37 (2009), 120–47. Scarzanella, Eugenia, and Angelo Trento. ‘L’immagine dell’America Latina nel fascismo italiano’, in Agostino Giovagnoli and Giorgio del Zanna (eds), Il mondo visto dall’Italia. Milan: Guerini e Associati, 2005, 217–27. Shawcross, Edward. France, Mexico and Informal Empire in Latin America, 1820–1867. London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2018. Tarquini, Alessandra. Storia della cultura fascista. Bologna: Il Mulino, 2016.

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Volpe, Gioacchino. Simone Bolívar, 1783–1830. Discorso per il centenario pronunziato alla Reale Accademia d’Italia il 17 dicembre 1930. Rome: Reale Accademia d’Italia, 1931. ———. ‘Le relazioni politiche, economiche, spirituali, tra l’Italia e l’America Latina’, in Primo Convegno di politica estera. Mediterraneo orientale, i protocolli di Roma, Italia e America Latina, le materie prime, Società delle Nazioni. Milan: Istituto per gli studi di politica internazionale, 1936, 1–19. Zanatta, Loris. Del Estado liberal a la Nación católica. Iglesia y Ejército en los orígenes del peronismo. 1930–1943. Buenos Aires: Editorial de la Universidad de Quilmes, 1996. Zuccarini, Emilio. Il lavoro degli italiani nella Repubblica Argentina dal 1516 al 1910. Studi leggende ricerche, Buenos Aires: Giornale la Patria degli Italiani, 1910.

Chapter 6

Italian Fascist Cultural Intervention in the Spanish World, 1938–43 Patrizia Dogliani

å

Introduction Unlike the historiography of anti-fascist intervention in Spain, which has long referred to and continues to produce new studies about the myths surrounding voluntarism and the sacrifice of foreign fighters in defence of the Second Spanish Republic, only recently has the study of fascist Italy’s involvement in the Civil War that tore through Spain between 1936 and 1939 begun to gain traction. Of recent studies on the presence of Italian soldiers, under the guise of ‘volunteers’, sent by the fascist regime to fight alongside the nationalists in Spain,1 few works have been more than superficial or commemorative, and research into the propaganda and cultural politics developed by fascist Italy in support of the insurgents against the Second Republic is lacking as a result.2 The purpose of this chapter is, above all, to understand the cultural relations promoted by the fascists during the 1930s, and the ‘totalitarian turn’ they took in the middle of that decade, alongside the competition with the ideological invasion by the Nazi regime, even prior to the actual occupation by the Nazi army. There is ‘no doubt’, claims the American historian Alexander de Grand, ‘that by the mid1930s the Fascist regime was at an ideological dead-end. The corporative experiment had reached the limits of its propaganda usefulness and no doubts also existed that the Fascist regime faced a formidable competitor in a dynamic Nazi Germany’.3 By the mid-1930s, the fascist regime was forced to re-examine its domestic and international politics in a rapidly transforming New Order in Europe and across the world. Its participation in the League of Nations as a victor of the First

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World War was losing significance, while its role as an anti-French and anti-British presence in the Mediterranean was becoming increasingly prominent. Nazi dynamism in Central Europe sparked off a longdistance contest between the two fascist regimes, both in search of their own geopolitical spheres of influence, which led to the emergence of two ‘parallel wars’ in 1940. Indeed, fascist Italy’s attempt to establish dominance in the Mediterranean sphere included a plan targeting on the one hand Libya, the Aegean Sea and later Albania, and on the other hand territories still under British and French control, while simultaneously aspiring to control the Adriatic Sea, penetrate the Danube region and reach the Middle East. Malta and Corsica were to become ‘satellite’ islands. There is extensive literature from the 1920s that claims the historical supremacy of Italy in the Mediterranean, and the idea of an antiFrench, Spanish–Italian naval alliance was even put forward during the dictatorship of Miguel Primo de Rivera.4 Once again, after the interval of the Second Republic, a nationalist victory would, according to Italian strategists, have allowed for the creation of a ‘Mare Nostrum’ in the Mediterranean, a geopolitical sphere in which to create a ‘New Mediterranean Order’, which would interact with the plan for a Nazi ‘New Order’ in Central Europe.5 The Roman Empire’s civilizing role of the past, bringing together Latin culture and Christianity, could regain its former splendour with the assertion of fascist Rome’s universality, as a beacon for all Latin peoples.6 Under nationalist and later fascist influence, a school of classical archaeology was founded in Italy, which used the excavation of Roman heritage sites to claim Italian hegemony in the Mediterranean Basin, including on the Iberian peninsula.7 The outbreak of the Spanish Civil War therefore sparked hopes of building an Italian fascist hegemony in Southern Europe, which was sought after through contact with pro-fascist movements in France, Austria, Spain and Portugal. Spain’s Falangist culture had broadly been built around the strong links it maintained with fascist Italy, from which it may be said to have drawn its inspiration; until the beginning of the Civil War, cultural relations had relied on the initiative of individual intellectuals. Among these individuals, Ernesto Giménez Caballero (1899–1988) stands out as a prominent figure. A man who knew and appreciated Italy, and whose wife came from Florence, Giménez Caballero had given space to intellectuals with fascist sympathies from both countries in his publication Gaceta Literaria, which emerged between 1927 and 1931. During his many travels to Italy, he had met, formed collaborative links and corresponded with Curzio Malaparte, Filippo Tommaso Marinetti, Massimo Bontempelli, Giuseppe Bottai

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and Giovanni Gentile.8 It was only between 1933 and 1934, with the emergence of José Antonio Primo de Rivera as a political figure, that pro-fascist and pro-nationalist cultural currents and political movements converged in Spain and attracted the attention of fascist Italy. The plan to found the El Fascio newspaper was conceived at a meeting at Caballero’s house at the beginning of 1933, and it was in fact thanks to the latter that Primo de Rivera would meet Mussolini for the first time in Rome and prepare a translation of, and introduction to, the Italian fascist leader’s book El Fascismo, which appeared in Madrid in April 1934. As Ismael Saz claims, that year saw the full development of ‘a fascism based on the mystic conception of a regenerative, populist and ultra-nationalist revolution, its aim to create a totalitarian state that would serve as the cornerstone and binding force of an ordered, enthusiastic and hierarchical national community’.9 In May 1935, Primo de Rivera visited Mussolini for a second time, and it was through the Italian embassies in Paris and Madrid that he first obtained funding and support for the creation of the Spanish Falange.10 Fed by the young urban element in the Spanish University Union (SEU), the fascist movement, both military and paramilitary, followed the plan by the Action Committees for the Universality of Rome (CAUR) to create a Fascist International, and some members participated in the 1934 and 1935 Montreux Fascist Conferences.11 For these young intellectuals, Rome, the ancient heart of Latin identity, represented an ideal and indispensable reference point for their revolutionary plan, and would stand as an alternative to a republican and working-class Madrid that had betrayed its imperial vocation. In an interview as late as 1976, Giménez Caballero recalled that for him, ‘meeting with Rome’ was the deciding moment of the 1920s.12 This common Latinidad was also recalled by other fascist intellectuals present in Spain during the Civil War. Among them was Stanis Ruinas, a writer and leading figure of a ‘left-wing’ fascism, who noted that ‘two hundred years before Christ, Rome intervened in Spain to free her from the clutches of the Punic Empire. In 1936, Mussolini’s Rome intervened to help liberate Spain from the Bolshevik invasion and from the decadence that befalls all democracies which display the same mercantile spirit that drove Carthage’.13 It was not until after the Civil War had begun that fascist Italy committed ideas, men and economic resources to establishing a steady cultural relationship with nationalist Spain, on the basis of a plan for ‘pan-Latin fascism’ and with hegemonic ambition. After the failed experiment of Dollfuss’ Austria in 1934, Spain would have been the first nation in Europe to come under the influence of Italian fascism, which would draw on its experience and ideology to build a corporate state

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and a clerico-fascist ‘Latin’ society. Spain would essentially become a little sister for Italy to protect. Moreover, the fascists believed that Iberia could become a prime market for Italian cultural exports. This would soon be reconsidered, but not in time to analyse its lack of success before the regime collapsed in the summer of 1943. This chapter illustrates some of the phases of Italian fascist propaganda, first, regarding Italian communities abroad, and, later, in an attempt to win over other Romance peoples to its politics. In the late 1930s, the cultural-political relationship between fascist Italy and nationalist, later Francoist, Spain became fundamental in this context. Communications received by the Italian Ministry of Popular Culture (Ministero di Cultura popolare, at the time called: MinCulPop) from Spain attest to the various phases of this cultural project.14 The first phase of this became possible thanks to the distribution of the Italian press among parts of the Spanish elite that were sympathetic to fascist Italy. A second phase saw the fascists expand efforts to develop propaganda through publishing, radio and film, which was directed specifically at provinces that had been conquered by the nationalists. Over the course of the conflict, private companies from Italy were invited to combine efforts with Spanish partners working in the literary, theatrical and film fields. However, when the Civil War had finished, fascist Italy began to experience difficulties due to commercial and logistical obstacles, competition from Germany and the United States, and the lack of initiative shown by private interests associated with the project. In order to confront these difficulties, fascist Italy began trying to reach agreements with Francoist Spain in 1939, which saw it go from a position of privilege to one of partnership. Finally, from 1942 to 1943, it was the Spanish who were attempting to set up commercial exchanges in Italy. By 1943, fascist Italy was on the verge of collapse and unable to offer anything to Franco’s Spain, which was in turn closing its doors in order to survive the defeat of fascism in Europe.

From Italian to Latin Identity Initially, Mussolini’s attitude towards Italian communities abroad was not unlike that expressed by the ruling classes in Italy’s Liberal Age. This drew particular inspiration from the nationalist position, which, since the turn of the century, had seen in the Italian diaspora a potential opportunity for demographic expansion, an accessory to the colonial ambitions that had initially been entertained in military circles. It was believed that stable Italian communities established in countries

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with weak institutions and political traditions could become dominant and import ‘Italianness’ to regions like Africa and Latin America. Prior to the First World War, populist, liberal and nationalist currents of thought had all converged to conceive a common market, an Italian Commonwealth of sorts: a union of Italian communities linked by a shared ethnic and civil origin, and based on the values of hard work, property, free enterprise and cooperation. These elements were seen to represent the ‘historical mission’ of Italy as sung by the poet Giovanni Pascoli, and also the premise for an Italian ‘merchant prince’, the impetus for free trade between the homeland and countries of residence, laid out by the liberal economist Luigi Einaudi in a work from 1898: Sulla Espansione Coloniale Italiana (On Italian Colonial Expansion). These subjects once again attracted attention from both liberals and moderate nationalists in the first postwar period. In 1920, the liberal Vittorio Emanuele Orlando along with the nationalist Giovanni Giuriati had laid the foundations for the Lega Italiana per la Tutela degli Interessi Nazionali (Italian League for the Protection of National Interests), which was dissolved in 1923, shortly after the fascists came into power, to make way for the creation of the Italian Fasci Abroad (Fasci Italiani all’Estero; FIE).15 The fascists had in fact initially identified the FIE as their main vehicle for ideological and organizational expansion outside Italy. It was entrusted to the young Blackshirt Giuseppe Bastianini, born in 1899, and split into five working divisions according to geographical displacement that planned specific operations in Europe, North America, South America, Asia, and Africa. Under Bastianini’s leadership, the FIE was primarily spread among Italian communities abroad, colliding with the simultaneous increase in workers fleeing Italy following the rise of fascism – a situation that led to violent clashes between fascists and anti-fascists in Italian communities in the 1920s, especially in France, Belgium and Luxembourg, and later extending to the United States. In fact, in pursuing the aim of converting the ‘great nation’ of Italy abroad (estimated to be some 10 million people) to fascism, the FIE ultimately did nothing more than take on the same mission as its predecessor. To this end, Giuseppe Bottai and Giovanni Giuriati undertook some exploratory expeditions to America in the early 1920s, with the aim of converting the Italian communities of Argentina and Brazil, and those in the cities of New York and Boston, to fascism. It was well known that Italy had little bargaining power abroad: the communities were not closely knit and, rare exceptions aside, held no financial power in their receiving countries, and suffered from a congenital lack of Italian-language information services.

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This two-pronged challenge was only exacerbated by Bastianini’s approach. Being a party hardliner, Bastianini intended to use the FIE as a way to impose fascism abroad and create a fascist ‘internationalism’. For him, and for the Blackshirt wing of the early fascist party that he belonged to, fascism had a universal value and was, by its very nature, a spiritual revolution capable of restoring the Western world and opposing the materialism of the communists and the decadence of parliamentary democracy. This also meant putting an end to a tradition of diplomacy and creating another in its place with the intention of uniting right-wing revolutionary currents across the world. However, other party leaders, including Mussolini at first, saw fascism as an essentially Italian phenomenon, a bid to rebuild the country after the First World War. At the first and only FIE conference, held in Rome in November 1925, Bastianini set forth what, in his opinion, ought to have become organization’s ambitions: to set a new standard for Italian identity and what it meant, which would be imposed abroad both in the colonies and on Italian-origin populations living in foreign countries. In his speech at the end of the conference, Mussolini limited himself to demanding that Italians living abroad, and therefore including the FIE, should not cause problems in foreign politics. Instead, they were to ‘not participate in the domestic politics of countries where Fascists are welcome; not cause tension in the colonies but rather cleanse them beneath the banner of Fascism, be an example of public and private probity, respect Italy’s representatives abroad; defend Italian identity past and present … your simple example will give an idea of what our Italy is like, the virile Italy that we are tirelessly building day by day’.16 The activism that Bastianini demanded of the FIE was undermining consular authority and made relations between the government and the diplomatic corps difficult, causing a dispute between him and Dino Grandi, the Minister of Foreign Affairs. Bastianini supported the monopoly of the party and its representatives over the Italian community abroad, and demanded consular authorities essentially work in the service of fascism. However, Grandi was sceptical as to the role of this new diplomacy as the only representative of the fascist state, and seeing hesitation on the part of Mussolini, who controlled Ministry of Foreign Affairs at the time, settled the dispute to his own advantage. The FIE headquarters, and their Italian clubs, were to remain centres of solidarity, rediscovered Italian identity and education aimed at Italians abroad who did not want to lose touch with their motherland. The success of Grandi’s approach caused Bastianini and many other Blackshirts to resign from diplomatic careers at the end of 1926, and

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control of the FIE was transferred to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. From then on, the same Bastianini began a diplomatic career and was sent to oversee the Italian embassy in Lisbon. The FIE was no longer entrusted to men of action, but to journalists and propagandists: to the journalist Cornelio Di Marzio, formerly a nationalist and former head of the press office at the Italian embassy in Istanbul, and to Luigi Freddi, who until then had been head of the press office for the National Fascist Party (PNF). A proposal made by Di Marzio in 1923 and summarized in writing that same year, Il fascismo all’estero (Fascism Abroad), advocated representation for Italian emigrants in the national parliament, through delegates elected in foreign consulates and installed as representatives in some Italian electoral colleges that were open to the sea and to immigration, such as in Genoa and Bari. The permanent dissolution of Parliament after the Matteotti Crisis sank the proposal, yet it lived on for a long time, up until very recently, in the memory of the Italian right.17 Di Marzio made Il Legionario, the FIE’s newspaper, a widely circulated publication and the ‘press of Italians abroad and in the colonies’. Succeeding Di Marzio in 1928, Piero Parini implemented the party’s new national, populist approach: pragmatic, without any pretension and with no trace remaining of the fideism fostered by Bastianini or the initial revolutionary impetus of the fascist mission among Italian emigrants. With the backing of Rome, he moved to ensure that the ‘Great Italian Nation’ abroad was reconciled and saw eye to eye with the fascist regime, which represented the very essence of patriotism and faithfulness to national values. This was to be carried out with less political indoctrination and more education and assistance, placing all the blame on previous governments for having compelled Italian emigrants to leave their home country. Thanks to the agreement reached between the Italian state and the Roman Catholic Church in 1929, this policy also received support from clergy living abroad, especially in English-speaking countries in which Catholicism was a minority religion with evangelizing ambitions. Fascism was manifesting itself in a dual capacity: as both a bringer of national faith and of Catholic civilization. Rather than directly combating antifascism, Parini gave the FIE explicit instructions to isolate and minimize its influence. The end of the 1920s saw the abolition of the term ‘emigrant’: whoever maintained cultural, institutional and linguistic links to fascist Italy was considered an ‘Italian abroad’. This was not merely a terminological amendment, but also implied a judgement. Consequently, anti-fascists were regarded as ‘outcasts’ (fuorusciti); not only had they illegally left the country, but they had also been ‘cast out’ of their own national community. This intervention in politics was

