Spain has never produced any revolutionists. Don Nicolas Estevanez, who
imagined himself an anarchist, would fly into a rage if he read an
article which concealed a gallicism in it.
"Do not bother your head about gallicisms," I used to say to him. "What
do they matter, anyway?"
No, we have never had any revolutionists in Spain. That is, we have had
only one: Ferrer.
He was certainly not a man of great mind. When he talked, he was on the
level of Morote and Zozaya, which is nothing more nor less than the
level of everybody else; but when it came to action, he did amount to
something, and that something was dangerous.
LERROUX
My only experience in politics was gained with Lerroux.
One Sunday, seven or eight years ago, on coming out of my house and
crossing the Plaza de San Marcial, I observed that a great crowd had
gathered.
"What is the matter?" I asked.
"Lerroux is coming," they told me.
I delayed a moment and happened on Villar, the composer, among the
crowd. We fell to talking of Lerroux and what he might accomplish. A
procession was soon formed, which we followed, and we found ourselves in
front of the editorial offices of _El Pais_.
"Shall we go in?" asked Villar. "Do you know Lerroux?"
I had met Lerroux in the days when _El Progreso_ was still
published, having called once with Maeztu at his office; afterwards I
saw him in Barcelona in a large shed, which, if I recall rightly, went
by the name of "La Fraternidad Republicana," and then I was accompanied
by Azorin and Junoy.
Pages:
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172