Like metal
which is removed from the furnace after casting and placed under the
hammer, I would offer my works to be put to the test, to be beaten by
all hammers.
If anything were left, I should treasure it then lovingly; if nothing
were left, we should still pick up some fragments of life.
I always listen to the opinions of the non-literary concerning my books
with the greatest interest. My cousin, Justo Goni, used to express his
opinion without circumlocution. He always carried off my books as they
appeared, and then, a long time after, would give his opinion.
Of _The Way of Perfection_ he said:
"Good, yes, very good; but it is so tiresome."
I realized that there was some truth in his view.
When he read the three novels to which I had given the general title,
_The Struggle for Life_, he stopped me on the Calle de Alcala one
day and said:
"You have not convinced me."
"How so?"
"Your hero is a man of the people, but he is falsified. He is just like
you are; you can never be anything but a gentleman."
This gentility with which my cousin reproached me, and without doubt he
was correct, is common to nearly all Spanish writers.
There are no Spaniards at present, and there never have been any at any
other time, who write out of the Spanish soul, out of the hearts of the
people.
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