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gradually expanded into other areas; culture, leisure and work. In fact, with bans on foreign nationals organizing explicitly political activity being introduced in many countries, the fascists began to disguise their propaganda in other ways. By the mid-1930s, with the driving and ‘revolutionary’ force behind fascism having run out of steam, the bulk of the Blackshirts lost interest in Italian emigrants and turned instead to colonial enterprises: both internal colonization and that of Africa. By this point, few believed in the efficiency of, or political gain in, expanding the fascist regime to Italian communities abroad, especially across the Atlantic. The great waves of overseas emigration had stopped; emigrants tended to integrate into their host countries within a generation, while also following the international initiatives of fascist Italy enthusiastically. After 1936, fascist political circles began to seriously question the political integrity of Italians abroad. One symptom of this was the contempt with which the new Foreign Minister Galeazzo Ciano judged many Italian-Argentine emigrants. In his diary entry of 30 January 1938, he noted: ‘For many years, while much of the scum of the Earth was going to South America, the worst of them stopped at the point of arrival, and thus Buenos Aires was born … in recent years this foul mixture has seen the addition, in copious amounts, of the Jewish element. I do not believe that this has served to improve it.’ The age of cruise ships and transatlantic crossings led by Italo Balbo was in slow decline. By this time, everything was focused on founding the Empire and on Italy’s supposed contribution to the development of Latin identity around the world. Such was the extent of this that in 1939, a Commission for Emigrant Repatriation was created, along with a demographic policy aiming to move workers and their families from their host countries to Italian colonies. From 1927, a commitment to creating Italian cultural institutions was increasingly favoured over that of the Italian clubs, which in many cases had become places contested between fascist and anti-fascist emigrants. Along with professors of Italian literature and civilization, these new institutes had the ambition of presenting a ‘high’ culture of Italy and its institutions, no longer directed solely at Italian communities, but also at the cultured elites of their host countries. At the end of the 1930s, the issue of emigration was becoming increasingly linked to the regime’s demographic and colonial policies, while the foreign policy of fascist Italy ‘was assuming an increasingly ideological character, to the extent that it was blending with the spread of fascist ideology across the world’.18 This was no longer carried out via the Italian communities abroad, but by directly supporting regimes similar to fascism wherever possible. One early experiment was set up

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at the end of the 1920s in Salazar’s Portugal, where the Italian community consisted of around 500 people, while ‘thanks to the proclamation of the corporatist constitution, the consolidation of the Estado Novo … greatly favoured the activity of Italian propaganda’.19 The same can be said of Spain, where Italian communities did not exist in great number or density, and where (mainly working-class) Italian emigrants had been consistently influenced by revolutionary currents from the nineteenth century onwards. Similarly, in Latin America, where the fascist regime had hoped to pull governments into its ideological orbit, like in Chile and especially in Brazil, with Vargas’ Estado Novo, ‘the Italian community was conceived as a reinforcement to this subversive diplomacy; [participation] which is not, or at least apparently not, to be found in Argentina nor Uruguay. This fact seems to depend … on the lack of enthusiasm for fascism among the Italians’.20 In this case, the fascists played their last card ‘of Latin identity, which was deemed to express the universal character of Italian civilisation. The concept especially leant itself to use in Latin America’ and in the Hispanic world in general.21 The spiritual universality of Latin identity was considered to be superior to ‘primitive’ cultures such as those of the Slavic peoples or of the African colonies.

Italian Fascism Comes to Spain Italy maintained a military presence in Spanish territory from December 1936 to June 1939, when the last of the troops were brought home at the end of the Civil War, though the Italian Air Force had already been actively supporting the insurgents from bases in the Balearic Islands since the end of July 1936. On 18 November 1936, fascist Italy, along with Nazi Germany, recognized the provisional nationalist government based in Burgos, and a military mission in Salamanca had been created by December. The exact number of Italians who fought for nationalist Spain has never been fully defined: it is generally estimated to have been around 75,000, with a presence at the same time of about 40,000 troops in the most intense months of combat in 1937 and 1938. In addition to this massive presence, Rome attempted a widespread dissemination of the Italian press in nationalist-controlled areas, with two main objectives: to reach Italian troops stationed in Spain and to draw in Spanish readers. One early experiment was carried out in Palma de Mallorca at the start of the summer of 1937 in an attempt to take the place of the three English newspapers that were being pub-

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lished on the island.22 This task was undertaken by the Italian Consulate in Palma, in collaboration with the Directorate-General for Tourism in Rome. The Balearic Islands were seen as an ideal outpost for Italy. This was both for their strategic position, which would allow the Italian Air Force to make short-range flights to patrol the skies above Catalonia and potentially carry out air raids on Barcelona, and, in a very different kind of intervention, to steer island tourism away from English influence and towards that of a new partnership between Italy and Spain. The Italian Consulate therefore made an effort to circulate fascist propaganda among the affluent of Palma, and began developing Italian tourist resorts on the island. The Italian papers were sold at a lower price in Palma than in Seville, Salamanca and San Sebastián. Incidentally, the Italian press arrived rather quickly in Palma de Mallorca by air, while it reached continental Spain in the ordinary way: by sea and much later. In a note from 2 October 1937, the Italian-Spanish press and propaganda office in Salamanca proposed bringing the Italian press to Spain by air, which raised conflicting opinions as to who should bear the costs of such a service: the MinCulPop or the publicly funded national airline, Ala Littoria. In September 1937, Mussolini personally ordered that copies of Il Popolo d’Italia be transported by air, while the other papers were to be delivered by steamships leaving every fifteen days. It was following this, in 1937, that difficulties and contradictions arose that would distinguish the penetration of Italian culture and propaganda in Spain: on the one hand, the plans for a widespread presence and the enthusiasm for it; on the other hand, high costs and the incapacity to realize this task. From the summer of 1937 onwards, Umberto Klinger, the President of Ala Littoria, refused to transport the papers for free. For this reason, only a few papers managed to secure a presence in the newsstands of Palma, including the Corriere della Sera, which was delivered by air at its own expense. The second and longest-lasting attempt was that of distributing the Italian papers among the Italian militia of the Corps of Volunteer Troops (CTV), especially of two publications of a political persuasion: Il Popolo d’Italia, which increased from an initial 4,000 copies to 10,000 to be circulated among the legions, usually at the expense of the San Sebastian press office, and Il Legionario, printed in Valladolid from December 1937. In spite of reaching such high circulation, it was intended that Il Popolo d’Italia be read by commanders, their officers, cultured young legionnaires, including students of the Fascist University Groups (GUF) created in every university, who had enrolled as volunteers. On the other hand, it sought to foster relations with the nationalist political and military authorities, while the troops read other

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newspapers sent from Italy, the contents of which dealt with lifestyle, the news and, above all, sport. The most popular among these were La Gazzetta dello Sport, with an initial circulation of 500 copies, later reaching 4,000 in September 1938, and La Domenica del Corriere.23 El Legionario, intentionally printed with a Spanish title until the summer of 1937, when it was changed to the Italian Il Legionario: Giornale dei lavoratori combattenti in Spagna in difesa della civiltà europea, contro la barbarie rossa24 (The Legionnaire: Newspaper for Workers Fighting in Defence of European Civilization in Spain against Red Barbarism) was in fact a daily bulletin limited to two sides of paper, written at the Salamanca press office and managed by Guglielmo Danzi on behalf of the MinCulPop.25 It was therefore limited to the ranks of the fascists in Spain and, as per the express request of the office in Rome, it had to meet their tastes and needs as Italians in Spain, and not be aimed at a Spanish audience. The bulletin featured news on the progress of the war, and some sport and news from Italy on the domestic front. Its sports reporting became the justification for its high circulation, which reached 45,000 copies in April 1937 while following the cycling race Giro d’Italia, which was being broadcast daily by radio from Italy.26 In the final phase of the war, the number of newspapers in circulation was reduced (along with the number of troops): by September 1938, only 7,000 copies of Il Popolo d’Italia were arriving, along with 2,000 subscriptions paid for directly by the San Sebastian press office, and with other newspapers arriving in packs of 500 copies. In May 1939, the shipments stopped coming. With the war in Spain over, and only just beginning in Europe, importing newspapers, and especially books, from Italy only became more difficult. From June 1940, even the Italian press offices in Spain were complaining about the delay in receiving major Italian newspapers needed to carry out press reviews for the Spanish press. Much like the papers, the Italian press was delivered twice weekly by air, with a stopover in Barcelona before moving on to Madrid and Salamanca. Above all, it was books that would suffer most, due to poor organization, censorship and because ‘our imports … clash [with] book imports from Germany’.27 In order to beat the foreign competition, the FIE organized an itinerant exhibition of Italian books, launched in Seville with Alessandro Pavolini (then head of the MinCulPop) in attendance. The exhibition then toured Salamanca, Valladolid, Burgos, Zaragoza and San Sebastian before moving on to Portugal. A further attempt was made to remedy transportation difficulties via a telegraph exchange between press service agencies in Italy and Spain, and with the creation of a Spanish-Italian Publishing House.28 The Italian au-

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thorities relied on a small publishing house in Madrid, owned by a representative of the FIE, Ambrogio Candiani, who was active in Spain from 1932, and handsomely financed by the Institute for Foreign Cultural Relations (IRCE).29 Candiani’s firm was not more than a printing house, and seemed to be a temporary solution. However, by August 1942, a real Spanish-Italian publishing house had still not been created, despite a financial commitment from the Banca Nazionale del Lavoro. In June 1942, a memo had been prepared by the Italian Society of Authors, represented by Ferruccio Pasquali, who had been in Spain since 1933. Pasquali claimed that ‘one must take into account the Spanish sensibility which, particularly in the cultural sphere, recommends avoiding forms and representations that are too conspicuous … a wise and prudent work of penetration would be preferable, and would frame the issue in such a way as to convince the Spaniards that this is an initiative geared towards the development of reciprocal relations and interests’.30 Rome therefore limited itself to sending didactic material aimed at the restricted number of students attending Italian schools and Italian language courses at the Italian cultural institute, even up until the summer of 1942, when ‘the creation of new publishing houses and printing presses is prohibited … the duty on Spanish-language publications created abroad is prohibitive’. Franco’s government had, in fact, exerted legislative control over the cultural industry, which de facto prohibited the creation of companies or entities in Spain supported by more than 25% foreign capital. Any hope of setting up a publishing house in Spain on Italian capital was therefore lost. Added to this was the reorganization of propaganda and the press in Spain in October 1941. Following the German model, the Franco regime had divided the industry into four working divisions: press, propaganda, film and theatre, and radio broadcasting. Everything distributed on Spanish territory therefore had to be sanctioned by the new Spanish authorities; it was not until 1942 that fascist Italy, by now on the verge of collapse, would obtain permission to import books and magazines. From that moment on, Italian officials found themselves facing some fundamental problems: not only that of translation and distribution, but also that of foreign currency exchange linked to importing press and equipment. From the very beginning of the conflict, the relationship between the Italian lira and the currency of nationalist Spain had been complex when it came to obtaining fair compensation: paying for exports to Spain in lira and obtaining an equivalent value in pesetas to use in Spain. Along with clearing difficulties, joint ventures were being launched in various sectors, from publishing to cinema, Spanish

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agencies capable of working alongside the Italians and the unreliable Italian agencies already present in Spain were meticulously selected. However, publishing activity continued until the summer of 1943, but not without great difficulty. The Directorate-General for the Italian press had begun working with the Iberian Publishing Society (SIP) in Madrid, with the aim of boosting daily newspaper and book sales. The IRCE made a particular effort to pursue these activities. It had been established in Rome after Italy’s exit from the League of Nations, inheriting Italian officials who up until 1938 had been working for the International Educational Cinematographic Institute (IICI, an organization which operated in the Italian capital town on behalf of Geneva).31 The goal was to foster political autonomy, independent of the League of Nations and of cultural expansion in areas that were considered to be within the reach of Italian fascism and could be assimilated. Thus, at the start of the 1940s, two particularly active figures were to be found in this field: Luciano de Feo, former head of the IICI, now head of the IRCE, and Giacomo Paulucci di Calboli Barone, a trained diplomat, former Private Secretary of Foreign Affairs under Mussolini and later President of the Educational Film Union (L’Unione Cinematografica Educativa; LUCE), who was to be sent as ambassador to Madrid in the spring of 1943. In those final months of the regime, Paulucci di Calboli32 had strengthened the embassy press office and even set up an ‘American service via Madrid’, which would reach Italian press and publishers in Latin America through the Spanish capital, ‘based on correspondence between Spanish reporters and Buenos Aires, Washington and New York’.33 As of 1936, Rome had eleven press offices established in all the major European capitals, as well as Washington DC, Buenos Aires and Shanghai,34 and from the spring of 1937, the Italian authorities became increasingly attentive to the quality and circulation of publications in Spanish in nationalist Spain and Latin America.35 However, difficulties had become more pronounced between 1941 and 1943, despite the fact that the regime’s major cultural and propagandistic institutions had maintained an active presence in Latin-language countries. According to a note from 30 April 1943, these institutions consisted of the Directorate-General for foreign press, the Italian cultural institutions, in particular those in charge of film, theatre and music, and the radio broadcasting and television inspectorate, with the support of private publishers as well. The documents examined reveal (although did not explicitly state) a progressive lack of confidence in the cultural project undertaken in Spain. Before transferring to the consulate in Bern, the press representative in Madrid made an assessment of his activities in

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a report dated 31 March 1943, emphasizing the futility of attempts to create an Italian press agency in Madrid, a proposal made by the Stefani Agency as early as September 1939 with the intention of entrusting it to a Spanish representative: ‘in order for Italian propaganda to be met with open doors and not clash with foreseeable national sensibility, it is essential … that his origin not be revealed at first; therefore, beyond compiling articles and news in pure Spanish, the utmost secrecy must be maintained as to all the agency’s activity’.36 In May 1943, an expert in the publishing market was sent from Bern in a last-ditch attempt to confront what had by that time become difficult relations between the Italian publishing industry and the SIP, which had been financed by Italy in the preceding years without having reaped any benefit. The autarchic decisions made by Franco’s first governments, later exacerbated by Spain’s isolation during the Second World War, by political repression, by economic crisis and by the embargo that created scarcity and drove up material costs, especially that of paper, leading to greater pressure on consumption that was considered to be superfluous. One such indicator was evident in the great difficulty of having Mussolini’s last book, Parlo con Bruno (I Talk to Bruno, inspired by the death of his son Bruno), printed in Spain. The cost of translation and above all the lack of suitable paper for producing a good edition that would include the illustrations drove the editor Candiani to postpone the book’s release. In spite of this, Rome held out hope that ‘agents, work exchange agreements with foreign publishers, placement opportunities … remain open and safe in the interest of an ever increasing expansion of Italian thought’.37 And yet the project seemed to have had such an auspicious start just five years earlier. In the spring of 1938, an Italian bibliographic centre was promoted in Salamanca, which prepared a newsletter on new Italian books to be sent to Spanish publishing houses: ‘It is time to make our voice heard: translations of Italian scientific works by our best writers, possibly supplemented by timely addenda on the most recent Spanish political-legal developments.’ This operation was also bolstered by an exchange of university students and scholars through an Italian cultural project planned in twelve Spanish universities, as well as by summer schools, Spanish student associations and the GUF, especially through the Spanish College at the University of Bologna. In April 1938, the Italian Consulate in Salamanca tried to create an association, complete with its own newsletter, by gathering those who had spent study periods in Italy and now occupied positions of responsibility in the new nationalist government. Among them were Interior Minister Serrano Suñer and National Press Director Arnau Giménez. An

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idea was also put forward to create a bibliographic information centre, modelled on the active Italian Information Centre in New York, for ‘informative activity of a scientific … or cultural nature, aimed at cultural associations, academics and Spanish bookshops. At this centre … the task would be to create a network of individuals and entities with a sympathetic view, culturally and spiritually speaking, of our country, its culture, its way of life. The bibliographic centre … would be run by young scholars, possibly those at the beginning of their academic careers’, as proposed by Amor Bavaj, who had been representative of the Madrid press office and at that point was the representative of the San Sebastián office, in a message to Luciano Celso, his direct superior as Chief of Staff at the MinCulPop. In January 1940, Italy attended the fourth conference of the SEU in order to form direct relations between it and the GUF and to increase the number of Spanish students residing in Bologna (as noted in another report by Bavaj from 16 January).38 The end of the Civil War saw a change in relations between fascist Italy and nationalist Spain. The new Spain no longer had any need for Italian military aid, even though it continued to consider Italy to be an important ally for its recognition internationally. Thus, from 1940, it was understood that the relationship would become one of partnership: this had to correspond to the demands of the new corporatist and clerico-fascist Spanish state, which was asserting its independence and sovereignty based on a cultural identity that was increasingly oriented towards upholding a long-standing Spanish military and imperial tradition, with features that distinguished its direction from that taken by fascism in Italy. Rome was slow to realize that Spain had begun to distance itself. Between May and June 1939, the fascist regime insisted on setting up an international centre for Hispanic studies ‘to act as a convergence point for scholars of Spanish culture from every country, and as a centre for information’, and named some fifty Italian scholars who could work with Franco’s Spain. The Italian publications that the fascist regime insisted on circulating in Spain were essentially of a political and ideological nature, and still looked upon Spain as a ‘little sister’ to be guided and indoctrinated, likely not realizing how the balance of power had shifted from the pro-fascist ‘old guard’ of the Falange to Franco’s new military leadership, which was displaying growing irritation with excessive external interference and promoted a conservative and depoliticized culture, which corresponded to public opinion and to a population that was tired of war and ideologies, and was yearning for an escape. This short-sightedness can be seen in the report on the state of cultural affairs in Spain written by Giuliano Mazzoni, Professor in Corporate Law at the University of Florence, on 28

