I have the name of being aggressive, but, as a matter of fact, I have
scarcely ever attacked any one personally.
Many hold a radical opinion to be an insult.
In an article in _La Lectura_, Ortega y Gasset illustrates my
propensity to become offensive by recalling that as we left the Ateneo
together one afternoon, we encountered a blind man on the Calle del
Prado, singing a _jota_, whereupon I remarked: "An unspeakable
song!"
Admitted. It is a fact, but I fail to see any cause of offence. It is
only another way of saying more forcefully: "I do not like it, it does
not please me," or what you will.
I have often been surprised to find, after expressing an opinion, that I
have been insulted bitterly in reply.
At the outset of my literary career, Azorín and I shared the ill will of
everybody.
When Maeztu, Azorín, Carlos del Rio and myself edited a modest magazine,
by the name of _Juventud_, Azorín and I were the ones principally
to be insulted. The experience was repeated later when we were both
associated with _El Globo_.
Azorín, perhaps, was attacked and insulted more frequently, so that I
was often in a position to act as his champion.
Some years ago I published an article in the _Nuevo Mundo_, in
which I considered Vázquez Mella and his refutation of the Kantian
philosophy, dwelling especially upon his seventeenth mathematical proof
of the existence of God. The thing was a burlesque, but a conservative
paper took issue with me, called me an atheist, a plagiarist, a drunkard
and an ass. As for being an atheist, I did not take that as an insult,
but as an honour.
Upon another occasion, I published an article about Spanish women, with
particular reference to Basque women, in which I maintained that they
sacrificed natural kindliness and sympathy on the altars of honour and
religion, whereupon the Daughters of Mary of San Sebastian made answer,
charging that I was a degenerate son of their city, who had robbed them
of their honour, which was absolutely contrary to the fact. In passing,
they suggested to the editor of the _Nuevo Mundo_ that he should not
permit me to write again for the magazine.
I wrote an article once dealing with Maceo and Cuba, whereupon a
journalist from those parts jumped up and called me a fat Basque ox.
The Catalans have also obliged me with some choice insults, which I have
found engaging. When I lectured in Barcelona in the Casa del Pueblo,
_La Veu de Catalunya_ undertook to report the affair, picturing me
as talking platitudes before an audience of professional bomb throwers
and dynamiters, and experts with the Browning gun.
Naturally, I was enchanted.
Recently, when writing for the review _España_, I had a similar
experience, which reminded me of my connection with the smaller
periodicals of fifteen years ago. Some gentlemen, mostly natives of the
provinces, approached the editor, Ortega y Gasset, with the information
that I was not a fit person to contribute to a serious magazine, as what
I wrote was not so, while my name would ruin the sale of the weekly.
These pious souls and good Christians imagined that I might need that
work in order to earn my living, so in the odour of sanctity they did
whatever lay in their power to deprive me of my means of support. Oh,
noble souls! Oh, ye of great heart! I salute you from a safe distance,
and wish you the most uncomfortable beds in the most intolerable wards
set apart for scurvy patients, in any hospital of your choosing,
throughout the world.