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May 1942, after an official trip to Spain. Mazzoni complained that Italian culture was represented by ‘too much literature, but Fascist Italy, revolutionary Italy … is not well known in Spain except through propaganda or sporadic demonstrations’. During his trip, he noted that ‘French and English cultural activity is not diminishing, on the contrary it is still flourishing’, with most Hispanic scholars coming from Great Britain and France, and having lived in Spain for some time.39 English and French schools remained very popular, and there was an active Germanic Cultural Institute. At the time of Mazzoni’s visit, Italian language courses were still optional in several university faculties, while learning French remained compulsory: ‘That Italian teachers are not appreciated by the Faculty of Literature of the University of Madrid is notorious to all.’ The public attending Italian courses at the Italian Institute of Culture in Madrid was principally female, ‘with a very modest intellectual and cultural level. Cultured people study English, French and German’. In his report, Mazzoni suggested seeking university relationships to Italy through hitherto neglected disciplines, such as law, economics and social sciences, and to become present in Spanish culture through direct, personal relationships. A late exchange took place at the beginning of 1943 when an itinerant exhibition of the latest Spanish publishing efforts was planned in conjunction with representatives of the Falange in Italy, which was to travel to Genoa, Milan and Rome. In the year before the fall of fascism in Italy, six works by Falangist authors were translated into Italian.40 The fascist regime would play its last card between the autumn of 1942 and the beginning of 1943: attempting to create preferential bonds between Italy and Spain by using their common link with the Catholic faith. On 27 October 1942, de Feo wrote to Pavolini, then Minister of MinCulPop, in a friendly tone: ‘Your Excellency, our enemies … are today greatly exploiting Catholicism. You know this better than I.’ In Spain, the new American ambassador was organizing exhibitions and publicity campaigns to demonstrate the importance of religious studies in the United States: ‘We could make an admirable bibliographic guide, perhaps organise an exhibition … Over the last forty years, the national culture of Italy has contributed to the defence and reinforcement of the Christian-Catholic tradition.’ De Feo insisted on highlighting the spirituality linking Italy and Spain and not shared with English and French culture, which were derived from ‘sensism and positivism’, and to stress the difference with Germany, where, under ‘pressure from the Lutheran movement, the culture is on a path to subjective idealism …. Italy, however, and Spain after it, have always remained faithful to those cultural paths that constitute the estate of

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Latin identity’.41 It is along these lines that fascist Italy had developed its propaganda in Spain, Portugal, Switzerland and Croatia, also asking for ‘official support from the Roman Church’. Pavolini showed little enthusiasm. On 1 November 1942, he sent de Feo a blunt response, demanding that he simply compile a historical-religious bibliographic guide, without involving the ecclesiastical authorities, and prepare an exhibition of historical-philosophical-religious books to be circulated in the Iberian peninsula, Switzerland and Slovakia. De Feo obeyed and, in a note sent on 24 May 1943 to Angelo Corria, head of the IRCE, he emphasized that such initiatives would have led to ‘bring to the forefront the crucial importance, the absolute freedom, the enormous benefit, that historical-religious studies had brought to Italy in the last half-century’. However, on 31 May, in response to the ‘need to create propaganda relevant to the religious politics of the regime’, de Feo put his trust in the medium he knew and appreciated best – cinema – and prepared materials that efficiently illustrated ‘the part played by religion in the various manifestations of national life in Italy’. Film would therefore ‘ensure the religious element did not appear as an object of deliberate religious propaganda, but … made to appear as an essential part of Italian life’.42

The Media Arrive in Spain Therefore, though it began as an information service for Italian fascist ‘volunteers’ in Spain and as one of exchange with the Spanish nationalist authorities, the Italian presence took a new direction in 1937: one of seeking out a new ear for its culture, ideology and politics in Spain, and to take the place of languages and cultures that had been present in Spain for some time, namely those of France, Great Britain and the United States. The fascists tried every means at their disposal: literature, radio broadcasting, theatre, music and, above all, film, led by the consulates – the one already present in San Sebastian and particularly the one in Salamanca, the nerve centre of fascist propaganda in Spain and the de facto headquarters of LUCE. Added to these were Málaga, where the first tourist links were set up between Italy and Franco’s Spain in 1939, and Barcelona from April 1940, where a general consulate was set up. However, with the Civil War over, the people of Spain essentially wanted distraction and enjoyment. It was not Italian political and religious publishing that would draw them in, but theatre, music and cinema. Between February and March 1939, theatres reopened in San Sebastian and Barcelona and, in September of that year, the National

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Italian Theatrical Art Union (UNAT) proposed a theatre company exchange, to be hosted in Rome. Spain preferred to have Italian plays translated and performed by Spanish companies there. A report from the end of the theatre season of 1941 indicates that Italian theatre was well received by Spanish audiences and had been met with fewer obstacles than its cinema exports, owing partly to an active Ente Italiano Scambi teatrali (Italian Theatre Exchange Board), which had seen as many as eight plays translated into Spanish in 1941, thanks to the cooperation of the Spanish Junta Nacional del Teatro (National Theatre Board).43 In terms of radio too, after its experience with independent broadcasting during the Civil War, fascist Italy had also hoped to retain its autonomy in Spanish territory. In March 1939, a radio project was launched in San Sebastian as a collaboration between Italy, Spain and Germany. However, by 1940, only one transmission was reserved for Italians on the national radio network, Radio Madrid, which, on behalf of Radio Nacional, hosted an Italian-language programme during the first evening slot, in direct competition with the Germans, who had their own ‘more scholarly and scientific broadcast and [with] a lot of classical music’. The Italians had originally conceived a programme that would teach the basics of Italian grammar, before changing direction ‘to afford the greatest importance to the available popular music and to draw on its lyrics to create material for short study and learning grammar rules’. The song lyrics were then printed on cards, which were sent to listeners on request, often along with grammar books distributed by Radio Zamora. Italian music was spread through radio and small orchestras, through dance music scores, and popular songs in Italian that ‘touched the young and popular soul’. In 1942, spaces were also reserved for Italian music and culture on radio stations in Madrid, Barcelona, Valencia, Seville, San Sebastian, Santiago de Compostela, Alicante and Malaga. In the meantime, a mission by Spanish national radio was hosted at the Italian radio network, EIAR, in Rome in 1941. Attempts were made to bring Italian music to the resorts too in San Sebastian, where international and cosmopolitan tourism was picking up again, and members of the German and Italian army stationed in France came on leave. Summer events resumed in 1941 with music by Verdi and instrumental concerts. One last opera season was carried out by the Italian Opera Company, which undertook a tour of Spanish theatres. However, fascist Italy’s most complex and long-lasting undertaking, on which it had placed high expectations, was that of cinema. This involved both state documentary and propaganda production, represented by LUCE, and the private entertainment industry. From the

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winter of 1936–37, fascist Italy maintained a presence in the territories conquered by the nationalists and their Civil War battlefields with three initiatives. The first was with a view to circulating full-length and short Italian films among the Spaniards, the second was aimed at organizing projections for Italian troops on the front, and the third was geared towards filming the progress of the war directly, using their own film crews.44 The Italian National Film Export Union (UNEP) immediately became involved in film exchanges with nationalist Spain and was given an initial 100,000 lira in funds by the MinCulPop to promote exports. Even before the economic aid, at the beginning of 1937, three initial Italian films were imported into Spain with Spanish subtitles, and from February 1937, dubbing into Spanish began to receive financing. A report dated 30 June 1937 records that thirty-five Italian films had been sold to nationalist Spain in the first half of that year. In this industry, it became essential to have capital available for import and dubbing at an uncertain exchange rate. In July 1937, a report in Rome warned of the need to find a quick solution for the second half of that year, as ‘such a lengthy interruption in exports would certainly lead to losing the position we have reached in the Spanish market, which would be occupied by American and German competition, who would continue to offer their films to the Spanish market almost for free’. Due to the support of Falangist militants, Nazi competition was particularly aggressive. In response to this, in November of that year, audiences in Valladolid and León were invited to watch documentaries by LUCE, featuring the commitment of Italian troops in Spain, and the recent colonial conquests in Ethiopia. In addition, from October 1937, LUCE set up weekly projections in cinemas, like the Newsreels shown in Italy, dubbed into Spanish, before the main projections. Over the course of 1938, LUCE newsreels were shown in cinemas in over sixty nationalist-controlled locations, from Spain to Morocco and Palma de Mallorca. In that year, several private development and dubbing companies reached agreements with the nationalist authorities, thanks to intermediation by the UNEP. The year 1938 marked the golden age of Italian cinema in Spain, with a number of important agreements reached between Italy and Spain in the industry that year. The first of these was an agreement made between UNEP film companies and Cifesa of Seville for the co-production of four films, engaging both the ‘Sevilla Film’ company and the just-established Italian Scalera Film, with a budget of 5 million pesetas. The first drama film project, directed by Luca de Tena, was expected to shoot outdoor scenes in Spain and interior scenes in Cinecittà Studios in Rome. A second contract for film circulation was signed in Rome between the UNEP and the Lorenzo Fargas de

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Juny company of San Sebastian. The latter saw to it that forty subtitled Italian films were circulated in Spanish cinemas over a threeyear period. The first twelve feature-length drama films were chosen with the prior consent of Italian censors and after review by both the Francoist and Italian Ministries of Commerce, which also bore part of the initial costs. Another agreement was drawn up, with UNEP sponsorship, between Fonoroma and Cifesa of Seville for three films: I Tre Desideri, Come le Foglie and Sette Giorni all’Altro Mondo, and for the distribution of Re Burlone, which was eventually ceded to a distributor in Barcelona, in republican-controlled territory. In that year, newsreels and medium-length propaganda films from LUCE were circulated as Reportajes cinematográficos, some showing the progress of the war, such as the films Fin del Frente Rojo en el Cantabrico and Revista Imperial, and some the programmes and accomplishments of fascist Italy, from the ‘defence of the race’ to social politics and, with the film Imperio, Italy’s colonial achievements. Towards the end of the Civil War, a ban was introduced on ‘the distribution of foreign films dubbed in Barcelona during the red period 1937–1938’ and on ‘films produced with pro-Bolshevik actors’. Republican defeat in the last areas of resistance in Catalonia even seemed to open up more opportunities for the Italian market, especially in Barcelona, as can be discerned from a note sent to Rome in April 1939 requesting ‘film-projectors for cinemas in former red zones’ to be sent urgently. Thus, the year 1939, the year of Franco’s victory, seemed effervescent and full of prospects. In February, Malio Gigliotti of the Italian National Film Industry Board (ENIC), came to Barcelona to present the latest LUCE production. In June 1939, a film crew led by Giorgio Ferroni arrived in Barcelona to film a documentary probably entitled España, una, grande, libre! for the recently established private company INCOM. The transportation of film crews and materials was sponsored by Ala Littoria. Following the Italian model, in September, a bus was rigged as an itinerant open-air cinema, while plans were made at the Venice Film Festival to circulate Italian films among Spanish cinema associations, including the Circe Club in Madrid, which would host Italian film fairs. Again in 1939, an agreement to film at Cinecittà Studios in Rome was signed between the Cifesa Film Company of Seville and Italy’s Imperial Film company. The first of these was I Figli della Notte, in Spanish: Los Hijos de la Noche, a comedy by Torrado and Navarro, directed by Benito Perojo; the second was Frente de Madrid by Edgar Neville; the third indisputably had the greatest impact on audiences for its ideological and heroical impact, and remains a classic of fascist cinema up to this day – the film Sin Novedad en el Alcazar, or L’assedio dell’Alcazar (English: The Siege of the Alcazar), a Spanish-Italian

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co-production from 1940, directed by Pietro Genina.45 This was to be the last great Italian success in Spanish territory. In contrast, with growing collaboration between Spain and the Berlin-based Babelsberg Studios, the Hispano Film Produktion Company had co-produced five commercial films between 1938 and 1939: another three by Benito Perojo and two by Florián Rey, in particular the film Carmen de la Triana, which was very successful in Spain.46 The year 1941 saw the Franco regime adopt a protectionist and autarchic approach even in the film industry. In a report on the state of Italian cinema in Spain by the press representative in Madrid on 4 February 1942, it was noted that ‘if not for our lighter and brighter productions, Spanish audiences still prefer American, French, and German production, and even its own national production, which is by far the inferior of them all, that of South America included’. The preceding month, in a summary of the recently finished film season, the press office in Salamanca reported that in 1941, 214 films had been distributed in Madrid and across the Spanish cinema network from nine producing countries: Germany, which had released sixty-six films, the United States with fifty50, followed by twenty-nine films produced and distributed in Spain, twenty-one from Italy, nineteen from France and sixteen from Great Britain, followed by some ten films from Mexico and Argentina, and one from Japan.47 The Luce newsreels that had such a great propaganda impact during the Civil War were but a shadow of their former selves. This was also due to the long delays on Italian current affairs news arriving in Spain, which worked to the advantage of German newsreels produced by the Universum Film AG (UFA)and by Britain’s Fox Movietone, developed directly in Madrid and in Spanish. However, from 1942 onwards, along with many other essential items, there was also a lack of new film being produced, which, for a time, was coming from Germany. Fascist Italy stopped sending the Italian daily papers from May 1942, and newsreels from LUCE stopped arriving at the beginning of 1943, after it left its offices in Barcelona and ceded its assets to the Spanish Noticias y Documentos Cinematográficos (NO-DO) newsreels.

Final Remarks After receiving the necessary military and diplomatic aid to win the Civil War, nationalist Spain took a different approach compared to what was expected: the original Falangist element that had drawn inspiration from the ‘fascist revolution’ had already become marginalized, and Italian fascist cultural penetration had been bested, not only

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by efficient competition from Nazi Germany, but also by the entertainment industry, especially that of the United States. Fascist plans to exert influence over the political culture of Franco’s Spain, almost as compensation for its military efforts alongside the nationalists, became vain and unrealistic from 1941 onwards. Even the plan to bring Spain into an imperial, Latin Mediterranean-led by Rome soon clashed with the rebirth of the proud cultural autonomy of the new regime, which drew on an age-old, Catholic, imperial and nationalist Hispanidad. In this context, though born of a common ideology, Latinidad and Hispanidad had no common ground. On the contrary, they would become two competing projects in the Hispanic world, especially in Latin America, where Hispanidad was also based on an idea of an elite and of racial purity, from which the recent Italian emigrants were excluded as simple ‘Latins’. The Italian project in Spain had been ambitious, but proved to be structurally flawed, relying on officials that were by all counts numerous yet incapable of implementing it, and burdened by conflicts of competence between government ministries and the private sector, which had also been invited to intervene in Spain. The project also had to contend with a poor knowledge of the cultures, mentalities and territory of Spain. Many Italian journalists and intellectuals sent to Spain, such as the aforementioned Ruinas, did little more than spread stereotypes about the country upon their return, contributing to a perception of it as inferior to fascist Italy. Franco’s ability to avoid the European conflict and, in doing so, also avoid starting official diplomatic relations with the Republic of Salò made it impossible for any further relations to continue, even thwarting former relations that had been established in Spain between 1937 and 1941 through commercial and consular networks, as well as the Italian cultural institutes in Spain. In fact, since September 1943, they no longer knew whether to report to Badoglio’s leadership or to the fascist Republic of Salò. Patrizia Dogliani is Full Professor of Contemporary History at Bologna University and visiting professor in academic institutions in Paris and at NYU. She is the author and editor of many essays and books published on the European left, fascisms, public memory and wars. Her recent books (as author) Il fascismo degli italiani. Una storia sociale (2014), Le socialisme municipal en France et en Europe de la Commune à la Grande Guerre (2018) and Un partito di giovani. La gioventù internazionalista, 1915–1926 (with L. Gorgolini, 2021), and (as editor) Itinerarios reformistas, perspectivas revolucionarias (with M. Fuentes Codera and A. Duarte, 2016) and Internazionalismo e transnazionalismo all’indomani della Grande Guerra (2020).

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Notes 1. See Rodrigo, La guerra fascista. Some works instead explore the relationship between Franco and Mussolini; see in particular Carotenuto, Franco e Mussolini. 2. See Domínguez Méndez, ‘Note sulla politica’; and Domínguez Méndez, Mussolini y la exportación. These two works analyse the pre-Civil War period. 3. De Grand, ‘Italian Fascism’, 136. 4. An example: Bertonelli, Il Nostro Mare. See also Paci, Corsica fatal. 5. Even if only for the following period, Rodogno, Il nuovo ordine mediterraneo is an interesting read. 6. Pedrazzi, Il Levante Mediterraneo expresses an explicit nostalgia for a Latin Orient, while Ambrosini, L’Italia nel Mediterraneo attributes to the liberal ruling class the inability to use the victory in the First World War to achieve results in the Mediterranean. 7. Cf. Barbanera, L’archeologia degli italiani. 8. Peña Sánchez, Intelectuales y fascismo. 9. Saz Campos, Fascismo y franquismo, 69. 10. Cf. Thomàs, José Antonio. 11. Cf. Saz Campos, ‘De la conspiración a la intervención’; Tusell and Saz Campos, ‘Mussolini y Primo de Rivera’. 12. Selva, Ernesto Giménez Caballero, 105. 13. Ruinas, Vecchia e nuova Spagna, 7. 14. All the quoted documentation is from the Italian National Archives in Rome: Archivio centrale dello Stato (ACS), Ministero Cultura Popolare (MinCulPop), Gabinetto, buste (b.) 75, 76 and 60. 15. On the FIE, see Franzina and Sanfilippo, Il fascismo e gli emigrati; and Dogliani, Il fascismo degli italiani, 260–76. 16. Associazione Nazionale Volontari di Guerra, Il Decennale, 428. 17. Thanks to a 2001 Italian Law, since 2006 Italians living abroad have been able to vote for their own representatives in specific ‘macrocontinental regions’. This law had been long requested by Mirko Tremaglia, leader of the Italian Social Movement, the postfascist party. In the postwar era, Tremaglia was one of the closest collaborators of Giorgio Almirante, a leading exponent of cultural and racial politics during the Italian Social Republic, the collaborationist regime in 1943–45. 18. Bertonha, Emigrazione e politica estera, 5. 19. Ivani, Esportare il fascismo, 171 20. Bertonha, Emigrazione e politica estera, 7. 21. Pretelli, Il fascismo e gli italiani all’estero, 77. 22. ACS, Minculpop, b. 75, f. 508. 23. ACS, MinCulPop, b. 75, ff. 1900/8- 9–10. Until May 1939, the newspapers arrived via Agenzia Doganale Pages-Hendaye. Intendenza CTV – ufficio postale 2 – Vitoria, Spain. 24. ACS, MinCulPop, b. 75, f. 1900/8.

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25. Cf. Corti and Pizarroso Quintero, Giornali Contro; and Pizarroso Quintero, ‘Intervención extranjera y propaganda’. 26. ACS, MinCulPop, b. 75, f. 1900/10, Ufficio stampa a San Sebastiano. 27. For the books market, see ACS, Minculpop, b. 76, f. 1900/15. 28. On Pavolini’s presence in Portugal, cf. Ivani, Esportare il fascismo, 185–86. 29. ACS, MinCulPop, b. 76, f. 1900/14. 30. ACS, MinCulPop, b. 76, f. 1900/14. 31. Cf. Taillibert, L’Institut International du cinématographe. 32. For a Paulucci di Calboli biography, see Tassani, Diplomatico tra due guerre. 33. ACS, MinCulPop, b. 75, f. 510. 34. Cf. Cavarocchi, Avanguardie dello spirito, 145. 35. ACS, MinCulPop, b. 75, f. 1900/4. 36. ACS, MinCulPop, b.75, f. 1900–4/1. 37. ACS, MinCulPop, b.75, f. 1900–4/1. 38. On the Italian Press Agency in Salamanca, see ACS, Minculpop, b. 75, f. 1900/4.1. 39. ACS, MinCulPop, b. 76, f. 1900/14. 40. ACS, MinCulPop, b. 76, f. 1900/14. 41. ACS, MinCulPop, b. 76, f. 1900/15. 42. ACS, MinCulPop, b. 76, f. 1900/15. 43. On theatre, see ACS, MinCulPop, b. 75, f.1900/4 e 4.1 44. On cinematography, see ACS, MinCulPop, b. 75, f. 1900/4, 4.1 and 5; and b. 76, f. 1900/15. 45. ACS, MinCulPop, b. 75, f. 1900–3. 46. Cf. Caparrós Lera, Historia del cine español, 68 ff. On German cinema in Spain, see Montero and Paz, La larga sombra de Hitler; Zimmermann, Medien im Nationalsozialismus; Brunetta, Storia del cinema italiano, 143. 47. ACS, MinCulPop, b. 75, f. 1900.4/1.

Bibliography Ambrosini, Gaspare. L’Italia nel Mediterraneo. Foligno: Franco Campitelli, 1927. Associazione Nazionale Volontari di Guerra (ed.), Il Decennale. X Anniversario della Vittoria. Florence: Vallecchi, 1929/VIII. Barbanera, Marcello. L’archeologia degli italiani. Rome: Editori Riuniti, 1998. Bertonelli, Francesco. Il Nostro Mare. Studio sulla situazione politica militare dell’Italia nel Mediterraneo. Florence: Bemporad e Figlio, 1930. Bertonha, João Fábio. ‘Emigrazione e politica estera: la “diplomazia sovversiva” di Mussolini e la questione degli italiani all’estero, 1922–1945’. Altreitalie 23 (July–December 2001). Brunetta, Gian Piero. Storia del cinema italiano. Il cinema del regime 1929– 1945. Rome: Editori Riuniti, 2001

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Caparrós Lera, José María. Historia del cine español. Madrid: T&B Editores, 2007. Carotenuto, Gennaro. Franco e Mussolini. La guerra mondiale vista dal Mediterraneo: i diversi destini dei due dittatori. Milan: Sperling & Kupfer, 2005. Cavarocchi, Francesca. Avanguardie dello spirito. Il fascismo e la propaganda culturale all’estero. Rome: Carocci, 2010. Corti, Paola, and Alejandro Pizarroso Quintero. Giornali contro. Il Legionario e Il Garibaldino: la propaganda degli italiani nella guerra di Spagna. Alessandria: Ed. Dell’Orso, 1993. De Grand, Alexander. ‘Italian Fascism and Its Imperial and Racist Phase, 1935–1940’, Contemporary European History 13(2) (2004), 127–47. Dogliani, Patrizia. Il fascismo degli italiani. Una storia sociale. Milan: De Agostini, 2014. Domínguez Méndez, Rubén. Mussolini y la exportación de la cultura italiana a España. Madrid: Arco Libros, 2012. ———. ‘Note sulla politica culturale del fascismo in Spagna (1922–1945)’. Diacronie. Studi di Storia contemporanea 12(4) (2012). Franzina, Emilio, and Matteo Sanfilippo (eds). Il fascismo e gli emigrati. La parabola dei Fasci italiani all’estero (1920–1943). Rome-Bari: Laterza, 2003. Ivani, Mario. Esportare il fascismo. Collaborazione di polizia e diplomazia culturale tra Italia e Portogallo di Salazar (1928–1945). Bologna: Clueb, 2008. Montero, Julio, and María Antonia Paz. La larga sombra de Hitler. El cine nazi en España (1933–1945). Madrid: Cátedra, 2009. Paci, Deborah. Corsica fatal, Malta baluardo di romanità. L’irredentismo fascista nel mare nostrum 1922–1942. Milan: Le Monnier, 2015. Pedrazzi,Orazio. Il Levante Mediterraneo e l’Italia. Milan: Alpes, 1925. Peña Sánchez, Victoriano. Intelectuales y fascismo. La cultura italiana del ‘ventennio fascista’ y su repercusión en España. Granada: Universidad de Granada, 1995. Pizarroso Quintero, Alejandro. ‘Intervención extranjera y propaganda: la propaganda exterior de las dos Españas’. Historia y comunicación social 6 (2001), 63–95. Pretelli, Matteo. Il fascismo e gli italiani all’estero. Bologna: Clueb, 2010. Rodogno, Davide. Il nuovo ordine mediterraneo. Le politiche di occupazione dell’Italia fascista in Europa (1940–1943). Turin: Bollati Boringhieri, 2003. Rodrigo, Javier. La guerra fascista. Italia en la guerra civile española, 1936– 1939. Madrid: Alianza Editorial, 2016. Ruinas, Stanis. Vecchia e nuova Spagna. Milan: Garzanti, 1940. Saz Campos, Ismael. ‘De la conspiración a la intervención. Mussolini y el alzamiento nacional’. Cuadernos de trabajos de la Escuela Española de Roma 15 (1981), 321–58. ———. Fascismo y franquismo. Valencia: PUV, 2004. Selva, Enrique. Ernesto Giménez Caballero entre la vanguardia y el fascismo. Valencia: Pre- Textos – Institució Alfons el Magnànim, 2000. Taillibert, Christel. L’Institut International du cinématographe éducatif. Regards sur le rôle du cinéma éducatif dans la politique internationale du fascisme italien. Paris: L’Harmattan, 1999.

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Tassani, Giovanni. Diplomatico tra due guerre. Vita di Giacomo Paulucci di Calboli Barone, Florence: Le Lettere, 2012. Thomàs, Joan Maria. José Antonio. Realidad y mito. Barcelona: Debate, 2017. Tusell, Javier, and Ismael Saz Campos, ‘Mussolini y Primo de Rivera. Las relaciones políticas y diplomáticas de dos dictaturas mediterráneas’. Boletín de la Real Academia de la Historia CLXXIX(III) (1982), 413–83. Zimmermann, Clemans. Medien im Nationalsozialismus. Deutschland, Italien und Spanien in den 1930er und 1940er Jahren. Vienna: Böhlau Verlag, 2007.

Chapter 7

Circulating Fascisms Mussolini, Hitler and Hispanidad in Argentina Federico Finchelstein

å

Introduction Fascist ideology in Argentina was both globally related to transatlantic fascism and at the same time was idiosyncratically Argentine in its special branding as a sacred ideology and political culture. But if fascism was first an experience with universal and, in my analysis, transatlantic implications, after the demise of classic fascisms in 1945, it became part of a global memory of ideology and violence. This was especially the case in Argentina. After 1945, global fascism changed over time, affecting a new generation of perpetrators and victims well into the Cold War period. 1 Violence or, more precisely, the memories and experiences of global fascist violence seemed to be the connector, the vector of memory for fascists worldwide during the Cold War. In this context, Argentina played a special place for transnational fascism and postfascist populism. It did so for a variety of reasons. After 1945, most anti-fascists around the world saw it as one of the few remaining countries where fascism still ruled, Franco’s Spain or Salazar’s Portugal being the other ones. But if Spain was a fascist regime and an established dictatorship that became possible after a military coup d’état and a civil war, Argentina was by 1946 a democracy that ruled after a coup and a military dictatorship. This was the context of Peronism and this is why, in fact, in Argentina, fascism was reformulated in a democratic guise that created the first populist regime.2 But whereas Perón clearly saw himself as a postfascist for neofascists, Peronism was the clear heir of fascism.3 The US government

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shared this position and even published a blue book denouncing Perón as a fascist agent.4 The former fascist Curzio Malaparte, who travelled to Buenos Aires and observed Peronism at first hand, also regarded Perón as the true heir of Mussolini.5 And Adolf Eichmann informed his judges in Jerusalem that he would always remember Argentina as the site of a new life that was somehow connected to his past. He included Argentina among the nations that he considered to be worth remembering in the afterlife. He consciously conceived his memories of the Holocaust in light of Argentine nationalism and the transcontextual reality of Peronism vis-à-vis the violent deeds of German fascism.6 In short, Peronism was not truly fascist. For political reasons – namely, that it was hard to maintain a legitimate regime with an explicit fascist identity – Perón often denied the charge.7 However, he also actively acknowledged how Mussolini and fascism had been powerful influences on him. For example, in his highly selective memoirs, he presented Italian fascism and Nazism as ‘socialism with a national character’. He also ascribed the same key feature to his movement. In this context, he famously stated that he had decided to visit fascist Italy in order to learn about the global dimensions of the fascist national experience in Italy: ‘I chose to do my military assignment in Italy because it was where a new national socialism was being tested. Until then, socialism had been Marxist. In contrast, in Italy socialism was sui generis, Italian: fascism.’8 All in all, Perón thought that his leadership embodied another sui generis-ism: Peronism. This meant that his movement could not be neofascist given fascism’s global defeat. Peronism is better understood as postfascist rather than fascist. In fact, what emerged as an idiosyncratic Latin American form of authoritarian democracy was both marked by its fascist legacy as well as by the rejection of several of fascism’s main attributes: extreme violence and the militarization of politics, racism and the politics of xenophobia, totalitarian propaganda and political lies, and, last but not least, dictatorial rule. In more specific national terms, Peronism rejected some of the basic tenets of Argentine nacionalismo.

Nacionalismo or the Politics of Argentine Fascism Argentine fascism, also called nacionalismo, presented a specific Latin American configuration of politics and the sacred, and conflated notions of anti-semitism, political violence and sexuality. Argentine nacionalistas saw fascism as a universal ideology that was called fascism in Italy, Nazism in Germany and nacionalismo in Argentina. Naciona-

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listas had an active relationship with Italian fascism and other European fascist movements through propaganda and other transnational exchanges. Hatred of liberal Argentine traditions went hand in hand with admiration of Hitler and Mussolini. Despite their respect for these European fascist leaders, Argentine nacionalistas believed they were better than the Nazis or the fascists. They thought of themselves as pan-American instruments of God, so they argued that they did not have a drop of European forms of paganism that were part of Italian fascism and German Nazism. This belief was justified by faith. For them, the ultimate chief of nacionalismo was Jesus Christ. All in all, for nacionalistas, the question of belief in fascism as a transatlantic ideology was central. They did not see a distinction between fascism and the extreme right. Argentine fascist ideology, according to their understanding, was xenophobic, militarist, violent, anti-semitic, nationalist and Catholic. But this ideology was not structured in political parties or canonical books. For Argentine fascists, ‘nacionalismo is not a political party, and it must not be; it is more than ideology, it is an emotion’.9According to Argentine fascists, the transcendence of the rational and its replacement with the sensorial made nacionalismo extremist: ‘On being extremist, it speaks of a certain faith on top of purely intellectual conviction, a fervor and a “pathos” that transcend the limits of cold reason, a passionate will open new frontiers for the Homeland, saving its perennial identity.’10 This extremist ideal of convergence of nation and politics was part of a global movement. Few doubts remain that nacionalistas were well informed about European fascisms. Many travelled to Europe to see Mussolini and other fascist leaders. Among them were famous nacionalistas like Manuel Fresco, Matías Sánchez Sorondo and Juan Carlos Goyeneche. In a private interview in 1943, the Duce promised Goyeneche and his Argentine fascist allies that the ‘Argentine republic will have to play a vital important role in the future world order’.11 For Mussolini, Argentina was a leader in the transformations of the New Order in South America. Moreover, he also told Goyeneche that he supported the neutralist campaign led by nacionalistas and the army, and mischievously argued that ‘Italy recognized Argentine sovereignty over the Falklands/Malvinas islands’.12 Many Italian fascists also visited Argentina during those years, and Nazis and fascists contributed money to Argentine fascism, secretly subsidizing the fascist press and other Argentine fascist activities.13 Nacionalistas openly expressed their reverence for Mussolini as a transatlantic figure. They also argued that fascism could not be restricted to Italy since it was a ‘spiritual state’. Fascism was a ‘concep-

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tion of life’.14 Similarly, the Argentine fascist intellectual Luis Gallardo recognized fascism as ‘the interpreter of our century’, but highlighted the need for Argentine fascists to shape it in an Argentine fashion.15 According to Felipe Yofre, Argentine fascists were above all nacionalistas and had to identify with the ‘great Argentina’ of the famous Argentine fascist poet Leopoldo Lugones and with ‘the example’ of Argentine dictator José Félix Uriburu. Nacionalismo ‘does not embody the blind and unconscious imitation of the Italian regime, but rather our movement and the birth of the fascist organization are the consequence of analogous situations and analogous necessities’. Fascism was a global ideology in battle against communism and liberal democracy, and defined by national peculiarities.16 As Juan P. Ramos, the leader of Afirmación de una Nueva Argentina (ADUNA), argued, fascism as ‘implanted in Argentina’ had to have Argentine characteristics without forgetting that Mussolini’s fascism had provided a primary example.17 For Argentine fascists, if their national movement was part of the transatlantic fascist order, they also rejected the idea that their movement had to be mimetic with respect to other fascisms. Moreover, in countries where imperialism had imposed colonial dimensions, such as Argentina, the ‘ideas of the New Order’ adopted an idiosyncratic anti-imperialist motivation.18 Moreover, for the fascists of Argentina, their fascism was even better than the other fascisms insofar as it combined sacred traditions.19 Nacionalismo ‘is an ideology that is essentially national. It is influenced by historical revisionism and it reclaims the majestic empire of the Hispanic tradition. It joins the Latin cultural legacy and the perennial light of Rome. It joins the Cross of Christ. Nacionalismo without being a movement of refraction aligns itself with the New Order’.20 As the members of the Partido Fascista Argentino (PFA) from the port city of Rosario argued, fascism had universalistic transnational implications. But how could radical nacionalismo, the Argentine version of fascism, transcend the nation? For the Rosario fascists, its main premises were ‘Unitarian and totalitarian’, and this meant that fascism was rooted in ‘the concept of universality’ while it responded individually to the needs of every nation. For them, fascism was socially concerned, unlike ‘old oligarchic nationalism’. Thus, it promoted class collaboration rather than class struggle at the national level. They argued that the old nacionalismo was disappearing, ceding its place to the ‘new universal nacionalismo’. In fact, for them, like the other members of nacionalismo, fascism was the name for the Italian version of global nacionalismo.

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Argentine nacionalistas maintained that fascism had ceased to be uniquely Italian as its creator had defined it. From this perspective, fascism had transcended political frontiers and had become an international movement. It had ‘initiated its world expansion as a redemptive crusade’.21 If the notion of crusade called to mind the notion of medieval warfare in the name of the divine, in Argentina, another term taken from Europe’s past was similarly used: Reconquista. The fascist reference to what they saw as an epic struggle between the Cross and the Crescent helped them to conflate Argentine liberalism with Islam, and thereby insist upon its alterity and confirm the authenticity of their own struggle. The group of nacionalista historians who rejected Argentina’s liberal foundations and created ‘historical revisionism’ expressed broader anti-imperialist concerns of nacionalismo, mixing them with anti-imperialist and religious themes: ‘In our Patria, we Argentines must re-conquer, because what is ours is owned by the others the fascist idea starts to be undeniably felt by the people’. Fascism had a ‘redemptive mission’ and the Argentine fascists had a ‘secure faith in its victory’.22 The idea of Mussolini as a global icon of fascism was central but not exclusive. Nor was the idea of the subordinate role of fascism as the vehicle for the political designs of the sacred. In short, nacionalismo considered fascism to be the political instrument of God. In addition, the global fascist leaders were conceived as the epitome of the rise of a new era. They personified fascist theory with their actions. In this new fascist age, reason would cede its place to a sacralized form of violence. Hatred of democratic Argentina went hand in hand with admiration for European leaders like Hitler.23 Hitler acquired the aura of a leading man of action as well as, more surprisingly, that of a leading intellectual who combined theory and practice. For example, Julio Irazusta shared with almost all of his nacionalista colleagues a profound admiration for the Führer. In a revealing text written for Nuevo Orden in 1941 and entitled ‘The Personality of Hitler’, Irazusta argued that the reasons presented by the Spanish fascist Ramiro de Maeztu to define Hitler as the ‘political genius of the 20th century’ had ‘increased considerably’ since de Maeztu’s death. According to Irazusta, without being a ‘political philosopher’, the German dictator had presented in Mein Kampf ‘a treatise of practical science, for German use, based on the most solid general ideas’. The ‘general ideas’ were thought of as the common matrix of transnational fascism. For Irazusta, the personality of Hitler was characterized by his ‘brilliant career’, his ‘effective action’, his ‘flexibility’, his ‘modesty’ and his ‘range’. For Irazusta, Hitler was, in sum, ‘an em-

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inently sensible man, the complete opposite of the intolerant and presumptuous megalomaniac that his detractors present’. 24 This admiration for Hitler was inscribed in the politics of the global anti-democratic framework of global fascism that included nacionalistas as much as Nazis.25 Before anti-fascist criticisms like those of the exiled French philosopher Roger Callois, who in 1940 had argued at a Buenos Aires conference organized by the liberal magazine Sur that Hitler ‘is an inspired man whose only function consists of brandishing lightning and running blindly toward a catastrophic destiny’, the nacionalistas of Nuevo Orden answered ‘we’ve laughed a lot’ at this ‘insolent foreign tongue’. 26 What was the reason for this nacionalista laughter? It was not motivated by the anti-fascist reference to the German dictator as a mythical God-like figure. Hitler could not have had supernatural attributes, since only the divine ‘master’ of nacionalismo possessed them. For nacionalista priests like Meinvielle or Franceschi, the paganist dimensions of the European forms of fascism were related to their belief in the all-powerful humanity of the leader. Knowingly or not, fascisms fought for the Kingdom of God on Earth against traditional superstitions. As Alberto Ezcurra Medrano commented, ‘even if we are mistaken, even if Hitler is the monster that you believe he is, a precursor of the anti-Christ, neither will we fear him as much as we fear you … disciples of Judas’. Ezcurra named among these disciples of Protestantism, liberalism, Judaism, communism and freemasonry: ‘Thanks heavens. Let Hitler fight against all anti-Christian sects and let him be for them the terrible executioner that they have built up and deserve. We know that at the end, whatever happens, the jaws of hell will not prevail against the Church and Jesus Christ is enough to save the Christian civilization.’27

Argentine Imperialism There was a binary political view, based on the dilemma between communism and fascism, not only due to the ultimate antagonism between friend and enemy, but also complemented by the idea that the enemy must be expelled from the political realm since it disagreed with the political nacionalista myth. Rather than constituting a nacionalista conception of the political, this antagonism indicated its violent and messianic resolution. The enemy had to disappear. To defend the nation against its enemies also implied the promotion of an ‘Argentine imperialism’ that was understood as the secular re-

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birth of the sacred colonial viceroyalty.28 The nacionalistas of Guardia Argentina rejected ‘the void Americanism’ promoted by liberalism and instead supported the ‘unity of La Plata’, an imagined consortium of five nations whose territories made up the old colonial viceroyalty of the River Plate. For Lugones, the author of the political ‘purposes’ of the Guardia, achieving this ‘unity’ represented ‘our manifest destiny’. This destiny symbolized a second independence: ‘Our fathers brought about emancipation. We must sustain and complete it.’29 ‘Argentine imperialism’ was understood as a secular regeneration of the sacred viceroyalty. Argentina was still grappling with the ‘surviving colonialism of our national political sub-emancipation’.30 In short, for nacionalistas like Ramón Doll, the Argentine postcolonial situation meant that the country was not truly free. Without noting the contradiction that Argentina had become a nation only after it ceased to be part of the Viceroyalty of the River Plate, nacionalistas reified the colonial experience of preindependence Argentina and advocated for its fascist reconfiguration. For Doll, Juan Manuel de Rosas (the nineteenth-century Argentine caudillo) had already begun this task since ‘he had a vast program of reconstruction of the viceroyalty’ and had defended Argentina from European imperialism, as well as from the supposed Brazilian, Bolivian and Chilean forms of imperialism. Thanks to de Rosas, Doll argued, Argentina did not become Argelia (Algeria), referring to the colonization by France of the North African country.31 The idea that postcolonial Latin America was substantially different from colonial Africa had important racist undertones – this would be very clear during the Italian occupation of Ethiopia and the overwhelming Argentine fascist support for it – but it was also connected to the nacionalista focus on religion. While positivists such as José Ingenieros had announced in 1910 that there were scientific reasons to think about the ‘evolution’ of Argentina’s history as a path from ‘barbarism to imperialism’, for nacionalistas, imperial Argentina did not emanate from science, but from the Cross.32 The need for an Argentine empire was thought of as an obvious consequence of the putatively futile nature of class struggle. In the nacionalista and fascist imaginary, class struggle was replaced by a new struggle between nations, the ‘plutocratic’ nations and the ‘proletarian’ peoples. For Rodolfo Irazusta, the English were a ‘totalitarian’ people, while the Argentines were ‘proletarian’.33 As Mussolini had maintained, liberalism and fascism represented two different forms of imperialism. But in Argentina more than in Italy, Mussolini’s form of imperialism was equated with the Latin Amer-

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ican tradition of anti-imperialism, which was presented by Argentine fascists as a manifestation of anti-democratic popular sovereignty. Typically, they also added theological motifs to this view. For them, traditional secular empires (i.e. Britain, France and the United States) were pagan and totalitarian, while they saw fascist imperialism as an anti-imperialist God-sanctioned negation of the secular empires. This was, for nacionalistas, ‘the dialectics of empire’, which they understood as an Argentine regeneration of the imperial legacies of the Spanish and Roman Empires.34 However, they did not think of the imperial legacy as reactionary or as a mere return to the past, because the Cross and the Sword had to be at the service of a ‘New Order’.35 In contrast with other Argentine fascists who equated totalitarianism with paganism, communism and liberalism, Pico, Ezcurra Medrano and many others tried to recuperate this concept for clerical fascism. The totalitarian nature of Argentine fascism was supposed to be integrally Christian. As Ezcurra Medrano put it, ‘only a Catholic totalitarianism can secure Catholic freedom’. This sacred integralism was a ‘Totalitarianism of the Truth’.36 To be sure, Mussolini had similarly appropriated the term from the anti-fascists who had presented fascism as tyranny, while the Duce himself presented fascism as an integralistic form of politics. But for the nacionalistas, imperialism and integralism were part of totalitarianism because they were Christian. In other words, imperialism represented a significant dimension of integral Catholicism. For Argentine nacionalista Ernesto Palacio, to ‘adopt from fascism only its authoritarian shell when its essence is mystical, and when only this constitutes the architecture of the State, is insanity … Popular support is what makes fascism strong, and it will lose its strength when it is lacking it’.37 For Palacio, a fascist dictatorship had to be part of a hegemonic project marked by a common history (understood by him as anti-liberal, imperial, Latin and Hispanic) and religion. Nacionalismo would then allow for the realization of the fascist Kingdom of God on Earth. Therefore, the nacionalista ‘action’ was seen as the confirmation that nacionalismo in Argentina was fascism as God wanted it. The importance of Spanish fascism and the Spanish Civil War of 1936 should not be underemphasized here. If Italian fascism dominated the international fascist scene before 1936, the appearance of Spanish fascism, a form of fascism that resembled Argentine nacionalismo, clearly affected the dynamic fluctuations of Argentine nacionalista ideology. Most nacionalistas saw the Spanish Civil War as a crusade in which fascism worked to ‘restore Christianity’. Franceschi, for example, travelled to the Spanish front as an official representative of Argentine Catholicism and played a central role in the Argentine

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denial of the massacre at Guernica.38 Unlike Father Riesco, most nacionalistas identified Spanish fascism as yet another form of nacionalismo. Between 1936 and 1945, Argentine nacionalistas presented Hispanidad as a central dimension of nacionalismo. The idea of Hispanidad was directly related to the Spanish Civil War, as Spanish fascists needed to rethink their imperial past in neo-imperialistic terms. But the very term Hispanidad was not born in Europe, but in Argentina. The Spanish-born Catholic priest Zacarías de Vizcarra, a significant clerico-fascist intellectual and a guide of Argentine nacionalismo in its early years, coined the term Hispanidad in Buenos Aires in the pages of an Argentine journal. Vizcarra, who was a regular contributor to the nacionalista Catholic journal Criterio, stated that Hispanidad worked better than ‘race’ when thinking about the links between Latin America and Spain. Vizcarra’s original use of the term was explicitly recognized by Spanish fascists. However, before the Spanish Civil War, the idea of Hispanidad was mainly known through the influence of Ramiro de Maeztu’s influential text Defensa de la hispanidad (1934). In this book, Maeztu put forward ideas that were shared among Argentines, such as the stress on the interpenetration of the temporal with the spiritual and its victimizing corollary, namely the conflation of the Antichrist with an internal enemy.39 Maeztu had been the Spanish ambassador in Buenos Aires in the late 1920s and had subsequently maintained close contacts with nacionalistas and Catholics.40 Before the publication of his text, Maeztu anticipated his main points in articles that he wrote for Criterio.41 Although he made it very clear that Spain had a parental mission towards the territories of its former empire, Criterio symptomatically reviewed his book as though it spoke only of the Spanish past and ignored its supposed paternalism towards Latin America.42 The death of Maeztu at the hands of Spanish anti-fascists symbolized the nacionalista belief that the debate about Hispanidad was not exclusively theoretical. For the entire nacionalista movement, the future of nacionalismo was at stake in Spain. 43 Spanish fascists agreed with this argument during their frequent visits to Argentina. With the exception of the strategically dialogical Pemán, most of the Spanish fascist Hispanists, especially the rightist priest Garcia Morente, and Spanish theorists and fascist personalities Antonio Tovar, Alfonso de Ascanio, Feliciano Cereceda, the Catholic priest Enrique Díaz de Robles, Jose Ibáñez Martín and General Millán Astray, displayed without nuance a religious and neo-imperialistic notion of Hispanidad that claimed Spain was destined to play the leading fascist transnational role in Latin America.44 Neo-imperialism had a crucial place in Spain’s

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plans for the future; the Spanish Foreign Minister Serrano Suñer told the Nazi newspaper Völkischer Beobachter in 1941 that ‘the future of Spain and her empire is the foremost preoccupation of the Spanish leader’.45 For nacionalistas, Hispanidad and fascism were fused in Argentina. Their use of the concept shows how they understood transnational fascist circulation of ideas in terms of Argentine primacy. Father Riesco, a Spanish-born Argentine priest, went beyond the nacionalista mainstream when he asserted that Hispanidad should work as an international template for Argentines, a notion later historians of Argentine nacionalismo have reified.46 Riesco argued that Latin America lacked autonomy and always copied Europe. Thus, he sometimes criticized the nacionalistas for their excessive ‘localism’ in conceiving politics and their refusal to accept the Spanish European template. By calling for an ideology that could go ‘beyond nacionalismo’, Riesco made explicit a wish to copy Franco’s version of fascism.47 Although, there were mimetic tendencies in nacionalismo, they did not predominate among the nacionalista majority.

Christian Fascism and Hispanidad Despite their idealization of European fascist leaders, as Argentine nacionalistas, they believed that they represented a superior form of fascism because of their perceived symbiosis with Catholicism. Indeed, this belief was justified by faith. For them, the chief of nacionalismo was Jesus Christ. In integral Catholicism, nacionalistas found a source of knowledge and inspiration. Integral Catholicism gave nacionalismo the legitimacy of the sacred. At the final reckoning, even in politics, God, and not Mussolini, Hitler or Uriburu, was for them all-powerful. If the nacionalistas considered themselves perfect Catholics, they were also literal soldiers of God. Already in 1928, the nacionalista César Pico had highlighted the supposed failure of democracy and the alleged danger of communism as examples of a fascist direction that was impossible to avoid. Far from proposing to copy concrete aspects of the European fascist movements, Pico concluded with what was for him synonymous with theoretical action and practical guide: ‘Seek ye first the kingdom of God, and his righteousness, for all these things shall be added unto you.’48 Fascism was a transnational ideology with local variants, while for nacionalistas, Catholicism was more truly global and transcendental. In short, they saw fascism as a political expression of Catholicism. For the nacionalistas of Crisol, Catholicism

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was the hinge that defined ‘what we want and what we don’t want’.49 In 1933, Criterio endorsed ADUNA. This was not surprising to contemporaries, since the fascists of ADUNA claimed that they stood for God and homeland and against socialists and Jews, who they considered to be ‘enemies of Jesus’. They presented their sacred understanding of fascism as a ‘supreme and eternal ideal of transcendental overcoming of life’.50 Nacionalistas believed they were the political vicars of God on Earth. This idea, which is interesting for its lack of orthodoxy, is noteworthy considering that the most important Catholic priests of the ecclesiastical mainstream, the principal referents of Catholic orthodoxy in interwar Argentina, participated in the nacionalista movement. As the Catholic intellectual Ezcurra Medrano maintained, ‘Catholicism and nacionalismo should march united’. And they did.51 Priests like Fathers Gustavo Franceschi, Julio Meinvielle, Virgilio Filippo, Leonardo Castellani and Gabriel Riesco, to name the most famous ones, were members of the Church and at the same time nacionalistas at the frontline. As the historian Loris Zanatta has cogently demonstrated, ‘during the 1930s, the Argentine Church was radically nacionalista’ and likewise the nacionalista groups were an ‘organic part’ of the ‘Catholic movement’.52 It is not difficult to understand these ecclesiastical actions if we take into consideration the crusade the Church undertook against liberal Argentina, during which it built a national hegemonic project in alliance with the nacionalistas and the army. The idea that the cross and the sword could be the emblems of a fascist project, at once extremely nationalist and xenophobic, had already been explored in the nacionalista experience with the Uriburu dictatorship (1930–32), but it was also circumscribed in a global rereading of Argentina’s and the world’s history. In this context, the nacionalista César Pico signalled, ‘our history, that of Christian civilization, was forged by the cross and the sword’.53 For Pico, Argentine nacionalismo had to be ‘Christianized fascism’.54 In this sense, Pico, like the other nacionalistas, did not promote a product of foreign importation, but rather an Argentine variant of the universal fascist constellation. But how could fascism be logically defined if it was one thing in Italy and another in Argentina? This was a question that the nacionalistas discarded in the sense that they saw fascism as an ideology based on feelings and not on books, logic or programmatic constitutions. Nacionalistas rejected the need to explain transnational bonds, which they conceived as being firmly rooted in feeling, myths and intuitions. For El Pueblo, the principal Catholic newspaper of the moment, and its star columnist Luis Barrantes Molina, the defence of nacionalismo

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and Italian fascism was a daily activity. El Pueblo was partly subsidized by Italian fascism and included known nacionalistas among its contributors. For Barrantes, even though fascism was difficult to define, it constituted an example of a universal dictatorial tendency. The binary opposition between communism and fascism legitimized the choice of the latter. But, more importantly, for them, fascism was the defender of religion. For Barrantes, ‘the Duce is not totalitarian since … in practice he recognizes the spiritual and temporal sovereignty of the Pope’.55 Barrantes did not mention or perhaps ignored Mussolini’s conflicts with the Church, but on the other hand, in his very Argentine cleric-fascist way of thinking, Mussolini was what Barrantes wanted him to be. For Father Julio Meinvielle, the dilemma between fascism and communism was in reality the expression of a conjunction of dichotomies that defined the national being and its enemies. Eventually, good fascism would become Christianized fascism: ‘Will we form an alliance with fascism or with democracy? Will we favor the modern conquests of women’s suffrage? Will we try to Christianize liberalism, socialism, democracy, feminism? It would be healthier for us to Christianize ourselves.’56 Meinvielle understood Christianization as a way of doing nacionalista politics. Nimio de Anquín, ‘chief’ of fascism in the province of Córdoba with thousands of followers, defined it in 1939 as a form of political thought that ‘is a clear Christian ideal’, although formulated ‘for the temporal order in perfect coincidence with the celestial state’.57 De Anquín included this project in the framework of the coincidences between nacionalismo and Mussolini’s fascism. Therefore, in a massive meeting in 1936, the Argentine fascist leader proclaimed the superiority of the rights of a growing minority over the weak majority. Noting the importance of having achieved unity of action and doctrine, he urged young nacionalistas to join the struggle as ‘a norm of action and life’, reminding them of Mussolini’s words: ‘if I advance, follow me, if I fall back kill me, if I am killed, avenge me’.58 The fascists of Córdoba, like Argentine nacionalistas in general, did not distinguish among fascisms because they understood, perhaps better than Mussolini, the nacionalista particularities of each within the framework of universal fascism.59 This last point was defined by a collective structure of feelings that became ‘norms of life’ for the individuals and the nation as a whole. The nacionalista poet Leopoldo Marechal expressed the nacionalista equation of the sacred in even more dramatic terms in Sol y Luna in 1938. The Argentines were a chosen people. Marechal noted that there were peoples who ‘have a mission’ according to the designs of God

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and lift ‘the singing voice of history’. ‘Is our country one with a mission? I believe it is: mine is a faith and a hope, nothing more, but it is great.’ The poet maintained that if the ‘designs of God’ were followed, Argentina could supersede itself and would become not only a ‘great province on earth’ but also a ‘great province of heaven’.60 In the same way, nacionalismo was defined by its political imperative to ‘expand the kingdom of God, adorning the emblem of the Homeland’.61 The nacionalistas of Clarinada declared that Catholics must organize themselves to combat communism and must never think of joining the communists, since the followers of Stalin were the incarnation of the Devil.62 This view was widely shared by transnational fascists and it also presented a tension in the sense that each of them thought that their nation had a primordial, leading role to play in this fight. Thus, for the Spanish fascist Serrano Suñer, Spain had a natural ‘preoccupation’ with the nations of Hispanic America and the ‘danger’ of communism in the region.63 But what kind of obligation and what sort of empire did the Spanish fascists have in mind? Most believed that Spain should reclaim its leading role in a Hispanic-Latin American ‘spiritual empire’. They pushed for a Spain that guided Latin America intellectually and politically. As the Spanish fascist General Millán Astray told the Argentine people in an open letter published in La Razón, Latin America was going to experience the same crisis that led to the nacionalista insurgency.64 Thus, the Spanish solution could be their solution. Most Argentine nacionalistas agreed. However, without acknowledging the differences between the Spanish notion of Hispanidad as a neo-imperialistic endeavour and their own notion of Hispanidad as a Latin American venture, most nacionalistas integrated the concept of Hispanidad with an idea of Latin America that had Argentina as the legitimate heir of the empire. For Pemán, the Spanish fascists had to ‘listen’ to Latin America, and particularly Argentina, as it was the territorial manifestation of Hispanidad.65 Pemán personally praised the writings of Meinvielle and Pico on Maritain and fascism, arguing that Argentine nacionalismo was better qualified than Spanish fascism because it lacked the latter’s ‘suggestive or mimetic’ character: ‘When there is no Ethiopia to conquer, a Tunisia to remember or an Austria to absorb, it is cleaner and higher to engage in a bit of fascism.’66 Pemán’s understanding of Argentine fascism mirrored the way in which Argentine nacionalistas understood themselves, but Pemán tended to consider fascism as generic and nacionalismo as a particular national case, and not the other way round. He told nacionalistas that Hispani-

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dad represented the best way to equate fascism with the Church, which he approvingly called ‘Christian totalitarianism’. 67 For fascists across the Atlantic, the Spanish insurgence and the concept of Hispanidad acted as catalysts for their nacionalista ideas. Thus, for Argentine fascists, Hispanidad implied an Argentine ‘imperialist vocation’ or ‘Argentine empire’.68 This empire was supposed to be essentially Argentine and Christian. Rather than simply accepting Pemán’s proposal for a ‘dialogue’ and an ideological encounter of ‘transoceanic Hispanidad’, Argentine fascists appropriated his words and asserted an Argentine-centric notion of Hispanidad.69 As with other global fascisms, Argentine thought of itself as superior to the rest. Federico Finchelstein is Professor of History at the New School for Social Research and Eugene Lang College, New York. He is the author of several books on fascism, populism, dirty wars, the Holocaust and Jewish history in Latin America and Europe. His most recent books are A Brief History of Fascist Lies (2020) and From Fascism to Populism (2017), while his previous publications include The Ideological Origins of the Dirty War (2014) and Transatlantic Fascism (2010).

Notes 1. See Finchelstein, Transatlantic Fascism; and Finchelstein, The Ideological Origins of the Dirty War. 2. See Finchelstein, From Fascism to Populism in History. 3. This was the case for those around Carlo Scorza, one of the last national secretaries of the Partito Nazionale Fascista, who lived in Argentina after the war until 1969, or those close to Asvero Gravelli, member of Salò Republic and later editor of the monthly magazine Latinità in Italy, For Gravelli and his group of neofascists, see L’Antidiario, 9–16 July 1950; and L’Antidiario, 16–23 July 1950, 342–43. 4. See US Department of State, Consultation among the American Republics with Respect to the Argentine Situation (Washington DC, 1946). See also AMREC, Guerra Europea, Mueble, File 43, Record 549, 1943; Archivo del Ministerio de Relaciones Exteriores y Culto. Argentina (AMREC), Guerra Europea, Box 7, File 43, Record 549, 1943. 5. See Ronchi, Malaparte, 379–83. 6. Session No. 105. 7 Av 5721 (20 July 1961) in The Trial of Adolf Eichmann. See also Arendt, Eichmann in Jerusalem, 252. 7. On Perón’s own definition of totalitarian fascism, see Perón, Obras Completas, 571–72. 8. See Eloy Martínez, Las vidas del General Buenos Aires, 42. On the military mission of Perón in Italy, see ‘La Missione militare argentina esalta l’organizzazione delle Forze Armate Italiana’, Il Giornale d’Italia, 12 September

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9. 10. 11.

12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17.

18. 19. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24. 25. 26. 27. 28.

29.

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1940. See also AMREC, División Política, Mueble 7, Casilla 1, Guerra Europea, File 14, 1939, Rome, 4 July 1940. ‘…Y sigue el confusionismo’, Clarinada, 30 June 1941. ‘Alianza. Ubicación del nacionalismo’Alianza, 2 October 1945. See AMREC, División Política (DP), Box 22, Italia, ‘Entrevista concedida por el señor Mussolini al señor Juan Carlos Goyeneche’, File 7, 1943, Records 1–4. See also Archivio Centrale dello Stato, Italia (ACS), Ministero della Cultura Popolare (MinCulPop), D.G Serv. Propaganda, b. 8 Argentina 1938 I/4/1 T. 487; Finchelstein, Transatlantic Fascism, 163–64. ACS, MinCulPop, D.G Serv. Propaganda, b. 9 Argentina 5/1/8 and AMREC, División Política, Box 22, Italia, N 511, N 34, Record 1, 4 June 1943. Finchelstein, Transatlantic Fascism; and Newton, The ‘Nazi’ Menace in Argentina. Yofre, El fascismo y nosotros, 18, 40. See also Ibarguren, La inquietud de esta hora. Luis F. Gallardo, La Mística del Adunismo, Buenos Aires, 1933, 15, in Archivo General de la Nación Argentina (AGNA), Archivo Uriburu, File 26. Yofre, El fascismo y nosotros, 18, 21, 28, 36, 42–43. See speech by Ramos in AGNA, Archivo Agustín P. Justo, Box 45, Record 146. For a similar idea expressed by Partido Fascista Argentino, see AGNA, Archivo Agustín P. Justo, Box 49, File 29, Boletín oficial del partido nacional fascista. Roberto A. Rolón (Jr), ‘La voz de Abrojos’, Abrojos, November 1933. Doll, Itinerario de la Revolución Rusa, 53. Finchelstein, Transatlantic Fascism, 115–17. Alberto Daniel Faleroni, ‘Imperialismo, nacionalismo, revolución’, Clarinada, September 1943, 6. E. M., ‘Universalidad del fascismo’, Nueva Idea, 19 January 1935. AGNA, Archivo Agustín P. Justo, Box 36, File 271. Carulla, Al filo del Medio Siglo, 241. Julio Irazusta, ‘La personalidad de Hitler’, Nuevo Orden, 14 May 1941. See also ‘El miedo al adunismo’, Aduna, 31 March 1935, 1. AGNA, Archivo Agustín P. Justo, Box 104, File 149, Record 148 and Box 104 bis, File 318; Nimio de Anquín, ‘Liberalismo subrepticio y libertad cristiana’, Nueva Política 12 June 1941, 7. ‘Un lenguaraz extranjero’, Nuevo Orden, 5 September 1940. Alberto Ezcurra Medrano, ‘La obra del liberalismo y sus pretensiones actuales’, Nueva Política, 18 December 1941, 22. See Enrique Harriague Coronado, ‘Sigue el reajuste del estatuto colonial’, La Voz del Plata, 30 September 1942, 4; Ibarguren, Rosas y la tradición hispanoamericana; ‘Como se ha venido achicando la Patria’, Choque, 3 January 1941, 6; ‘Ylex Paraguayensis’, Nueva Política, 13 July 1941, 6; H. Sáenz y Quesada, ‘¿Qué sería una política imperial argentina?’, Nueva Política, 9 February 1940; Armando Cascella, ‘Hay que retomar la ruta del virreynato’, Nuevo Orden, 8 August 1940. Archivo Privado de Leopoldo Lugones, Papeles y carpetas de Leopoldo Lugones, Guardia Argentina. Propósitos, 1933, 10.

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30. Ramón Doll, ‘Un pleito protocolar: la Suprema Corte y el cardenal’, La Voz del Plata, 29 July 1942, 5. 31. Doll, Acerca de una política nacional, 165, 169, 175, 189. See also Font Ezcurra, La Unidad Nacional, XI, XII, 200. 32. Ingenieros, La evolución sociológica argentina, 86, 90. See also ‘El día de la raza’, Nueva Política, 28 October 1942. 33. Rodolfo Irazusta, ‘Los ingleses y el progreso argentino’, Reconquista, 30 November 1939. 34. Marcelo Sánchez Sorondo, ‘Dialéctica del imperio’, Sol y Luna 1, 1938, 107,109–110. 35. Juan P. Ramos, ‘La cultura española y la conquista de América’, Sol y Luna 9, 1942, 47. 36. Alberto Ezcurra Medrano, ‘Libertad y totalitarismo’ Nueva Política, 28 May 1943, 13. 37. Palacio, La historia falsificada, 151. 38. For Franceschi, Guernica had been ‘intentionally’ attacked by the ‘reds’. See Gustavo J. Franceschi, ‘El eclipse de la moral’, Criterio, 27 May 1937, 77; Franceschi, En el Humo del Incendio. See also A.H. Varela, ‘Dios en España’, Criterio, 9 September 1937, 41; Julio Meinvielle, ‘Pastor Angelicus’, Sol y Luna 2, 1939, 114. See also ACS, MinCulPop, D.G Serv., b. 7 Argentina 1937 I/4/18.T. 105. 39. Maeztu, Defensa de la Hispanidad, 8, 16, 19–21, 36, 39, 73, 105–6, 109, 132–35, 168–69, 184, 216–17, 288–89. Interestingly, Maeztu located the genealogy of the vocational concept of Hispanidad in the writings of Father Vizcarra, whom he identified as a Spanish priest. On Father Vizcarra, see Zanatta, Del estado liberal a la nación católica, 45, 162, 295. 40. See Criterio, 16 February 1930, 198; ‘El momento español’, Criterio, 18 December 1930, 782. 41. Ramiro de Maeztu, ‘Las aguas de Rousseau’, Criterio, 4 December 1930, 723–24. 42. Criterio, 12 July 1934, 243. 43. ‘¿Qué hace América ante la tragedia de España?’, Crisol, 13 October 1936; ‘La causa de los nacionalistas españoles es una causa de cultura universal’, La Fronda, 21 January 1937; Luis Barrantes Molina, ‘El movimiento militar de Franco no es sedición’, El Pueblo, 18 February 1937, 44. 44. García Morente, Idea de la Hispanidad, 12–17, 22, 25, 55, 129; Sol y Luna 2, 1939, 174; Pemán, Seis conferencias pronunciadas en Hispano América, 9–11, 28, 37, 43, 87, 95, 99; Pemán, El paraíso y la serpiente, 7–15–20–21. See also Pemán, Cartas a un escéptico, 86, 153; Tovar, El imperio de España, 9–16; de Ascanio, España imperio, 3, 11, 14, 18, 27–32, 43, 115–22, 127, 168–71; Cereceda, Historia del imperio español, 8–9, 265–75; Díaz de Robles, El ideal hispánico, 19, 54, 60, 65–66, 109–12, 126–27; Millán Astray, ‘Emoción de la Hispanidad’, 45–52. Tellingly, hispanistas like de Maeztu or Díaz de Robles criticized the Argentine Domingo Sarmiento as the icon of the anti-hispanic intellectual. 45. AMREC, División Política, Box 7, File 22, Guerra Europea, Record 258, 1940. See Document 3.

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46. Riesco asserted that ‘Argentinianness is the realization of Hispanic identity in our national reality’. See Riesco, El destino de la Argentina, 249. See my criticism of this historiography in Finchelstein, Fascismo, liturgia e imaginario, 10–14. 47. Riesco, El destino de la Argentina, 145, 171–76, 181, 199, 210–11, 262–63. See also Riesco, Nuestra misión histórica, 9, 12–13, 113, 119, 121–23, 143, 151, 163. 48. César Pico, ‘Inteligencia y revolución’, La Nueva República, 1 January 1928; Irazusta, El Pensamiento político nacionalista, 29. 49. ‘Lo que queremos y lo que no queremos’, Crisol, 18 October 1936. 50. See T.P and T., ‘Adunismo’, Criterio, 1 June 1933, 204; ‘El congreso Eucarístico’, Aduna, 31 July 1934, 1. See also ‘La injuria a Dios’, Aduna, 30 September 1934, 1; ‘!Christus Regnat!’, Aduna, 15 October 1934, 1. 51. Ezcurra Medrano, Catolicismo y nacionalismo, 49. 52. See Zanatta, Del estado liberal a la nación católica. On the Church, see also di Stefano and Zanatta, Historia de la Iglesia argentina; and Romero, ‘Una nación católica 1880–1946’. 53. Pico, Doctrina y finalidades del comunismo, 51. 54. Pico, Carta a Jacques Maritain, 7–8, 13–14, 20, 21, 36, 40–41, 43. 55. Luis Barrantes Molina, ‘Fascismo y totalitarismo’, El Pueblo, 22–23 February 1937, 4. 56. Meinvielle, Concepción católica de la política, 252. 57. ‘El Dr. Nimio de Anquín pide sea reconsiderada su exoneración’, Crisol, 9 September 1939. 58. ‘La Unión Nacional Fascista de Córdoba’, Crisol, 4 October 1936. 59. AGNA, Archivo Agustín P. Justo, Box 3, File 271. 60. Leopoldo Marechal, ‘Carta a Eduardo Mallea’, Sol y Luna 1, 1938. 61. See Silveyra, El Comunismo en la Argentina, 7. 62. ‘Incomprensión’, Clarinada, 8 December 1937. 63. AMREC División Política, Box 7, File 22, Guerra Europea, Record 20, 1940. See also the reports in the Spanish press: ‘Las cosas claras’, Informaciones (Madrid), 26 November 1941; ‘Discurso de Serrano Suñer en nombre de España’, Informaciones (Madrid), 26 November 1941; ‘El ministro español de Asuntos Exteriores, recibido por el Fiuhrer- canciller’, Arriba, 28 November 1941. 64. Villafañe, Chusmocracia, 43. 65. Pemán, who ‘fell in love’ with the ‘real’ Argentina, ‘the land of asado and dulce de leche, of verses of Lugones and coplas of gauchos’, presented an orientalizing idea of this country as the reservoir of the true classic Spain. See Pemán, El paraíso y la serpiente, 6. 66. ‘How much cleaner and highly a bit of fascism becomes when there is no Ethiopia to conquer, no Tunisia to remember, no Austria to sip!’ Pemán, ‘Pasemos a la escucha’, Sol y Luna 4, 1940, 91. 67. See Pemán, ‘Pasemos a la escucha’, Sol y Luna 4, 1940, 90, 92. 68. An exception to this trend was the case of the Argentine nacionalista and anti-semitic historian Rómulo Carbia, who, in his major book published in fascist Spain by the Council of Hispanidad, claimed that Spain as a con-

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cept ‘transcends the limits of political geography’ insofar as it represented ‘the Christian-Catholic way of life’. See Carbia, Historia de la leyenda negra; Rómulo D. Carbia, ‘La Iglesia en la ‘Leyenda Negra’ hispanoamericana’, Sol y Luna 2, 1939. 69. The notions of Argentina’s leading anti-imperialist role in Latin America or the creation of the cult of the ninteenth-century dictator de Rosas were also affected by this Argentine conception of Hispanidad. Much has been written about the myth of de Rosas and its nacionalista historians. Here it would suffice to say that the first nacionalista vindication of de Rosas in the 1930s related to his presentation as a champion of both religion and anti-imperialism as encompassed by the idea of Hispanidad. See Halperín Donghi, El revisionismo histórico argentino; Halperín Donghi, ‘El revisionismo histórico argentino’.

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Font Ezcurra, Ricardo. La Unidad Nacional. Buenos Aires: Editorial La Mazorca 1941. Franceschi, Gustavo J. En el Humo del Incendio. Buenos Aires: Difusión, 1938. García Morente, Manuel. Idea de la Hispanidad. Buenos Aires: Espasa-Calpe, 1939. Halperín Donghi, Tulio. El revisionismo histórico argentino. Buenos Aires: Siglo XXI, 1970. ———. ‘El revisionismo histórico argentino como visión decadentista de la historia nacional’ in Ensayos de Historiografía (Buenos Aires: El Cielo por Asalto, 1996), 108–26. Ibarguren, Federico. La inquietud de esta hora: liberalismo, corporativismo, nacionalismo. Buenos Aires: Librería y Editorial La Facultad, 1934. ———. Rosas y la tradición hispanoamericana. Buenos Aires: 1942. Ingenieros, José. La evolución sociológica argentina: De la barbarie al imperialismo. Buenos Aires: Libr. J. Menéndez, 1910. Irazusta, Julio (ed.). El Pensamiento político nacionalista. Buenos Aires: Obligado Editora, 1975. Maeztu, Ramiro de. Defensa de la Hispanidad, 2nd edn. Madrid: Gráfica Universal, 1935. Meinvielle, Julio. Concepción católica de la política. Buenos Aires: Cursos de Cultura Católica, 1941. Millán Astray José. ‘Emoción de la Hispanidad’, in Asociación Cultural Hispano-Americana, Voces de Hispanidad. Ciclo de Conferencias (Madrid: Afrodisio Aguado, 1940). Newton, Ronald. The ‘Nazi’ Menace in Argentina, 1931–1947. Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1992. Osés, Enrique. Medios y fines del nacionalismo. Buenos Aires: La Mazorca, 1941. Palacio, Ernesto. La historia falsificada. Buenos Aires: Difusión, 1939. Pemán, José María. Cartas a un escéptico en materias de formas de gobierno. Burgos: Cultura Española, 1937. ———. Seis conferencias pronunciadas en Hispano América. Madrid: Sucesores de Rivadeneyra, 1941. ———. El paraíso y la serpiente. Notas de un viaje por tierras de la Hispanidad. Madrid: Escelicer, 1942. Perón, Juan Domingo. Obras Completas, vol. VI. Buenos Aires: Fundación pro Universidad de la Producción y del Trabajo, 1997. Pico, César. Carta a Jacques Maritain sobre la colaboración de los católicos con los movimientos de tipo fascista. Buenos Aires: Francisco A. Colombo, 1937. ———. Doctrina y finalidades del comunismo. Santiago: Editorial Difusión Chilena, 1942. Riesco, Gabriel. Nuestra misión histórica. Buenos Aires: Imprenta Guadalupe, 1941. ———. El destino de la Argentina. Buenos Aires: Grupo de Eds. Católicas, 1944. Romero, Luis Alberto. ‘Una nación católica 1880–1946’, in Carlos Altamirano (ed.), La Argentina en el siglo XX (Buenos Aires: Ariel, 1999), 314–24.

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Ronchi, Edda. Malaparte, vol. X. Florence: Famiglie Stuckert e Ronchi, 1994. Silveyra, Carlos M.. El Comunismo en la Argentina. Origen, desarrollo, organización actual. Segunda Edición revisada y corregida. Buenos Aires: Editorial Patria, 1937. Tovar, Antonio. El imperio de España. Madrid: Ediciones Afrodisio Aguado, 1941. The Trial of Adolf Eichmann: Record of Proceedings in the District Court of Jerusalem. Jerusalem: State of Israel, Ministry of Justice, 1992–95. Villafañe, Benjamín. Chusmocracia. Continuación de Hora obscura y La ley suicida. Buenos Aires: Imprenta Mercatali, 1937. Yofre, Felipe. El fascismo y nosotros. Buenos Aires: Liga Republicana, 1933. Zanatta, Loris. Del estado liberal a la nación católica: Política, Economía y Sociedad. Buenos Aires: Universidad Nacional de Quilmes. 1996.

Conclusions Maximiliano Fuentes Codera and Patrizia Dogliani

å

The First World War was the turning point of the twentieth century; it also marks the historical starting point of our book. Indeed, the war undermined the foundations of nineteenth-century workers’ internationalism and the principles of traditional diplomacy. With the outbreak of war new forms of transnational communication began to be experimented with, initially among minority groups of militants and intellectuals; and the traditional concepts on which the narratives of national identity were based were modified to give strength to both interventionist and neutralist voices. At the core was the concept of culture and civilization that was supposed to support the legitimacy of war. In this context Latinity became synonymous with civilization against Germanic barbarism. In order to better understand this sudden change of discourses, ties and perspectives, we have not only drawn on the new historiography on transnationalism, very much focused on the immediate post-war period when Lenism and Wilsonism emerged, giving rise to new organizations, but we have also adopted the concept of transfer. Transfer implies not only the passing of practices and ideas, but also their modification in the act of passing. From the perspective of transnational history we took, the construction of neutralism as a space of dispute was essential both in belligerent and neutral countries. The contrasting images of Germany and France and the appeals to peace were key aspects in the articulation of pro-Allied and pro-German discourses. These discourses also shaped the image of Latinity as an alternative culture. On the one hand, in August 1914, Italian neutrality was claimed to be an ‘armed and vigilant neutrality’, in contrast of that of small and weak states, which needed to arm themselves because they had not been protected by international laws. On the other hand, the Spanish and Argentine cabinets’

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debates revolved around both benevolent neutrality towards the Allies and flaws in national policies that made belligerency impossible. Debates on neutrality and belligerency, as Maximiliano Fuentes Codera and Carolina García Sanz show in Chapter 1, were at the very centre of the political and intellectual debates in Spain and Argentina following the outbreak of the conflict. After the entry of Italy into the war, groups and parties that supported the Allied powers appealed to the historical and cultural links with the Mediterranean nations, in particular, through Latinism. In doing so, they also built a geopolitical projection that had a relevant influence on their governments and diplomacies. As we pointed out in the Introduction, transnationalism and internationalism in action included not only the transmission of ideas, but also itineraries, instruments and people, allowing the passage from one country to another. This was particularly true in the field of workers’ internationalism when the debate on the nature of the Russian Revolution and the call of a new internationalism given by the Comintern occupied most of the energies of the socialist parties between 1917 and 1921. In this regard, Steven Forti shows in Chapter 2 that the transfer of the Soviets’ model was crucial in the creation of communist parties in several countries. Within this context, he examines the communist influence in Spain and Argentina, and shows that the Italian experience was more influential than the Russian experience in both countries. In this process, the call to Latinity also became a key aspect of the process of transference and appropriation of a Latinized Soviet model. In a similar way, as Marco Masulli argues in Chapter 3, during the first three decades of the twentieth century, the reference to ‘Latinity’ in the anarchist world was constant and cyclical, but at the same time was also indefinite and ductile. The political discourse on Latinity developed in countries self-defined as ‘Latin’ – France, Italy and Spain – and was adapted to different goals in a constant process of ‘construction’ and ‘deconstruction’. This process was transferred to Argentina, where Spanish and Italian immigrant groups deeply influenced the local Anarcho-syndicalist movement. Despite the fact that the call to Latinity was successful among libertarians, especially during the First World War and the postwar revolutions, in the 1920s, anarcho-trade unionists perceived a danger in it and tried to demystify the ideological version that fascism had given to Latinity. In the 1930s, as Masulli concludes, a more traditional ideal of internationalism returned to the movement. ‘Latinity’ was cautiously considered an expression of a ‘European spirit’ and no longer a strong identification with a community of Latin internationalists.

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Transferences changed practices and ideas: communism, liberalisms and republicanisms were also assimilated in a transatlantic cultural melting pot. Leandro Losada’s chapter shows that until the First World War, Machiavelli’s work had been given a sparse and controversial reception in Argentina. However, between 1920 and 1950, this panorama was reversed, suggestively in a period of instability and political crisis. Reading Machiavelli’s pages gave rise to controversial interpretations among intellectuals confronting liberalism. Losada argues that the debate on the Florentine author was not only derived from his eventual ‘apology of tyranny’ – the most frequent reading in the nineteenth century – but also his republicanism. The arguments revolved around how to interpret this kind of republicanism: as convergent, or antagonistic, with liberalism and democracy. As shown in Chapter 4, this debate on Machiavelli’s readings and readers also illuminated the way in which liberalism and republicanism were perceived in Spain. By the mid-1930s, the discourse on Latinity took new paths. In this regard, Italian fascism and its conception of Latinism are studied in three complementary chapters – those written by Federica Bertagna, Patrizia Dogliani and Federico Finchelstein – that give relevance to our methodological perspective. The fascist participation to the Spanish Civil War was not only an occasion to bring military help to the nationalist side, but also a moment for a compulsory transfer of ideology and cultural projects with the objective of imposing a hegemony on the Spanish right wing by Italian fascism. Leaving behind the previous brotherhood with France, in name of a common Latinité, which was linked until the First World War to a liberal-democratic vision of civilization, Fascism embraced Latinidad, a common Latin origin of the Italian and Spanish glorious past, which had to become the Argentinian present. Latin origins and culture, or better Latinness, were the ‘passwords’ Italian fascism implemented to achieve its political goal: to present itself as the legitimized leader in the Mediterranean and the transatlantic Latin world, and Italy as the ‘mother’ of Latin culture. The transfer of this value encountered several obstacles. As Bertagna shows in Chapter 5, problems developed in Argentina despite the relevant Italian community of immigrants. Several concepts, from romanità to latinità, were developed by several institutions and reforms implemented with the aim to extend the fascist cultural project during the 1920s and 1930s. However, as Mussolini argued, it was far from successful. Fascist Latinism was only partially accepted in Spain and afterwards in Latin America, and in a different way from that which the Italian regime had expected, even if the unaccom-

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plished transfer left traces in Argentine political culture at the end of the Second World War. At the same time, in competition with the increasing influence of Nazism in Europe, Dogliani shows in Chapter 6 that the big effort developed by fascism in Spain did not achieve its objectives; on the contrary, it clashed with two concepts of imperialism. The fascist project to influence the new cultural politics in the Iberian Peninsula, almost in compensation for its military effort alongside Salazar and Franco, very soon became vain and unrealistic. Even the project to include Spain in an imperial Mediterranean led by Rome soon clashed with the rebirth of a proud cultural autonomy under Franco’s regime, based on values of secular Catholic and nationalist Hispanidad. Although born from a common ideological humus, Latinidad and Hispanidad did not coincide; on the contrary, as the authors stress, they could become two competing projects, particularly in Latin America, where Hispanidad identified by racial purity and elite origins excluded recent popular emigration of Italians. Italian fascism promoted its own Italian cultural and ideological expansion in South America after having recognized its inability to control the Italian communities in that subcontinent. In the pursuit of this objective, for fascist Italy, Franco’s Spain became a new base to reach Latin America, especially Argentina. These efforts remained relevant when Italy declared war in 1940 and led a ‘parallel’ war allied with Germany. The original project was to create its own New Order in a Latin world in Mediterranean and South American areas, looking to break the neutrality of Spain and Argentina, and drawing on the notion that three countries were compatible due to their common Catholic corporatism. Argentine fascists, also called nacionalistas, presented a specific Latin American configuration of politics that conflated notions of antisemitism, political violence and sexuality. They saw fascism as a universal ideology that in Italy was called fascism, in Germany Nazism, and in Argentina nacionalismo, as Finchelstein explains in Chapter 7. In their hatred of liberal Argentine traditions, the first wave of Argentine nacionalistas struck up a strong relationship with European fascist movements, through which they learned and exchanged ideas and propaganda methods. Despite their respect for European fascism and leaders like Mussolini and Hitler, they believed they were better than Nazis and fascists. They thought of themselves as pan-American instruments of God and, as a result, they argued that they contained no trace of European forms of paganism. This belief was justified by faith in Catholicism and Jesus Christ as guides.

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Perceptions and transfers on Latinity did not end in 1945. However, the transnational experiences that had developed from a multidirectional perspective since 1914 changed radically. Despite some continuities in Franco’s and Perón’s regimes, fascism and Latinism were reinterpreted after the Second World War in Europe and Latin America, and with it the most relevant part of the processes analysed in this book ended. Maximiliano Fuentes Codera is Associate Professor at the Universitat de Girona. His research and publications have focused on Spanish and European intellectual and political contemporary history and its links with Argentina. His latest works are España en la Primera Guerra Mundial. Una movilización cultural (2014), A Civil War of Words (2016, edited with Xavier Pla and Francesc Montero), Ideas comprometidas. Los intelectuales y la política (2018, edited with Ferran Archilés) and Spain and Argentina in the First World War: Transnational Neutralities (2021). Patrizia Dogliani is Full Professor of Contemporary History at Bologna University and visiting professor in academic institutions in Paris and at NYU. She is the author and editor of many essays and books published on the European left, fascisms, public memory and wars. Her recent books (as author) Il fascismo degli italiani. Una storia sociale (2014), Le socialisme municipal en France et en Europe de la Commune à la Grande Guerre (2018) and Un partito di giovani. La gioventù internazionalista, 1915–1926 (with L. Gorgolini, 2021), and (as editor) Itinerarios reformistas, perspectivas revolucionarias (with M. Fuentes Codera and A. Duarte, 2016) and Internazionalismo e transnazionalismo all’indomani della Grande Guerra (2020).

Index

å A Abad De Santillán, Diego, 72, 75, 76, 80, 8 Afirmación de una Nueva Argentina (ADUNA), 169, 176 Aguzzi, Aldo (alias Massimo Amaro), 79, 80, 83 Alberdi, Juan Bautista, 105, 107, 120, 128 Albertini, Luigi, 18 Alcalá Galiano, Álvaro, 25, 33, 35 Almerich, Luis, 24 Allen, Henry, 49 Abbenhuis, Maartje, 13, 31, 32, 34 Alfonso XIII, King of Spain, 20, 21, 24 Aliadophilia, 20, 25–26, 30, 186 Álvarez, Melquíades, 20 Álvarez del Vayo, Julio, 58 Álvarez Junco, José, 73 Ambrosini, Gaspare, 162–63 Amoretti, Giuseppe, 56 Anarchism, 3, 74–75, 77, 79–80, 82–83, 188 Anarcho-syndicalism, 3, 58–61, 72–73, 75, 79, 82, 187 Andrade, Juan, 49, 59 Anquín, Nimio de, 177 Anti-fascism, 76, 78–79, 81–82 Anti-liberalism, 92, 93, 96, 98, 101, 105, 106, 107, 108 Appelius, Mario, 121, 126, 134n43 Aquinas, Thomas, 93, 94, 98 Araquistáin, Luis, 25, 27, 34, 56–58, 64, 65 Arfè, Gaetano, 47, 55

Argentine Church, 176 Argentine Socialist Party, 45–46, 48, 58–61 Aristóteles, 93, 98 Ascanio, Alfonso de, 174 Ascaso, Francisco, 74, 81 Avellaneda, Marcos, 21 B Balbo, Italo, 147 Barbanera, Marcello, 162–63 Barrantes Molina, Luis, 176–77 Barrios, Benjamín, 26 Barroetaveña, Francisco, 23, 33 Barzini, Luigi, 132n7 Bastianini, Giuseppe, 144–46 Baudrillart, Alfred, 26 Bavaj, Amor, 154 Belligerence, 13, 15, 23, 30 Berlinguer, Enrico, 41 Berneri, Camillo, 81, 83, 85n38 Bernstein, Eduard, 48 Bertonelli, Francesco, 162–63 Bertonha, João Fábio, 162–63 Bissolati, Leonida, 18 Bolívar, Simón, 128, 132n14, 135n59 Bombacci, Nicola, 42, 47, 50–58, 60–61, 63 Bontempelli, Massimo, 141 Bordiga, Amadeo, 47, 50, 54 Borgese, Giuseppe Antonio, 19, 32, 133n22 Borghi, Armando, 79 Borodin, Mikhail (alias Ramírez, Jesús), 49 Borrelli, Giovanni, 132n9

192

Index

Bottai, Giuseppe, 141, 144 Brunetta, Gian Piero, 163 Bruno, Paula, 70 Bucco, Ercole, 47 Büllow, von Bernhard, 19 C Cadorna, Luigi, 18, 20 Callois, Roger, 171 Canalejas, José, 15 Candiani, Ambrogio, 151 Canfora, Luciano, 6 Caparrós Lera, José María, 163–64 Carbia, Rómulo, 182n68 Carotenuto, Gennaro, 162, 164 Casares, Tomás, 98, 105 Castellani, Leonardo, 176 Castro, Américo, 133n20 Catholic Church, 91, 92, 94, 98, 101, 103, 146, 155–56, 189 Catholic Fundamentalism, 171, 173–75, 177–78 Cavarocchi, Francesca, 163–64 Celso, Luciano, 154 Cereceda, Feliciano, 174 Ciano, Galeazzo, 147 Ciarlanti, Franco, 125, 134n39 Clavin, Patricia, 2, 69 Codovilla, Victorio, 58 Cold War, 166 Colocci, Adriano, 19, 32, 35 Colosimo, Gaspare, 19 Communism, 3, 68, 71, 75–76, 81, 83, 171, 188 Communist International Organization, 40, 45–50, 51, 56 Compagnon, Olivier, 13, 31, 35, 37 Conde, Francisco Javier, 98–102, 105, 107 Corti, Paola, 163–64 Coselschi, Eugenio, 125, 128 Crispi, Francesco, 118 D D’Annunzio, Gabriele, 121 Danzi, Guglielmo, 150

Darío, Rubén, 119 Dato, Eduardo, 20, 27, 29 De Ambris, Alceste, 73, 75 De Feo, Luciano, 155–56 Degot, Vladimir, 51 De Grand, Alexander, 140, 162, 164 Democracy, 91, 93, 94, 95, 97, 98, 102, 104, 105 De Tena, Juan Ignacio Luca, 158 De Vedia y Mitre, Mariano, 102–8 Devoto, Fernando, 71, 77 Díaz de Robles, Enrique, 174 Díaz de Vivar, Joaquín, 95–97 Di Belsito, Giacomo, 4 Di Giovanni, Severino, 79–80 Di Marzio, Cornelio, 146 Di Paola, Pietro, 70 Dmitrieva, Katia, 3 Dogliani, Patrizia, 68, 161–62, 164 Doll, Ramón, 172 Domínguez Méndez, Rubén, 162, 164 Dugoni, Enrico, 53 Dundovich, Elena, 47 Durruti, Buenaventura, 74 E Echeverría, Esteban, 107, 132n18 Eichmann, Adolf, 167 Einaudi, Luigi, 132n6, 144 Emigration, 1, 3, 69, 71, 76–77 Emigration, Italian, 118, 120, 123–24, 126–27 Engels, Friedrich, 39 Entente, 14, 19, 21–24, 26, 28, 30 Etchebehere, Hipólito, 59 Europeaness, 12, 15 Ezcurra Medrano, Alberto, 171, 173, 176 F Fabats, Pablo, 23 Fabbri, Luigi, 59–60, 80 Factory Councils’ Movement, 52–55, 58–61 Fanelli, Giuseppe, 71–72 Fascism, 4–7 Fascist Ideology, 166–69, 172, 175

Index

and Italy, 78, 81, 121–24, 128–31, 140–61, 167–70, 176, 188–89 and Spain, 74, 76, 141–42, 151–54, 161, 174–75, 178, 188–90 Feldman, Mika, 59 Ferlini, Juan, 48 Fernando Penelón, José, 48, 53 Ferrero, Guglielmo, 121, 133n21 Ferroni, Giorgio, 159 Filippo, Virgilio, 176 First World War, 1, 5, 12–14, 17, 27, 40–43, 73, 75, 78, 121, 141, 144–45, 186–88 and Neutralism, 12, 17, 19–20, 21, 24 and Neutrality, 13–14, 16, 18, 19, 21–24, 28–30, 186–87 Foà, Carlo, 130 Franceschi, Gustavo, 171, 176, 181n38 Franco, Francisco, 4, 166, 175 Franzina, Emilio, 162, 164 Freddi, Luigi, 146 Freemasonry, 171 Fresco, Manuel, 168 G Gallardo, Luis, 169 Gálvez, Manuel, 5, 120, 126–27, 134n47 García Calderón, José, 27 García Cortés, Mariano, 46, 48 García Morente, Manuel, 174 García Prieto, Manuel, 29 Garino, Maurizio, 60, 61 Gatti, Angelo, 20 Genina, Pietro, 160 Gennari, Egidio, 47, 50, 52–53 Gentile, Emilio, 6 Gentile, Giovanni, 130, 142, 135n52 Germanness, 23 Germanophilia, 20–26, 28, 186 Giardina, Andrea, 6 Gigliotti, Malio, 159 Giménez, Arnau, 153 Giménez Caballero, Ernesto, 141–42 Giolitti, Giovanni, 17, 19, 44

193

Giuriati, Giovanni, 124, 144 Ghioldi, Rodolfo, 58 Goldman, Emma, 60 Gómez Carrillo, Enrique, 27, 34 González, Virginia, 46 González Hontoria, Manuel, 15, 32, 36 Gori, Pietro, 72, 78, 80, 81, 82 Goyeneche, Juan Carlos, 168 Gramsci, Antonio, 41, 56 Grandi, Dino, 145 Graziadei, Antonio, 49, 50, 55 Guardia Argentina, 172 H Halperín Donghi, Tulio, 183n69 Hanagan, Michael, 69 Hanotaux, Gabriel, 27 Hispano-Americanism, 23, 25–27, 29, 121 Hispanism/Hispanidad, 5–6, 14–16, 24–25, 29–30, 127, 161, 169, 174 Hitler, Adolf, 129, 168, 170–71 Horne, John, 13, 31, 33, 36 K Klinger, Umberto, 149 I Ibáñez Martín, José, 174 Iglesias, Pablo, 43, 46, 56 Imperialism, 169, 171–72, 174 Ingenieros, José, 172 Integral Catholicism, 171, 173–75, 177–78 Internationalism, 1–2, 68, 71, 73, 75–76, 80 Interventionism, 17, 19 Irazusta, Julio, 93–99, 105–6, 170 Irazusta, Rodolfo, 172 Iriye, Akira, 1 Italian Cinema and Propaganda, 157–60 Italian Communities Abroad, 143–48 Italianness, 17–20, 118, 123–25 Italian Socialist Party (PSI), 42–43, 45–47, 49–55 Ivani, Mario, 163–64

194

Index

J Judaism, 171 Justo, Juan B., 46, 48 K Kautsky, Karl, 46, 47 Komin-Alexandrovsky, Mijati, 51 Kropotkin, Piotr, 60 L Labour Movement, 44–45 Labriola, Arturo, 18, 32 Lafarga, Gregorio Inglán, 72 Lamoneda, Ramón, 46, 48–49 Largo Caballero, Francisco, 59, 82 Latinity/Latinità, 3–6, 14, 16, 19, 20–21, 23–27, 29–30, 71, 74, 117–126, 128, 129-131, 133n28, 134n38,136n67, 142, 161, 186–90 League of Nations, 140, 152 Legón, Faustino, 108 Lenin, Vladimir Ilyich Ulyanov, 47, 50 Leone, Enrico, 60 Leonetti, Alfonso, 52 Lerroux, Alejandro, 20, 25, 33, 37 Levy, Carl, 75, 85n40, 88 Liberalism, 2, 91, 93, 97–102, 104–05, 107–08, 171–72, 188 Liubarski, Nikolai Markovich (alias Niccolini, Carlo), 51, 54 López Arango, Emilio, 72, 79, 80 Lotito, Luis, 59 Luchaire, Julien, 121 Lugones, Leopoldo, 5, 6, 25, 33, 37, 106, 110, 111, 115, 134n45, 135n52, 169, 172, 180, 182 Luxburg, Karl Ludwig Graf von, 23, 28 M Machiavelli, 92, 93, 97–108 Machiavellianism, 98, 99, 100, 104, 106, 188 Maeztu, Ramiro de, 5–6, 171, 174, 181n39 Malaparte, Curzio, 141, 167 Malatesta, Errico, 59–60, 71, 72

Mancini, Guido, 136n64 Mancini, Stanislao, 18 Mantegazza, Paolo, 117, 124 Marechal, Leopoldo, 177 Marinetti, Filippo Tommaso, 141 Martí, José, 120 Martínez Anido, Severiano, 44 Marx, Karl, 39 Marxism, 164 Mashevich, Mayor S., 51 Mattei, Ettore, 71 Matteotti, Giacomo, 81, 145 Maurras, Charles, 4 Mazzini, Giuseppe, 117 Mazzoni, Giuliano, 154–55 Meinvielle, Julio, 94, 98, 105, 171, 176–77 Melgar, Ramón, 25, 33, 37 Menéndez Pidal, Ramón, 133n20 Merino Gracia, Ramón, 49 Meschi, Alberto Guglielmo Mario, 77–80, 82 Michel, Paul-Henri, 29, 34, 37 Milani, Tommaso, 135n55 Millán Astray, José, 174, 178 Mitré, Bartolomé, 131n3 Modigliani, Giuseppe Emanuele, 53 Molinari, Sandro, 60–61 Monroe, James, 132n14 Montero, Julio, 163–64 Monts Count, von Monts de Mazin Anton, 20 Mosca, Gaetano, 106 Mussolini, Benito, 41, 43, 46, 47, 61, 63n35, 117, 121–28, 130–31, 135n52, 135n59, 142–43, 145, 149, 153, 167–70, 172–73, 177 N Nationalism, 1–2 Navarro, Leandro, 159 Nazism, 7, 167–68, 170, 189 Negri, Cristoforo, 118 Neville, Edgar, 159 Nin, Andreu, 46, 59 Nitti, Francesco Saverio, 44 New European Order, 169, 173, 189

Index

New Mediterranean Order, 4, 14–19, 25, 27, 29, 118–19, 126, 141, 187–89 Núñez de Arenas, Manuel, 46 O Orlando, Vittorio Emanuele, 144 Ortega y Gasset, José, 15, 25, 30, 33, 34, 57, 111, 133n20 P Paci, Deborah, 162, 164 Pagano, José León, 134n46, 135n52 Pagliaro, Antonio, 136n64 Palacio, Ernesto, 3, 94–99, 105–6, 121, 173 Palacio Valdés, Armando, 25 Pareto, Vilfredo, 106 Parini, Piero, 146 Partido Fascista Argentino (PFA), 169, 180n17 Partito Nazionale Fascista (PNF), 179n3 Pasquali, Ferruccio, 151 Paulucci di Calboli Barone, Giacomo, 152 Pavolini, Alessandro, 150, 155–56 Paz, María Antonia, 163–64 Pedrazzi, Orazio, 162, 164 Pedroso, Manuel, 57, 60 Peiró, Joan, 74 Pellicer Paraire, Antoni, 72 Pelloutier, Fernand, 72 Peña Sanchez, Victoriano, 162, 164 Pemán, José María, 174, 178 Pérez Galdós, Benito, 133n20 Perojo, Benito, 159–60 Perón, Juan Domingo, 167, 179n7 Peronism, 166–67 Pestaña Núñez, Ángel, 59, 74 Phillips, Charles Francis, 49 Pico, César, 175–76 Pignatti Morano di Custoza, Bonifacio, 128 Pittaluga, Mario, 56 Pizarroso, Alejandro, 162, 164 Plato, 93 Plaza de la, Victorino, 21

195

Polavieja Marquis, 21, 37 Political Propaganda, 121, 124–28, 130–31 Pollio, Alberto, 18 Pretelli, Matteo, 162, 164 Price, Morgan Philip, 50 Primo de Rivera, José Antonio, 6, 74, 76, 142 Primo de Rivera, Miguel, 5, 141 Protestantism, 171 Pueyrredón, Honorio, 28 Purseigle, Pierre, 13, 31, 35 R Radio Broadcasting and Propaganda, 157 Ramos, Juan P., 134n46, 135n52 Reed, John, 50 Renan, Ernest, 132n15 Republicanism, 91–94, 97–99, 101–8, 188 Retienne, Eduardo, 23 Rey, Florián, 160 Riesco, Manuel, 174–76, 182n46 Risorgimento, 18, 117 Rocker, Rudolph, 60, 71, 74 Rodó, José Enrique, 119 Rodogno, Davide, 162, 164 Rodrigo, Javier, 162, 164 Rojas, Ricardo, 5, 120, 128, 135n52 Romanones Conde de (Álvaro Figueroa Torres), 15, 20, 27, 44 Rosas, Juan Manuel de, 172, 183n69 Rosselli, Carlo, 82 Ruinas, Stanis, 142, 161–62, 164 Russian Revolution, 40–43, 45–50 S Salandra, Antonio, 18, 32, 38 Salazar, António de Oliveira, 166 Salvemini, Gaetano, 133n22 Sampay, Arturo, 108 Sánchez Mazas, Rafael, 6 Sánchez Sorondo, Matías, 168 Sarfatti, Margherita, 125 Sarmiento, Domingo Faustino, 105– 7, 120, 128, 130, 132n16, 133n18

196

Index

Saz Campos, Ismael, 162, 164–65 Scalarini, Giuseppe, 47 Scorza, Carlo, 179n3 Second Spanish Republic, 140 Second World War, 1, 5, 153, 189–90 Selva, Enrique, 162, 164 Serrano Súñer, Ramón, 153, 175, 178 Serrati, Giacinto Menotti, 47, 50, 52, 54–55, 58 Socialism, 167 Sorel, Georges, 77 Sorrentino, Lamberti, 135n52 Sorrento, Luigi, 136n66 Soviets, 50–61, 187 Spanish Civil War, 4, 7, 76–77, 81–83, 140, 148, 173–74, 188 Spanish Socialist Workers’ Party, 45–46, 48–49, 56–58 Suchomlin, Vasilij, 50 T Taillibert, Christel, 163–64 Tasca, Angelo, 51–52 Tasin, Nikholai, 50 Tassani, Giovanni, 163, 165 Tavera, Susanna, 81 Terracini, Umberto, 58 Thomás, Joan Maria, 163–65 Thomism/Thomist, 92, 98, 107, 108 Titus Livy, 95, 97 Togliatti, Palmiro, 41, 54 Torrado, Adolfo, 159 Torralba Beci, Eduardo, 59 Torres Caicedo, José María, 119 Tovar, Antonio, 174

Transnational History, 1–2, 5–6, 186–87 Transnationalism, 68–70, 73, 75–78, 82 Treccani, Giovanni, 130 Triple Alliance, 20, 25–26 Turati, Filippo, 17, 43, 46, 56 Tusell, Javier, 162, 165 U Universality of Rome, 7, 117, 122–23, 126, 130, 142, 161, 169, 173 Uriburu, José Félix, 6, 76, 128, 169, 176 V Vázquez de Mella, Juan, 20, 26 Vega, Eulàlia, 74 Verdes Montenegro, José, 46 Viglongo, Andrea, 56 Vizcarra, Zacarías de, 6, 174 Vodovozov, Mihati, 51 Volpe, Gioacchino, 128–29 W Wilson, Woodrow, 4, 28 Y Yrigoyen, Hipólito, 28, 44, 59, 90, 96 Yofre, Felipe, 169 Z Zanatta, Loris, 176 Zaragoza Ruvira, Gonzalo, 72 Zimmermann, Clemans, 163, 165 Zini, Zino, 60 Zuccarini, Emilio, 135n52